The Black Chimaera, Northern Scotland, 6 PM.

It was too rainy here, in this strange and dripping foreign land.  The rain had been beating a steady pattern against the Black Chimaera's windows all day, keeping company in this mostly empty pub.  The regular crowd had thinned out considerably after the mess that had gone down back in April, from Musgrave's showdown and arrest to the Level Two showdown with Ira Almasy.  None of the ex-Azzies or darker crowd that frequented the Chimaera had wanted to risk the wrath of an angry Ministry.

Slowly, they were trickling back.  It was never quickly enough for Tawse's tastes -- the man was a social butterfly, and sometimes it almost seemed as if he were half-considering turning himself into the Ministry simply so he didn't have to live the fugitive's life.  But slowly and steadily, they'd started to reappear, finding their way back into these dark corners and crooked bar stools via the ever-changing portkey.

Today, though, Aviad had been grateful for the solitude.  He had spread out on one of the tables with his usual supplies:  a stub of chalk, a bag of salt, a couple of candle nubs, and a collection of polished stones in different colors.  He'd arranged the stones in a small circle, alternating between warm red and white, with a black candle placed in the center, lit with a flickering green flame.  This was a harder trick to do without the use of chalk, and he'd been at it for what felt like hours, modifying his incantation and adjusting the arrangement of the stones, trying to get the ritual spell to work.

The three-legged skeletal dog that called the Black Chimaera home[1] wasn't making his experimentation go any more smoothly.  Just as he had gotten the stones positioned just so, it had bumped into the table leg for what felt like the umpteenth time, jarring his careful arrangement and setting the mage off in another round of vivid curses.

"Next time, I will de-animate you!" he scolded it, aiming a kick under the table.  It peered up at him with empty eye sockets, seemingly not bothered by his threats, and then set off to the other side of the pub, its bony tail bobbing back and forth behind it.

Aviad made an impolite gesture in its wake, and then glowered at his disturbed arrangement.  Scowling, he snapped at the black candle, causing the green flame to flicker out, and then snatched up his wand, marching unhappily over to the bar.

"I need a drink," he announced, plopping down on a bar stool.  "Maybe something that causes death.  Quickly."

1.	A resident since March 2010.

Cinaed crossed his arms and leaned against the bar, lazily watching the scattered Black Chimeara patrons as they went about their business.  The gray sky and rain beating against the window was a steady reminder that, despite September's youth, the frosty mornings of autumn were not far off.  This far north, autumn came in quick and with no apology; the cheery fire crackling in the hearth was already not just for show. 

"I miss ale," Manfred Ashford, the pub's resident ghost, moaned as Aviad Cohen settled into a bar stool. 

Cinaed snorted in amusement and turned his attention properly to Cohen.  Assuming Cohen's request was for something stronger then ale, Cinaed straightened and drew a shot glass out from under the bar.  "That's why I don't intend to linger once I'm snuffed out." 

"Things not going to plan?" he directed towards Cohen as he pulled a bottle of firewhiskey from behind the bar and filled the shot glass.  He set the bottle down on the bar and then thought better of it and poured a second shot for himself, if only for Mannie's benefit.  "Looks like you're friend is back."  He nodded in the direction of the skeletal dog who'd somehow found his way back to Cohen.  Bones grated against each other as the skeletal dog wagged his tail and nudged at Cohen's leg with its narrow, pointy nose. 

"Are things starting to settle in old London town?" Cinaed asked, curiously.  "Any exciting news on the home front?"  After three years on the run from the Ministry, Cinaed was used to living vicariously through the loyal patrons that came to the Black Chimaera. 

Oh goody! The handsome foreigner was there! Sat at the bar opposite Cináed whom she was done talking to. Even his shaggy blond hair and beard annoyed her, reminded her how useless he was, how irksome and unreliable he’d become over the past couple of years. In truth, her lack of anything to say (or do) to Tawse wouldn’t last long. Nicola was weak willed when it came to strong Scottish men. Her husband, whose body had smacked against rocks in the Northern sea as he’d plunged to his death from Azkaban, had made sure of that. His rogue charm and captivating power over her had sent her crazy. Now his blond cousin got to experience the craziness on the rare occasions that he graced her with his presence.

