Late afternoon

He had tried working. Three hours fidgeting in the office and signing papers before Mrs L chased him away before he could wear her ears out with complaints of insensible project proposals. A couple of hours taking tea at Alohomocha, a surprisingly sober touch-up session on his tattoo with Dietrich - Whiskey followed on his heels everywhere.

The German Shepherd bounded ahead of him upon ducking into Death & Co, folders under his arm and a quill behind his ear. Spectacles propped up in auburn curls.

It was early yet, even for a Saturday, and the place wasn't quite in the swing of things. Balfour came looking for his favourite wingman but had owl'd ahead to meet the figure he now recognised sitting at the bar staring bewilderedly at the drinks menu.

"It's in english, isn't it?" he dropped his paperwork on to the counter with an emphasised thud, giving Sylvain Onuris a smile. The younger man didn't glance up from the menu. Balfour bumped shoulders as he slipped on to the next stool.  "Not been waiting long I hope."

A jerky, uneven pull of the lips indicated a smile and Sylvain looked down at Balfour's canine companion to give him a friendly pet. Whiskey whined happily at this. Between Joh and his former colleague coming to work in London, Balfour was ready to label wizards' best friend a traitor.

Johann. Johann was out with Elixa and Arc this day and night. An all-in-one birthday celebrations of sorts. He shouldn't feel jealous about that - had no reason to, it was fairly obvious to him that while the Healer wasn't over his partner, Joh was... well. Balfour's. But it was hard to distract oneself from the feeling.

"Let me see that menu," he muttered with a sigh. "And see if Margo's about to accommodate."

Strain in the neck, ink blotches on left  and right hands, obviously driven to distraction.

Sylvain discreetly noted these things about his old friend as he slid the menu over with a downcast gaze. He liked Balfour. Whiskey dropped to the floor beneath their stools and he lowered his leg from a rung, giving the creature a foot to rest its dark head. They wrote letters.

Him and the dragon handler. Not the dog.

Sitting next to each other was... inelegant by comparison. Sylvain had not seen Balfour outside of work since coming to Great Britain - had yet to formally meet the famous Storm. Formally. Superfluous, informally even. Would need to make a good impression.

Durmstrang, German, likely physically affectionate if precedence mattered, attractive in an unsettling way. These were things Sylvain knew from letters and conjecture. Distant problem. Right now it was sobriety.

"The Unforgiveables," he recommended out loud and turned his gaze uncertainly to those manning the bar. "To share. Margo!" His voice cracked at the louder intonation, calling out to the witch as she appeared in their line of sight across the bar.

Balfour's head snapped up from the menu and Sylvain relaxed, leaving it to the more genial of the pair to grab Margo's attention. "Oi!" the Division Head yelled with a grin. "Margo! Come knock back an Imperius with us!"

The bar had been open for over two months now!  Apparently, according to her brother, they were making money.  That was good!  Margo didn’t know much about the money part – she knew she was having events, people seemed to be having a good time, and there wasn’t much that Margo had to deal with in the way of problems.  The accounts were handled by her sister, Raul did the managing… it was all a lovely little mix of things. 

So, on this Saturday afternoon, she had actually woken up not hungover – a bloody miracle by all accounts – and did things before she came in!  She even cast a very lazy (and simple) cleaning spell, just to pick up a bit before she left.  Lizard would appreciate it, surely.  She hadn’t seen Nona in quite a bit – different schedules entirely, and even though it was Saturday, it was just the same: barren except for Margo. 

So, she supposed tonight was the night!  Tomorrow would be a different story.

At least the pub was closed on Sundays.  Not out of religious obligation or observance, mind, but out of kindness to all those that worked (and drank) at Death & Co on the regular.  At the bar, during the day on a Saturday was less of the night scene… more patrons interested in Jammal’s food rather than the drinks… and Margo puttered around the bar, slipping drinks when she could and chatting away with her servers and bartenders who weren’t’ swamped yet. 

Uncrossing her legs from under the stool, Margo hopped down, swaggering with her whiskey in hand and raised her glass as she saw old friend: Balfour and Sylvain!  Ah!  She would have run if that wasn’t such a poor idea (she had a tendency to fall on her face nowadays), and instead settled on sauntering while sipping her drink: too cool to run.  “I thought you’d both be dead without me by now!” she smirked with cheek before pulling up next to them – unforgivables? Imperius? 

