Along with her love, the sun had returned to London.  Today was the warmest; Daz awoke with her limbs entangled with her darling, Nathan, which was their first morning together in more than eleven moons.  The drizzly storms that followed her horrible run-in with dementors last month had finally given way to some pleasant Spring weather, a ready reflection of how hope for a better life could now bloom:  her twenty-seventh birthday, the end of Nate's imprisonment; a fresh start that made the new sunshine and warmer temperatures seem especially golden. 

Yesterday's release had been an all-day fiasco.  She met with Nate, who was bedraggled from his trip on the ferry, and from 6 in the morning to 6 at night they were stuck at the Ministry of Magic - waiting round, following instructions, signing parchment after parchment, each bit of which needed explanation from their Ministry-appointed law professional, and setting up appointments.  For all of the hoops they kept him jumping through, you'd think he was still under arrest.  It was ridiculous but, this close to freedom, they'd bite their tongues (more or less) and (more or less) do as they were told.  When they were able to finally return to the Shodding Arms, they weren't far off from sleep, or zombification.  Dazmond put a stew on in the home she'd kept warm for him, while Nate did as he merry pleased for the first time in a long while.

It was an emotional and traumatic affair, Azkaban.  The just-released Nate Briggs would need time.  Time to rest, to pick up the pieces and adjust; but for Dazmond, whose eager enthusiasm was uncontainable, a celebration was imminent.  It was better to be thrown into the world surrounded by friends and warm places, she figured, than to be given any opportunity to withdraw, recede.  She attended a seminar - Release from Azkaban, for Partners - which informed her that the adjustment period after incarceration could be emotionally grueling.  No kidding.  It all depended on Nate, she knew, on how well he would bounce.  She knew he was resilient, though.

Maybe Calaveras would get some bounce out of him.  Tonight's entertainment was a spirited ensemble, an intimate evening cabaret with a carnival flair:  accordion, violin, double bass, cello, drums, banjo, and guitar[1].   

"Oh we'll have a platter each of your starters," said Daz, conspiring over a menu with the artful waitress and night manager, Bianca.  They were really wonderful business people to work with, it turned out.  Of course she knew that already, having worked with Meredith more discretely, but that business had hardly anything to do with edibles.  Party was on the Wiedmans' tab tonight though, and the bar had been kept open by their request.  Zestful Daz already had her raspberry mojito in hand.  "Thanks, chérie," she winked and turned to find her husband, the swashbuckler.  She hoped Jonas Trevelyan would come.  She'd sent him flowers....

1.	See for example The Pickpocket Ensemble

It was the bed and her smell. Gun to his head, he would have had a hard time saying which had been the most blissful warmth of return.  Luckily, he'd had an entire night and half a day of both.  He was a chatty sort, but not so much these last few days and it was already beginning to worry him.  Briggs was had never been short on speaking his mind, but he found now that he had very little he wanted to say. 

What he didn't want to be was boring or a burden, however.  Dazmond was being perfect.  Impossibly perfect.  He wouldn't have asked for it, but he hadn't been surprised at how she had poured herself into getting him back.  The Ministry paperwork.  The stew.  This party.


It was still early yet at Calaveras, and Nate sat in a chair as Dazmond made the party.  He liked the band - they were warming up and taking full advantage of the open bar.  Nate knew better - he'd been totally dry for months and there'd be no shortage of glasses brought to him tonight.  It was a cup of coffee that was in his hand for now.

And yet, he was weary.  And restless.  He hated that he was at all affected and worried that he'd be a spectacle.  And object of pity or deriousion or humor.  He hated that. Being examined and judged.  It was like getting a new haircut or shaving clean after a beard - everyone felt entitled to comment and say how good you look.

Even though you both know you look like an arsehole. 

He sighed and got up.  Restless.  He should be doing! Smiling! He forced a smile and shook his head.  Out damn, cobwebs.   Daz was at the host's stand where Georgiana Sleeper had been torn apart by a werewolf.[1]  He'd been working there, then.  But it was quiet now, and corpse free. 

"Daz, I've been thinking of exactly one thing all these long lonely months, and I know it might disappoint the guests but..."

He laid his head into the warm crook of her neck and shoulder, and sighed wistfully.

"But I want onion rings.  Can we have one thousand onion rings?"

Attaboy, Nathan.  Keep it up.  More endearing cleverness.  Until all the bad feelings are gone.