After a quiet day at the Black Widow, Nicola had locked up, kindly changed the water and given fresh dog food to the muggle currently tied up in her basement. He’d whined, complaining of the collar being too tight around his fat neck. It wouldn’t be a problem once he’d lost the extra podge, she’d insisted happily before using the portkey to vanish to the Black Chimaera.

Nicola’s movements through the pub were slow, deliberate, predatory. Dark eyes danced briefly over Aviad, electing tonight’s plaything, tool. But her eyes kept moving back to Tawse, dark, challenging. Coming up behind the Israeli, she placed a cool hand on the back of his neck, leaning down to whisper in his ear, keeping her gaze on Cináed’s.
“He’s as tedious and dreary as a pet with no tongue, love.” Her voice smoothly murmured, “Give him something exhilarating to dream of.”

The liquid inside the shot glass did not look like anything that would meet his demands and cause instant death.  Aviad picked it up, eyeing it suspiciously as he aimed a half-hearted kick at the skeletal nose prodding at his leg.  Cinaed Tawse, he had already decided, was clearly heartless, depriving him of the only small, sweet relief left to him in the cruel world. 

But at least he never led a poor, suffering soul wrong on alcohol.  Aviad lifted the glass in a half-toast to the bartender, and then threw it back, swallowing it in one burning gulp. Just as he was about to open his mouth to suggest that perhaps he could get his wish if the shot turned out to be one in a series, a familiar witch sidled up behind him, instantly drawing his attention to other sorts of series.

Well.  Maybe he had a reason to suffer through one more day after all.

"I didn't realize we were discriminating against skeletons."  He flashed Nicola a crooked smile over his shoulder, pressing his tongue between his teeth to show her that he still had his. 

He swung a half-hearted kick at the skeletal dog underfoot, and then tried to slip an arm around the witch's waist, intending to draw her closer as he turned back towards Tawse. 

"Well, let's see."  He clucked his tongue, considering, as he slid his empty glass back towards Tawse.  After a year and a half, the infestation of Dementor attacks no longer qualified as exciting, even when they sent the Ministry of Magic into yet another fit.  Making up a story, as much as it might finally win him the heart of the fickle Nicola, would be a disservice to the barman that he considered somewhere on the near side of friendly acquaintance.

"It's been too quiet, if you ask me, brother."  He shook his head, making a disgusted face.  "Most of the Alley is still laying low after the mess in May.  Too shook up to even poke their heads out and see that the dust has settled."

Hovering in a crouched, seated position a few inches above one of the bar stools, Manfred Ashford cast a sideward glance at Cohen and grunted loudly when the younger, breathing wizard kicked at the skeletal dog.  Without elaborating, Manfred turned back to the magazine laying flat on the bar top and yawned, just for the show.  But, Randall's arrival was certain to be a greater source of entertainment then the page that Vixen Veela had been open to for over 20 minutes.  She brought her own brand of drama to the Black Chimaera and it was just what a bored ghost needed. 

Mannie swiveled towards the pair, without budging from his crouched position.  His eyes widened, eagerly, as Randall whispered into Cohen's ear but the eager merriment faded into irritation when Cohen kicked at the skeletal dog, again.  Mannie grunted, again.  "Leave Rosie alone.  Liver."  The dead had to stick together, after all. 

"There's a solution to too quiet," Mannie offered, his eyes shifting from the looks Randall was tossing Tawse and back.  He knew Cohen was speaking in broader terms, but broader terms weren't a solution to his current boredom.  "Make some noise.  You know you want to." 

Cinaed refilled Cohen's glass before leaning back against the back of the bar, half supporting himself with his hands behind him.  He spotted the slow, deliberate movements of Nicola out of the corner of his eye and turned to watch her properly as she sauntered up to the Israeli.  He tilted his head and arched a bemused eyebrow in Nicola's direction as she draped herself around Cohen.  There was no question she was a playful one; always on the lookout for a new toy. 