“You boys are staring strong and early,” she appraised with a wide, approving smile.  “Alright then – if you’re prepared to be on your arses by 8, I’m willing.”  Her eyes turned back over to Dorsey behind the bar.  “Three Unforgivables, Dorse!” she smacked her palm on the countertop, “Might want to prepare the green sparks for these two,” she motioned with her head between the boys (she’d wedged herself in the middle – obviously), “they can’t keep up with the likes of me.”

And it was probably better she couldn’t hear what Dorsey said after she laughed out loud and then went about making drinks.  Margo turned her attention back to the boys beside her.  "Come to see my pride and joy, eh?" she regarded Slyvain, "I reckon you made it all the way here just for this, right?"

Sylvain allowed himself to be nudged over as the witch slipped between the pair of them and he offered his usual greetings, a warm kiss on either side of Margo's convivial cheeks. She was one hand short of their last meeting but that didn't surprise him.

"You are beautiful as ever," his gaze dropped from hers to the counter - he did not have to worry about them taking this for shyness. They were used to Sylvain's awkward ticks by now. "As is your pride and joy."

It was uncommonly nice here. He did not enjoy English pubs but this one was made by someone he knew and it carried her charm, her warmth, colourful character. Like living inside a person. The drinks arrived, loudly sliding across the bar towards them; Balfour caught each one before they overshot. "Cheers, Dorsey!"

"Partly -" Sylvain continued, in reply to Margo. "- there are no..." stormy eyes twitched to the menu they'd set aside. "No granny rippers in the Alps." Nor Amhersts nor Spectres nor Fourniers. Only him. He slid a hand on to the counter, palms down, and touched one of the shot glasses.

Balfour was already examining his trio of shots with a serious look, and Sylvain leaned into Margo slightly. "Green," he whispered in deadpan. "Like a spring wood." The Frenchman picked up his Imperius and shut his eyes tightly to swallow it in one go[1].

1.	Feel free to assume he has'blanked out' for a minute

“Don’t let my head get any bigger than it already is,” Margo snorted when Sylvain complimented both her – and her project.  The bar was magnificent wasn’t it?  It was just like her – dark, kinda dingy, but had charm.  So, she beamed and leaned her elbows against the counter top – because just like the her bar, she lacked a normal set of manners and etiquette. 

Dorsey looked amused as she approached and settled the trays down with a flick of her colorful wand (they made them differently in Barbados.  She laughed and shook her head, “I’ll be sure to clear your bodies by closing,” she motioned to the shot trays before smacking her palm down.  “Have fun,” she drawled in her Bajan accent and walked back to her post with the other patrons.

Margo watched her with pride before turning to Balfour, “So glad I stole her from the Leaky!” it was true, neither of them had returned there since the explosions… Margo for far more obvious reasons, but Dorsey was creative and young and headstrong – which made her a perfect bartender for the best bar in Diagon Alley. 

Turning back to Sylvain, she put her hand on her heart and feigned shock.  “It really makes you think of how unfortunate people in the field are sometimes,” she then clapped him on the shoulder and pretended she wasn’t jealous at all.  It couldn’t be farther from the truth, of course, but she was still adjusting to her new hand, she wasn’t fit for the field anymore.
 
Sometimes you just needed to move on.  Margo had finally accepted it, only at the cost of an arm and a leg (literally).   “But,” she turned her eyes to Balfour, “at least we’ve got shots to fill the void,” a half joke before she lifted the cruciatus.  It was her favorite of the three – sniggering as Sylvain’s face went completely blank.  “I’ll never get tired of seeing that,” she commented happily and then knocked back her glass, tipping the liquid into her mouth and the sensation hit. 

It was hard to describe, but her shoulders jerked and her knee kicked out before she shuddered and returned to normal, ears buzzing.  “Cheers, indeed!” she licked the corner of her lips, "Your turn, Balfy."

“But at least we’ve got shots to fill the void,” Margo lifted a shot and he cast a confused look at the pair of them - having missed the other wizard's comment, it was unclear precisely what the void was. Besides his own. He was thinking too much about himself maybe.

Or about his lover. No. Drink, yes, he came here to drink and let the time fly until it was safe to go home in Johann's company.

"I'll save the worst for last." Balfour slid the Avada Kedavra aside and followed Margo's cue, knocking back a Cruciatus just as Sylvain blinked back to the land of the conscious. "F-fuck!" his voice came out in a shivering, reverberative timbre and he clasped a hand to his mouth.