1.	March 11, 2009.  And his hair was perfect

I don't want to hear it.  You might be saying that with all that Dominik has done for her reputation both professional and legal, Niobe should be staying far far away from anything Wiedman.  But there was something in this witch that wouldn't ever dim - a need for boozy halls, and putting her toes to the edge of dangerous things.  Or at least the illusion of danger. 

Just peeking out beneath her cuff, Niobe's left thumb rubbed against the space where her ring finger used to be.  The warm dim light of Calaveras greeted her.  She was early, clearly, but there was already a quiet janky beat coming from the stage.  The band was slowly getting the juice up.

She saw the guest of honor and their host at the front podium and she couldn't have seen anything more them.  She didn't know Briggs, and she knew Dazmond well enough not to like her much.  This would make for a lovely time, she was sure.

"Dazmond," she smiled as she sauntered over.  "You look good." 

A passive aggressive greeting.  A playful challenge to set aside differences and be gits to each other all night.  She moved her eyes to Nate Briggs.

"Welcome back, mate."

Their moment was interrupted by the arrival of a guest.  Or paparazzo. It was that nosy Irish reporter who thought she was better than everyone.  For all her research hadn't she heard?  The Wiedman-Brigges were smarter and prettier than everyone else.

There was no love lost here, but a party was a party, and so he said as much.

"It's a party.  Have a drink." 

Be she friend, foe, or gawker, he really didn't care.  So long as she was lively.

A few other guests came in after the reporter and Nate was obliged (and relieved) to leave the two witches to their chat and greet the crashers. 

Hands were shaken, claps on the back given.  Words of congratulations, and sad looks from those who knew better than to feel happy for a wizard who would have the stain of Azkaban all over him for the rest of his life.

"I'm just saying, he's not a proper ex-Azzie.  Not every mincy little crimelord like Briggs who does a few days in Azkaban is an ex-Azzie.  He's still got his wand, for Merlin's sake.  Briggs!"  a conversation between two Knockturnites Nate was acquainted with grew loud.

"What?"  he ambled over as he drank from his glass.

"You got your wand still, mate?" she asked.

"You show me yours I'll show you mine," he replied.  He'd changed in these last few months, to a bloke who spoke his mind often to someone who knew better than to give any answer asked for.

"He's still got it," she surmised.  "Ex-Azzie means something, Hallard.  It's not just a descriptor for convicts.

So that's what they were on about.  He drank again, more deeply this time.  He wanted peace in his life and being associated at all with the likes of those like Cinead Tawse or the Dolohovs or Kingstreet? No, but thanks.  He'd been arrested once to many times to enjoy that kind of thing.  It had shaken him to the bone.

"She's right," he said.  "You've got to have murdered or been in league with Death Eaters to wear that badge.  I just fell onto my wand is all."  He broke into a mirthless smile and slugged Hallard in the arm, brightening the mood with his beautiful face. 

"Drink more, you two.  I don't want you to remember a thing."

And he walked off to find someone else to speak with.

She didn't look long - Nate nuzzled up to her as if he'd never been missing, the sweet thing!  It was euphoria - having him near, with no more hissing Vidras Curtain or othersuch nonsense cutting through the air between.  She wanted nothing more to do with this being all impossible to touch business.  No more scary island isolation trips for them.  Dazmond leaned her head against his, dearly, verily content. 

"Whatever it takes," she buzzed cutely, feigning hardship.  "But I think you should have a thousand thousands."  Cause whatever it was Nathan wanted, happy Daz would try to get it.  It was times like this her family name, her upbringing, shined through her layers of recalcitrance, independence; she would do anything to be the perfect wife for her hubby in his time of need.  She thought she wouldn't have, if she hadn't married for love.  She smiled kittenish as she looked at him so near, putting a quick kiss to his cheek.  She couldn't say he had smelled so sweet off the ferry, but now that he was back to his normal Nate smells, he was like a walking Amortentia potion.

Not even the sudden, daring appearance of Niobe Thursby approaching with compliments could distract her from having a warm heart.  Another way her childhood training came in handy, was easily slipping into an appropriate mask, playing the gracious hostess to a Witch she'd once given the Evil Eye toward.

Giving Nathan a squeeze, she snaked out of his embrace to greet Niobe with a broad grin.

"How kind of you," she said, quickly answering her unspoken request to be roped into a contest of wills, in good fun.  Manners were pleasant, and a welcome invitation to look for dirt while smiling pretty in times of peace.

"Dominik will be so glad you came!  Yes, come and have a drink with me, all's been paid for so there's no holding back."  Pausing for a sip of her pink mojito, she watched Nathan go along to chat with some newly arrived guests, out of the corner of her eye.  Taking advantage, she brazenly looped her arm around Niobe's and turned them towards the bar. 

