Nate took the he/shehorses out of her hand and stuck them in his pocket, then promptly walked out the door. For a moment, Claire was about to protest, until she realized what he was doing. He folded up his jacket and discretely left the place. This would be harder for Claire, who the landlord might recognize. Plus now, Claire was sans he/shehorses. Drat. She didn't even have a jacket, really, just a cardigan. She took it from behind her, holding it her hands for a moment. She contemplated what could be done about this.

Accepting that whatever was going to happen would happen, Claire sighed and put her sweater on top of her head so that it covered her face. It was thin enough for her to vaguely see through. She speed-walked through the pub, bumping into only a few chairs on her way out. Lucky she wasn't in heels. She wished she could've seen her landlord's face, but at least he didn't see hers. People had thought worse things about Claire than that she was a crazy stranger walking through the pub with her cardigan like a hat when it wasn't even raining.

After she turned the corner out of the pub, she slipped the cardigan off of her head and held it in her hands. She met up with Nate at the lamppost. She pondered his offer for a moment, but the alcohol sped up her answer. "It seems we are at a crossroads," Claire observed. "I've always thought that drinking helped me make decisions. That place have a bar?" 

"It does," he replied with a grin.  Together they agreed on a spot in Diagon to Apparate.  "Just outside Sellaphix," he'd suggested, an apothecary that sat just at the mouth of Diagon's main entrance to Knockturn.

Diagon was still awake at this hour, but it wasn't to Diagon where they were headed.  He led the way down into Knockturn Ally, deftly navigating he little alleys, broken steps and doorways.  They passed the shell of the Old Black Chimera which looked as if a bomb had hit it.  Nearby there was a multi-story old hotel that looked as if it was once a very nice place.  The many windows pocked the front facade in wobbling rows, mismatched curtains and boards adorning the glass.  A creaky sign swung from a post.

The Shodding Arms.  Accompanying the title of the place was a roughly carved fish of some fierceness and unnatural making.

He led the way through the main doors.  Again, hints of former grandeur remained in the spacious but crumbling lobby.  In the dim light there were cobwebs and stubby candles.  There was no one behind the large carved front desk.   "Through here," he said, ready to make good on his promise of a bar.

There had been a bar here.  Or rather there was still a bar in that the long wooden counter was more or less intact and there were even some pieces of unbroken glassware on the dusty shelves.  The dark abandoned room had already been raided of most of the good tables and chairs and something smelled a little off.

"Welcome to my humble home," he smiled proudly, hoping to have shown his clever-ness.  Or at least his ability to surprise.

In typical Claire fashion, she did not display any sort of judgment in regards to the place Nate had brought her to. She'd never been inside the Shodding Arms, but she'd been around the area and of course knew its reputation. Besides, she was under the impression that she could talk her way out of anything, should she be faced with danger. Nate seemed like a trustworthy guy, anyway -- at least he seemed such in the past few hours that Claire had known him.

"Welcome to my humble home," he smiled proudly.

Claire put her hands on her hips and took a survey of the place, nodding in acceptance as if she were a director scouting a location for a new film. "I can dig it," Claire commented. She slunk behind the bar and looked around at what bottles had been left behind. They were mainly broken or empty, but she found a squarish black bottle that hadn't yet been opened and was covered in dust.

"Gin," she observed. "Why doesn't anyone like gin again?" It was a drinker's drink, she knew that much -- an acquired taste. She took a swig and wrinkled her nose. "Old gin. Is it supposed to be better aged?" She resealed the bottle and blew on it, dust flying everywhere. Claire let out a small cough and looked at Nate. She held out the bottle to him.

"You found something? Quick at that," Nate remarked when Claire squirrled upon an untouched bottle of alcohol.  "Thirstier sorts than you have scoured this place."  Indeed, Nate routinely observed rough sorts clanking about in cupboards and shelves for something to feed their self-destructive habit.

He joined her at the bar.  She on one side, he on the other.  He'd happily take his try on the forsaken juniper brew if she passed the bottle his way.

"You can rent a room here pretty much indefinitely.  I've been here, oh, seven years? Me and my Dazmond live up in the top." 