Of course, at the end of the day, he knew where the chicken would come home to roost. 

The fugitive cast a slow glance around the dark but warm pub room.  It was an odd collection, from the rugged furniture to high windows and the few, scattered tenants that had braved world beyond their doors to come there.  From the skeletal dog, now named Rosie, to the grouchy, porn-addicted ghost that had named a three-legged skeletal dog Rosie, the eyeless loaf of a mastiff that, thanks to an old friend, had finally found his way home to the rug in front of the fireplace and even to the five-year old that was playing with toys up in his room.  And, even to the inexplicable witch that was, undoubtedly, enjoying taunting him with the Israeli mage. 

Waving a hand towards the bottle in an indication that Cohen was free to refill his glass when and how it suited him, Cinaed used his hands to push himself up to sit on the back bar. 

Pointedly ignoring Mannie's attempts to egg him on, Cinaed grinned.  "Sounds like complacency."  Like he was one to talk, he thought ruefully.  "That's how they keep us living like this.  We agree to it."  Of course, with some good reason.  Avoiding Azkaban was a strong motivator and many of those in their ranks had enough personal experience with the prison to never want to set foot in that place, again.  Even without the dementors. 

Merlin, he missed Knockturn.

"I didn't realize we were discriminating against skeletons." The Israeli, seeming to struggle with the evident language barrier, decided to bare his tongue to the witch before wrapping an arm around her waist and drawing her close. She allowed this much, eyes leaving Cin’s gaze to fall on Aviad who clearly had a problem with skeletons considering his reaction to the idiotically named Rosie.

Too quiet wouldn’t be a way to describe Nicola’s basement at night, she pondered as the men spoke. Squawker, her latest acquisition, much to Nicola’s delight, was a screamer. Who’d have thought it from a muggle man with such a paunch and a fantastic ginger beard! He screamed, he whined, he cried out and wailed. He would be such fun to train, she’d determined a few days ago. But even dedicated pet trainers needed their breaks.

"Make some noise.  You know you want to." The ghost of Cin’s old friend joined in and Nic allowed a grin to stretch her lips and light her eyes.
“Yes! I love noise.” she said, eager to encourage before detaching herself from Aviad, running a hand smoothly through his hair and moving slowly around the bar, thirsty.

“You agree to it.” the words were said in Cin’s direction. He’d allowed the ministry to force him into hiding while she remained out in the open, the ministry watching but unable to touch her.
“I can give you thousands of ideas, sweetie. Just tell me what sort of noise.” Nicola told Aviad from behind the bar, stood not far now from Cinaed who towered over her by well over a foot. Thin fingers took a glass from under the bar and she turned to glance over what was on offer. The white wine was on the top shelf. Why did he put it on the top shelf?

Aviad chuckled, letting his hand trail behind Nicola as the witch pulled back, and then stepped away in search of her own drink behind the bar.  So the spirit and the mad witch were bored.  Good.  He was bored too.  And worse, there were others who were getting impatient.  Ira Almasy's death had left an ogre-sized hole in the British underworld, and although there were those who were trickling in to fill it, fear of the Ministry's ham-handed response had so far prevented it from becoming a rush.

But this idea of noise -- that was close, but maybe not quite what was wanted.

"The little -- what do you call them?  They fly and buzz."  He made a humming noise, holding his hand up and making it quiver to demonstrating.  "They make noise.  And when they do..."  He dropped his fist forcefully onto the counter, illustrating a smash. 

He picked up his refilled shot glass again, lifting it to sip on the burning liquid this time. 

"Maybe we need a different sort of noise."  He spoke directly to Cinaed now, dropping a hand under the counter to pat the cold bone of Rosie's head.  The skeletal dog, seemingly happy with the attention, nosed at him, pressing its skull against his palm.  "Be a shame if something else happened on your Ministry's watch, just as this Dementor mess is calming down again.  Especially if they couldn't quiet it on their own.  Might need some kind soul from the neighborhood to step up and show them how to do it."