"Tell me, how is business?" 

The sad ex-con left them and his wife didn't dismiss her.  Niobe found herself in the loving embrace of another Wiedman, although not the one she preferred.  Scratch that.  Hated.  She was supposed to be hating Dominik, for the rotten egg he was.  The Wiedmans were intoxicating.  Venemous and poisonous.  And fascinating.

She grinned so brightly.  "Why, back on top, Dazmond.  Top of the world.  You've seen my bylines.  I'm a household name."  She slid her arm 'round Dazmond's tiny waist as they arrived at the back-lit Calaveras bar.  For Niobe it was a White Russian - rich and special. 

"But I haven't heard much of you.  I don't know if that's good new or bad news," she said with a puppy curious head-tilt.   What she had heard about was her brother's perfect pureblood match.  Her lip flinched at the thought.

"Your work does certainly speak for itself," agreed Dazmond, recalling a time when she had disliked Niobe Thursby solely on the basis that she had penned so many articles about events directly touching Dazmond's daily life - family, friends, family friends, business associates, you name it.  It had gotten to the point that Dazmond felt she had to purchase the Daily Prophet regularly, less for her own amusement than to monitor what information was being released to the Wizarding public about her peoples' affairs.  Again and again she read those words, 'by Niobe Thursby'. 

A welcome reminder to remain on-guard around a Witch with so much power, who ordered white russians.

And then here they were, at her husband's Azkaban release party, on the subject of Dazmond's choice of more discrete clientele (to put it kindly).  She smiled, pawing naive Niobe on her four-fingered hand. 

"We all make sacrifices for our clients' trust," she said.  Inwardly though, something was standing to attention, acknowledging that a challenge had just been spoken. 

"Though I am planning some new projects that might draw the attention of the public," said Dazmond with a shrug.  "Perhaps some day you'll pen an article."  She leaned back against the bar, surveying the party to see more people arriving and seeming to get on, nothing needing to be interfered with, yet.  Except for that one thing. 

Bianca passed by, controlling a dozen or so plates deftly above her, and Daz caught her attention.  "Excuse me dear, would you be an absolute sweetheart and deliver us a very generous sized, perhaps never-ending buffet of onion rings?  I'll make it up to you?"  The witch's eyes lit up at the possibilities of being owed Dazmond's favour, scrunched her nose, nodded a yes, and continued on her way, never having spilt a drop.  Bless her.

Dazmond was keeping mum and Niobe pouted a little in comfort.  "Off the record tonight, Dazmond.  Relax."

It was true - Niobe's trusty Verbatis quill which recorded every utterance in earshot with perfect fidelity was no where in sight.  Sure, Niobe had in the past taken unethical means to get information, but her Extendable Ears had been stolden[1] She really was here to have a good time.  She felt bad for the Briggses.  They'd had a raw deal far as she had been able to determine. 

"Never-ending onion rings?  This is going to be a party," she smiled.  "All we need is a bit of music."

And as if on cue the musicians on the small stage out in the dining room counted off and set off on a reel.  It was a crunchy, baleful song in a quick 4/4.  A clarinet peeled a mournful descant. 

1.	Cinead Tawse took them when he caught her spying on him...

Dazmond let off her defense, looking sidelong at Niobe Thursby, feeling they were slipping into the precarious territory of presuming themselves equals.  Shoulder and shoulder at the bar.  Some would smell scandal with this pairing.  Not that that had ever stopped Daz before.  So many in Dazmond's life, didn't understand her and Nate being together.  How, it was impossible to tell.  Nothing made her so happy and everybody could see that.  To hell with tradition if it meant having to love someone who wasn't Nate Briggs.

So why had Niobe come then?  Did she feel for their family?  Did she care for them because they were an extension of Dominik?  Daz supposed it didn't matter as much why, but she was curious.  Curious if Niobe was a decent Witch who loved her brother, or if the rumours of it all being just an unfortunate collision, and Dolly's take on the subject was not more accurate.  Had she taken advantage, or had their falling out been solely Dominik's blunder?  The way that Dominik told it, of course, left room for plenty of questions.  Especially because it was such a different version than the story either the papers or Dolly told.  Dominik was a wonder like that.

As they looked on at the musicians, off the record, Dazmond handled only a moment's fidgeting before she knew the suspense would kill her, should she not try to find it out for herself.  If nothing else she could gossip later to Nate, as they cozied up together in bed again.