Whiskey whelped in concern, laid back down at Sylvain's soothing.

Every blasted time. Balfour shook his head out, letting the drink run its course like a cold and merciless finger down the back of his spine. He squinted at their companion and scratched his stubbled chin with a wry grimace. The thing was, Balfour wanted to complain. And Margo was bloody good at consolidating his complaints.

Only, he felt bad about it these days, ever since she left the Division. Seemed... ungracious.

"Triwhiskey tournament after this. You and your liver good for a competition? Unless you're getting soft on us?" he asked with a glance at her - if he didn't have the pluck to grumble about exes now, maybe he could drink himself to it. "I want to be as drunk as a lord tonight. Drunker."

Sylvain looked past Margo at him, shaking his head while reaching for his Cruciatus. Balfour downed an Imperius like he was trying to swallow the earth.

Margo couldn’t disagree with Balfour’s assessment.  She also saved the AK for last  - it was a doozy of a shot, and while she often didn’t remember what she did, it was strange to have it happen all of a sudden.  It always seemed so gradual when done naturally.  The AK was like a kick to the teeth (and Margo had actually experienced very similar things to that so she’d know). 

But, the shot was taken anyway and she had survived with a bit of a spring back in her, if she was going to be honest.  The Cruciatus always just shook things up in the right way: Margo had honestly been surprised when she’d discovered she actually liked the sensation.  Not one of those things you say in polite company!

Not that she was in polite company anyhow.   

When she picked up the Imperius, she smirked toward the other two: until Balfour levied another challenge.  Her mouth set and she considered.  She saw Dorsey staring her down.  Choices. 

A beat. 

Wait. 

She owned this bar! Her bartended couldn’t stare her down when her mates were here and she wanted to drink with them!  “Aye!” she raised her shot glass with a definitive nod, “I’ve already got a dozen of the crowns,” she asserted, “but I wouldn’t mind adding another from you two,” her free elbow found its way into Sylvain’s side, because why wouldn’t it? 

The shot she had raised remained suspended in air, “To your livers, boys,” she cheers’d with a stiff upward motion before downing the shot – dropping the shot glass as she froze in place.  Thankfully, it only clinked several times to a halt – not even a knick (thank goodness for her staff’s charm work!) 

Coming back into herself like a shot, she shook her head and blew a raspberry before blinking for a long moment.  It came back to her right away, “And I’m only soft in the right places,” she smirked and held up her hand: still stiff, but ah well. “And maybe a touch in the head…” she added after with a bit of a wink and dropped her hand to the side, already feeling quite a bit like she was humming inside.   

An intention had been mislaid, between the Imperius that wiped his features clean and the Cruciatus that Sylvain now imbibed with a grimace. It happened, with these two particularly. He  had tried to tell her that Balfour was jealous but...

Both Margo and Balfour were too alike in some respects, that their minds jumped to louder possibilities. Never mind. He loved them best for that reason, did he not?

"No - ale for me, after, if you would please." Sylvain declined to participate in the next trio of Tetrawizard shots, aiming for the Avada Kedavra to be his last of potent gulps this night. "My jealousy is quenched. I relinquish the crown to either of you..." his smile was small, gaze dropping to the small glass with slight fear.

He waited first for her and Balfour to take theirs, peered through slight drunkenness at their swaying and the sudden jerk back to reality. Balfour blinked rapidly and massaged his temple.

Sylvain breathed in, bracing himself, though he paused at Margo's remarks. "Your heart, soft in the heart. Catch me if I fall?" He held the shot glass to his lips and then tilted it back delicately - the world tipped over, precarious stool, the wizard fallen to drowsiness as in the final hours of evening.

Margo was so affronted when Sylvain declined to participate in the competition.  “It’s called triwizard for a reason,” she informed him with a huff – not that it was really a rule with the drink… as many could compete as they wanted – just not alone.  That’d be pathetic.  Winning was the objective (an entirely Gryffindor sentiment). 

  But, she supposed as long as Balfour was with her, it wouldn’t be too much of a problem and it was probably better to have someone who didn’t plan on being too drunk to apparate home afterwards anyway.   