Nate was married to Dazmond Wiedman, sister to the famed Quidditch star Domink Wiedman, and choice potion master to the underworld.  They lived a strange life for a married pair.  Sometimes they hardly saw each other because Dazmond's wanderings.  But they were stuck together for thick and thin, both fully satisfied to their faithful pairing.

"Don't get me wrong - it's a shithole.  But you know, it's cheap and the landlord stays out of your hair so long as there's no murders or similar ado."

All of the nonsense with her landlord had inspired Claire to wonder if Nate had to play rent on this place. It hardly seemed worth the money, but if a room with a bed was all you needed, then maybe it was. Claire's own flat wasn't too much nicer than this, and she paid a hefty sum for it. Apparently, she had been paying for location. Nate had been here long enough not to mind the scenery - seven years was quite some time.

As he mentioned his Dazmond, Claire briefly tried to speculate who that could be. She assumed it was a pet of some kind, but couldn't be sure. "That yer owl?" Claire asked with a sip of gin. She was starting to feel the alcohol intake a bit more strongly now. The whiskey always tended to catch up with her whenever she Apparated. Otherwise, straight whiskey tended to have the same effect as a nice strong Irish coffee.

 "So why've ye been avoiding the place?" Claire asked, recalling that Nate had said earlier that he'd been trying to avoid Knockturn. "Seems like a paradise to me." As she said this, Claire flicked a spider that was grappling for the side of the gin bottle. "Unless ye murdered someone..." She said this humorously, but hoped deep down that it wasn't the truth. "Or maybe ye just need some new neighbors."

His owl? "Close..." he said with a drawn out dryness.  "My wife."  He scoffed and shook his head.  Claire was a bit of a weird one, wasn't she.

"Anyway, yea.  Knockturn has the ability to corner you and slide under your skin."  He slid onto a rickety stool and tipped carefully onto just two legs in that way lads learn to do in school.  He was hesitant to share too much.  He wasn't at all proud of what had gone down - in fact, most of it had been the most humiliating thing that had happened in his life.  Aurors charging through his door, him trying to run, getting trussed up and levitated out the door.  The trials, the time in the cell, the interrogations, the indignity of Azkaban.  He sent those feelings back again to the rear of his mind.  He didn't want to go there again. 

"Lot of bag eggs around here.  Rather not find myself owing them any favors."

Oh, his wife! That made much more sense, and was really a relief because it made Nate a lot more normal. You could only have so much eccentricity before you were considered crazy or dangerous, Claire had come to find. There was a fine fine line (which Claire probably bordered herself).

"Where is she?" Claire asked. She wondered momentarily why she wasn't out with Nate, why he hadn't mentioned her earlier. It hadn't really come up, she supposed. "Sounds like ye need some good eggs. I prefer mine scrambled, or sunny side up. Definitely not hard boiled," she blanched at the thought. "How do ye like yer eggs? If I were eggs, I'd probably be over easy.... or deviled. Maybe an omelet?" Claire pondered this as if it were a serious philosophical question. 

Taking another swig from the gin for a bit longer than she should've, Claire removed the bottle from her mouth and smacked her lips, stumbling as she placed it in front of Nate. "Ye gotta help me out, mate," Claire confessed. "I heard gin goes bad once ye open it," - this wasn't true, and Claire knew it, but it was an excuse to keep drinking, which was never a bad thing - "Especially if it's been sittin' around for 57 years." She raised her eyebrows and did her best to look convincing, hoping this would persuade him.

Why was she asking about Dazmond.  He was immediately skeptical and stayed silent for the moment, letting her continue talking on the topic of gin and drinking.  He didn't want to admit it, but that last shot and the ciders at the Three Broomsticks was already enough to start fuzzing up his head.  He'd been dry as a bone for all 333 days in Azkaban and his system just wasn't ready to keep up with Claire.

He inhaled to muster his system, and followed suit with a long bitter pull.  "That-" he coughed, "is not for drinking straight. Gah!"  He wiped his mouth and rubbed his hands through his air.  The gin felt hot in his gut.