"I really ought to stop being so rude and apologize for my brother's marring of your record," she said in a sincere and somber tone.  "He means well but it's always 'go big or go home;' he doesn't know how to do normal, I suppose.  Not that you look so normal yourself," complimented Dazmond.  "I know he cares for you very much."

Dominik was beat, his only day off between fighting the Chudley Cannons and Ballycastle Bats.  'Fighting' was precisely how it felt - he'd hit a mean bludger that took an unsuspecting Carter off pitch yesterday[1], smacked him dead in the ribcage as the Quaffle lingered on his fingertips.  Stopped the game, called in the mediwitches, full on groans of pain and gasping shock from the audience, and a bright new shiny example of why Dominik Wiedman was some kind of a wild beast.  Or, if you prefer, genius.  But, it was trouble when such aggression was applauded, especially for this one.

Then he had to get up and do it all again tomorrow.  That part wasn't easy after yesterday - he never knew what to do anymore.  It felt good to pummel Carter; too good.  Wasn't he supposed to be behaving himself or someat?

Of course he'd come though, little Dazzie's special day seeing her love home off the ferry from Azkaban.  It wasn't so much to ask, to go round the corner and help them celebrate.  The worst part of leaving the flat tonight was probably having to deal with comments over yesterday, predictions over tomorrow.  Hopefully people would be too busy focusing on Nate's problems to deal with his. 

Dominik stole himself from his lazy bed and made his way out Knockturn to Calaveras about half past six.  Opening the front doors he was immediately greeted with the warmth of their modest bash - very inviting.  He wanted to avoid getting caught in small talk, so he proceeded in further with a mission on mind to look for Dazmond.  Dazmond or the bar, whichever came first.  He'd have to watch himself - a spot of whiskey, that was it. 

But then there Dazmond was by the bar - and Niobe Thursby.

Stopping mid-step and lurching backward, Dominik grabbed hold of a passing human shape and hid behind them.  It was a Wizard who could have been 60 and he looked horrified to find himself suddenly in the embrace of Wiedman.  In shock himself, he released the man's robes from his clutches and ran away, awkwardly stooped over as though trying to become someone's shadow.  Quick!  Think of something!

333 days and then some, his eyes gladly fell on Briggs.  With no time to explain he walked into a bear hug with his brother in law, dancing the both of them round a corner.

"Briggs!  Oh, brother!  Oh it's good to see you!  Blimey.  Welcome home mate," he clapped his back, pulled off of him and turned to chance a peek around the corner.  Yep they were still there.  Wasn't hallucinating.  He turned back to Nate and leaned into the wall, eager to keep himself occupied for as long as possible.  "You all right then?"

1.	[16 April]  Kiss This World Goodnight

Niobe scoffed and rolled her eyes in that You Knew This Was Inevitable expression of resignation.  Of course Dominik's name would come up if not the sod himself.  And she came anyway.  The music was playing, so might as well face it.

"We made that bed, both of us," she said with a sleepy shrug, acting very well that she wasn't bothered.  In truth, she was embarrassed, but strangely less so in this company.  It was bad moral character to let herself be forgiven by the underworld, but being adjacent to their sins made hers seem less sharp. 

And she thought of her bed.  Her warm bed in the sunshine where Dominik had often been.  Where they both would have no doubt ended up that Halloween night, horns and masks abandoned. 

"And good for your brother for avoiding the rap.  That's a talent.  Practice makes perfect, I suppose." 

"Oof!"  Nate dropped his empty glass when he was swallowed up by Dom Wiedman.  He had to fight the impulse to shout at him to bugger off and just tolerate the greeting.  Dazmond's thug brother had this manic energy, this lurking darkness.  As Dazmond's beloved, Nate knew that he was in a small sphere of people who had nothing to fear from the ex-con, Quidditch's most brutal player.   

Soon released, Nate endured the enthusiastic welcome with a crooked grin.  "Dominik, hey. Yea, yea, alright.  Thanks, mate.  Good to see you."

More and more people were trickling into the restaurant, many Nate recognized and about as many that he didn't.  The music was ramping up and the smell of food was beginning to fill the air. 

It was good to see Dominik in that it was good to be seeing anyone. And the urge he had to go hide in a hole - he pushed it down in the spirit of the depraved sadclown celebration of his release.  He wouldn't have the chance again.  (He hoped.)  Nate broke out then into a genuine grin and clapped his brother-in-law in the back. 

"Let's get you a drink.  And where are my frickin' onion rings?"