And with that thought she lifted the AK to her lips she winked at the other two and threw it back – not trying to taste it too much.  She couldn’t stop to think about – only taking half meant doing it twice and Margo was brave, but the feeling of impending doom as it loomed low, like rain fat cloud about to burst.  When it did, there was a sudden... rush and Margo snapped out of the drink and grimaced. 

She smacked the little glass hard on the counter top and smacked her lips.  “I’ll never get used to that,” she professed, dropping like a rag doll onto the counter in the most dramatic way possible.  It was her talent: being completely over the top.  But, she was able to smack her hand against the counter and turn her attention to Sylvain and the glass in his hand.  “God’s speed,” she bid fondly and continued to hunch over the bar and oh! Back it went! 

Margo laughed again and watched – sticking her arm out when she thought he might tip all the way back but with a sort of blunt hit to the back of back, she hoped she was successful!  She couldn't help it if her control on her hand wasn't that good yet - she couldn't very well push effectively!  “You okay?!” she balked, waiting for him to come back them, so to speak, and her eyes darted toward Balfour: “whoops.” 

He couldn't blame Sylvain for opting out of the tournament - though perhaps it was better, and surely Margo and he were more than capable of drinking enough for an imaginary third.

Balfour bolted his final shot just as his companion did, quick to lean forward before he felt the drink pushing him backwards into that deep, falling sensation. It gutted him, laced with a mild feeling of sadness that he knew had to do with where his lover was this evening rather than the liquor; darkness amassing in his chest just before it broke altogether.

An abrupt, almost-hiccup. When he came to, Margo was smacking Sylvain right in the back.

The French wizard did not have a Scotsman's constitution: he reeled back and then, trying to push against, shoved himself straight into the bar counter with an exclamation of pain.

A quiet swear and, “whoops.”

Sylvain straightened, coughing, holding his sore nose gingerly but laughing at himself. "Thank you, I think..." he squinted wryly at Margo. His ale arrived. Balfour snorted and waved at Dorsey to indicate they were ready for the next round of shots. The ones inside him were already tingling, beautiful humming in his torso that tickled straight to the back of his eyes.

Sighing, the wizard leaned against Margo - head against her sturdy and familiar shoulder. The Unforgiveables must have been stronger than he remembered, because he was speaking before he realised it.

"He's out with Lix and his ex." Balfour's voice was abrupt, softened as he continued. "Johann I mean. Such an odious Healer, Margo. You'd fuck him up proper if you met," he grumbled with a bit of a smile.

She'd been told about his initial run-in with Arc[1], and the obnoxious letter sent after the poisonings[2] though not at length.

It was natural to dislike an ex though, wasn't it? Especially an envious one, and Hollingbury was greener than his robes. "Not that I think Joh would..." Bal added hastily, glancing down at his hands. "I have it bad, don't I?"

1.	He Could be a Sinner, or a Gentleman - Oct 28th
2.	Johann's Care Sheet - Dec 8th

“Sorry!” she said just a little too loud and far more gently bumped her shoulder against his.  “Is your face okay?” she asked, waiting to see how he wound respond.  Since he didn’t seem angry and he smiled, she figured it would be totally okay.  After all, everyone was sort of used to how physical Margo was. 

It wasn’t like she tried to hurt anyone, but it happened from time to time.  There were several people in the world who were worse for wear because of their associations with her.  She’d only recently started to truly get over one of them.  Out of all the wounds she’d ever endured, there were some that just took ages to get over.

She could be distracted quite easily though, and when Balfour pressed his giant frame against hers, she swayed in her seat.  (Really it was a feat to be bigger than her… at 5’10” she was often towering over everyone… but not Balfour.)  Thankfully, he confirmed she was not the only one with problems. 

Of course, his problem obviously had something to do with his current boyfriend – Margo actually liked this one (he gave her whiskey at the hospital… only one brave enough to do it!) so Balfour’s concerns seemed unwarranted.  A man that good wouldn’t cheat, right?  But, she did like the sound of fucking someone up proper.  She was very good at that.  “Sylvain can attest to that,” Margo snorted and reached over, not so sweetly ruffling Balfour’s hair. 

“But despite your completely liquefied brain,” Margo leaned her head against his – she was sure she heard herself dropping some of her consonants already.  Classy.  This night would be one for the books, “I think you’ll be fine.” 

“And if you need me to fuck ‘im up, just ask.”  She straightened up and pursed her lips.  “Either of ‘em, as the case may be.” 