"Dazmond.  Yes. Who knows.  She is my sweet autumn wind who goes where she pleases."  He waved his hand grandly.  Dazmond was everything that was amazing.  Everything both dark and light and masterful and soft.  She was an explosive, she was warm breath.  She was immortal and immovable.  And they were smarter and prettier than anyone else.

But she was also probably wanted by Aurors, and so he didn't like to talk about her.  Much.

"She is...really good," he finally decided to say.    He thought for a moment, then said, "you know, you really should move in here.  It's got panache.  Real character.  We can have rent parties.  You know about rent parties."

As Nate choked on the gin, Claire looked at the bottle. She was a seasoned drinker, acquiring her taste for liquor early on and developing it pretty often. One time, while already pretty sloshed, Margo* had dared her to chug a bottle of whiskey, and she had done it... well, some of it. Almost all of it. It was hard to chug the stuff, even if she loved it. Anyway, she got through most of the bottle before coughing similarly to Nate and then finishing it. Of course it caught up to her, but she was impressively able to stagger home. Or, well, at least to the bathtub of Margo's apartment, which is where she slept that night. Claire forgot sometimes that not everyone was on her level.

"Sorry about that, I have kind of an insensitivity to bad alcohol," Claire admitted. "Comes from years of cheap liquor." She shared the story about Margo, hoping this would make him feel better. "It's the luck o' the Irish," she added at the end, deliberately accentuating her already thick accent.

Claire listened to Nate talk about his wife, who he clearly loved a lot, but he remained pretty elusive about her. He described her as this ephemeral being, which Claire was skeptical of. She also, apparently, wasn't around much. Claire wondered briefly about rules and the uniqueness of relationships. She thought on the suggestion of moving in.

"I could do that," she responded. "It seems more my speed anyway. Plus, free liquor," Claire said, opening her mouth to put on an overdramatic (slightly felicitous) grin and then took another swig. "I do not know what a rent party is, but I'm intrigued."

*I asked Jess if I could say this! =)

"An American tradition," he said, feeling likewise regaled by Claire's drunken cheer, "adopted by the Wiedman-Briggs's.  A tradition dating back to the turn of the century, a storied custom full of culture and sophistication."

He paused for effect.  Then stood from his stool. 

"You throw a party, your friends come, and pay you money.  So you can pay your rent."

Nate grinned.  It was a genius little idea for the poor and down-trodden.  There was so little money to go around, you might as well share it over music, drinks, and shouted philosophical conversations.  Having stood up, he felt a heaviness in his head.  Whoops. 

"Mmm," he emoted and blinked slowly.  "I did tell you I was in Azkaban right? Just recently.  Still haven't gotten used to drinking again."

He might not have told her had he been fresh, but there it was.

After Nate explained to Claire what a rent party was, she immediately began to wonder how much she cared about the belongings she had left in Hogsmeade. This place was different from her humble flat back there, and this place was much.... edgier. And things were just things, right?

"Sounds a lot better than puttin' on a disguise whenever ye see yer landlord," Claire agreed. She loved a good party, particularly if the guests were encouraged to wear ridiculous outfits. Her wardrobe was excellent for such occasions, seeing as she preferred outrageous clothes to practical ones. She wore them regardless of theme or reason, but it was nice to have inspiration.

"I did tell you I was in Azkaban right? Just recently. Still haven't gotten used to drinking again."

The good thing about Claire was that she was great at not reacting to things. It was really difficult to shock or upset her, because she was a fun-loving type person. Show her a good time, say something nice - she'd put you on her good side. That wasn't to say you were safe from the occasional prank or gag, but she wasn't generally very judgmental. Azkaban was serious, but Nate didn't come across as dangerous.

"Ye hadn' mentioned it, no..." Claire said after a while. "Sounds like ye came across some bad eggs." She didn't know what else to say, and didn't want to pry. He'd gotten up, so Claire walked back around to where he was, only stumbling once. "Don' worry - I can train ye in the drinking arts. Slainte!" She took a sip (just a quick one this time), wincing and then saluting to Nate with the bottle. "I'mma repressed Irish gal, so I'm not gonna ask ye to talk about it if ye don' want. But if ye plan on hexin' me, a li'l warnin' would be nice, because I'm trashed. Blotto," she added, saluting with the bottle again. She grinned at him to show she was fine.