Sylvain blinked at the throbbing pain in his nose and was happy to receive a tankard of ale from across the counter, nodding at Margo when she asked if he was okay. "Bien, bien..." he reassured before taking a first sip.

The mellow, earthy brew was reprieve. He could take his time drinking this - it impressed him that anyone could begin their night with the sharp, heady swallows of hard liquor. But at least it loosened Balfour's tongue! Sylvain raised his eyebrows in his usual I-can't-believe-you're-this-emotional manner.

He didn't understand jealousy, not jealousy over people. Margo understood better.

"You are a force de nature," he conceded and raised his glass; pain in nose already forgotten while he looked past her at the other man. "She's right. I don't know this Storm yet but -" Sylvain shrugged. "- it will be fine."

Balfour laughed, cheeks pink with self-consciousness as Margo tousled his hair in their friendly way, and he admitted to himself - he felt better for having not bottled up the worry. His friends were here. He sat up straight in the stool to look up at Dorsey's arrival: a pair of wooden slates slid across for the Triswhiskey tournament.

"No, just Arc the arsebadger. Johann would never." Balfour asserted in better humour before reaching for the first shot with a cocksure smile. "I trust him with my life."

Firewhiskey! The milk upon which true clansmen were brought up! He had this one, as Dietrich might say, in the bag.

He knocked it back easily and cleared his throat as the whiskey burned all the way down to his tempestuous belly. "I just don't trust Hollingbury, certain he hates my guts. Steady on your feet still?" His gaze flickered from empty glass to Margo, ready to tease if she was beginning to really feel the shots.

It took a touch of time before one trio of them started hitting you. Balfour was still feeling an aftertaste shiver from the Cruciatus. "I can't help feeling jealous I suppose," he eyed the Murky Lake with caution.

“Arsebadger or not, Onuris is correct:  I am always right – and as a result, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”  Margo appreciated his assessment and took it as completely true.  She always was right – even if she had no personal basis for her argument.   

It wasn’t as though she had a jealous streak – she didn’t really feel the need for it, but Kurby had always had one.  She guessed maybe it was because he had every right to… well… okay! Wrong line of thought.  None of that would be helpful to anyone at the countertop – though, it would, perhaps, remind Balfour that he was not dating someone like her at all. 

Johann was far milder by comparison and even if there was no trust in the ex of the current, it was probably not going to happen.  So, she was confident that they’d be able to drink in happiness and not relish in sadness or anxiety.  Dorsey delivered the wooden slats and she smirked.  Warm all over already, Margo was ready for this: she was born for this.  Even if her brother and sister might shake their heads about it later, at least she would win.  Of that, she was certain. 

“Besides, the only thing,” Margo’s hand clasped around the firewhiskey, “you’ll have to be jealous about today is my new crown,” she lifted the glass – since she was never interested in fairness and smirked, “Cheers!” before downing the first flaming shot to quickly grab for the second.  The Murky Lake was terrible: but she had a tactic – keep your other hand close by the final shot.  You’d avoid the vision problem and get the win. 

If she could just do it faster, it’d be a clincher. 

She had done it, somehow. Sylvain could trust in Margo Amherst to make anyone forget their troubles with enough bravado and hard liquor. He noted the rueful, calmed grin that Balfour shot either of them: better crowns than whining. He felt like he already knew Johann Storm at the rate his friend recounted the relationship.

"Drink enough, the time between now and tonight-" Sylvain made a wooshing sound, gestured with his hand. "Gone." And he wasn't wrong.


The wizard was nursing his second tankard of ale by the time Balfour and Margo had both acquired two crowns each, one worn on top of the other as if though they'd reached the threshold of a checkers board. A tie-breaker was necessary but he had signalled to the fine witch behind the bar to bring them some food.

Plates of thick cut chips, pulled beef sandwiches, inadvisably crispy onion rings.

"Food first, yes?" Sylvain contended with an eye on the two, Balfour reaching across Margo to slide a ring on to his index finger. Drunk, red cheeks, laughing as he nearly knocked heads with the witch. "Man cannot live on alcohol alone."

A snort from his Scottish friend. "We can certainly try," but he was already digging up one of the sandwiches from the platter. Sylvain smirked and tossed a chip at Whiskey, shaking his head.

"With such attitudes," a diffident and pointed look at Margo. "You will never run out of patrons."