For a chap who claimed to not care at all what others thought of him, he found himself relieved that the girl he'd met hiding under his table didn't seem to judge him for where he'd ended up.  He realized he could use some new friends.  Good eggs, this time.

He smiled, and took another pull from the bottle before he spoke again.  Trusted company, Claire McByrne and worth a celebration.

It didn't taste any better than before.  "Aaaagh!" he bellowed as the hot stuff went down.  "Poison!"

He coughed hoarsely but recovered in good spirits.

"Yes. Bad eggs.  But let's be honest - everything I did, I chose to do.  It's on me."  He laid his hand to his heart, but there was sadness in his eyes.  He'd had time to wallow in some self-pity but when he'd come up for air, it was clear.  He'd made his bed.

"I robbed a shop, I fired on a Hitwizard.  Wand in hand, can't blame anyone else but me."

This bloke really needed some training in heavy drinking, especially if he planned on hanging out with Claire. Still, things might have been worse for both of them if Nate had been able to keep up. Claire could drink (almost) anyone under the table, and she had a queer passion for proving it. Sometimes, she liked to do this again and again. She would make an excellent drinking coach, now that she thought about it. Maybe that was the career path she was destined to take. She patted Nate stiffly on the back in an attempt to get him to stop coughing.

He then began to talk about his Bad Eggs, appearing to be accepting of his actions, albeit remorseful. "Sounds like Azkaban did its job on ye, then," Claire said. She wasn't good at being serious, but there was a genuine tone of sincerity in her voice. There had definitely been a few rough times when she had thought about doing the same thing - robbing a shop. Things always just tended to pull through... or Claire realized that she wasn't that type of naughty. She was too much of a scardey-cat to commit more serious crimes, however admirable criminals might have been in her eyes.

"It sounds rough, but at least yer out. And, while I enjoy amusin' pranks and hi-jinx, I'm not so..." Claire couldn't come up with a proper word, and as she thought she moved her hands around as if that would help her come up with one. "...High-risk?" That made her sound so boring. She shrugged. "I just like a good laugh," she added for clarification.

Nate had to laugh at Claire's frank and gentle self-evaluation.  It was an understatement! She was odd, bold, and he had to marvel that in the span of an hour, they'd gone from strangers to drinking buddies. 

"Life is short!" He said.  It followed his train of thought, but might have seemed incongruous to the spoken discussion.  He reached for the bottle again to punctuate, but pulled his hand back.  He raised them both in surrender.

"And shorter if I'm not careful."

He was going to boot if he wasn't careful.  Might yet still having drunk so much in a short time.  He'd be drunker yet even if he stopped right now.  And suddenly he was very tired.  He let his hands fall onto the bar.

"McByrne, life is short," he repeated to her sagely.  "And the rent is cheap.  Follow your own stars, okay?"

Many of Claire's friendships began this way, so this scene was not a strange one to her. She realized it might have been a bit peculiar in Nate's eyes to have buddied up with a stranger. Claire's belief was that strangers were just friends you hadn't met yet -- and those friendly strangers were most commonly found when Claire was out drinking. It was easier to befriend someone in that type of situation; after a few drinks, they weren't so serious and guarded.

Nate was definitely drunk, so they had succeeded in their mission. He claimed that he had been out of practice, but he was still standing, so he was doing just fine in Claire's eyes. The slurring and philosophizing gave him away quite clearly, but if you weren't passed out or puking, you were doing a fine job. A stand-up job, even.

Since he was doing such a fine job, she thought perhaps it was time to end the night on a good note. Claire took a final chug from (this) bottle of gin for the night and clapped Nate on the shoulder. "Short it is, mate," Claire responded, slurring a bit as well. "An' ye gotta spend it with the right folks." Claire put down the bottle and adjusted the strap of her purse. She was surprised she still had the thing - Claire didn't normally do too well with pocketbooks. "Let's do this again soon, mate, and next time ye better help me out more with the gin. If ye don', I know where ye live," Claire warned sarcastically.