Mannie met Nicola's grin with a smirk and he sat up a little straighter as the witch moved around the bar.  Merlin how he would love some noise.  Mayhem.  A parade.  Something to break up the monotony.  He'd come close to drifting to the nearest muggle village and terrorizing some kids in the beds before he remembered with the Ministry Spirit division did to naughty little specters. 

He could die of boredom, if he wasn't already dead. 

Without changing posture, Mannie drifted sideways and reached an elbow out to 'nudge' Aviad.  "What would it take to get you to turn the page?" Mannie asked, tilting his chin back towards the magazine. 

"The little --what do you call them?"

"Toothpicks." 

"They fly and buzz." 

"Flies"

"They make noise."

"Birds."

"And when they do..." 

"Buzzards."

Mannie drifted back to his own seat and nodded as Aviad spoke.  "Back in our day, we believed in something.  We had something concrete and undeniable that motivated us.  We had something valuable enough to motivate us to risk it all for: our lives, our freedoms, our families." 

Mannie and Nicola could be a dangerous pair, if they wanted to.  The later was just loved to stir the pot and the former was so desperate for entertainment that he'd encourage anything that resembled stirring.  If Cinaed had sprouted any grey hairs, yet, he had the two of them to blame. 

"I agree to avoiding Azkaban," Cinaed countered for what felt like the thousandth time.  "As eager as you seem to be to see me get locked up."  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Manfred's translucent figure shiver; the older wizard had spent decades under the soul-crushing watch of the Dementors in that prison.  Though the cloaked figures were still drifting the corridors of that prison when Cinaed was first arrested, the Ministry had gotten rid of them within the first couple years. It had been enough for Cinaed to begin, and fail, to fathom how very ... horrible those decades had been. 

Fear that the Ministry would make an exception and bring back the Dementor's kiss in extreme cases was enough to keep Cinaed cautious.  Even in the face of a witch's nagging.   

Cinaed was pleased to hear Aviad saw the broader picture.  And, a brief flash of the old wizard Cinaed had once known in Manfred, seemed to still be simmering in the ghost.  "Random noise has gotten us nowhere," Cinaed agreed, meeting the Israeli mage's gaze.  A large, dark oaf of a mastiff wrestled itself to its feet from its spot on the rug in front of the fireplace.  Despite being blind, Seamus seemed to have sensed the free attention being dished out to the skeletal dog.  It nosed its way between the scattered chairs and, with a low rumble of a growl, sent the three legged skeleton scampering. 

"We need to sow doubt.  Distrust.  Make people realize we need to go in a different direction.  We don't need noise.  We need a direction."  Which was all amazingly difficult to do when one was confined to the shadows.  "Or, we can skip over the Ministry and just declare war on muggles.  Force the Ministry to take sides and let wizardkind decide if they agree with the side chosen."

No wine. Of course, Tawse had put the wine up there. The bastard was sending a message that she did not want to receive. Yet, rather than removing her wand and retrieving the desired item, she dumped her glass on the bar and leaned against it to look between Aviad and the old ghost who just never seemed to leave.

"…As eager as you seem to be to see me get locked up." For all his whining, Cinàed still chose to entertain her in more ways than one. He clearly wasn’t that worried about her apparent eagerness to see him behind bars. In truth, Nic would wish Azkaban on no one. The way her muggle pets were treated was far superior to the horrors inflicted on inmates in the North Sea. Even without the dementors, it had broken the young woman and look what she’d been reduced to since being released!

“Back in your day?” Elbows on the bar, Nicola grinned at the ghost. “What did you risk it for, Mannie? To see a lady’s ankles?” Now on tiptoes, she leaned further forward. “No! Weren’t we being hunted back then?”

Cináed started blathering on about some dystopian idea of parting the wizarding world into two halves, two opinions. Nicola didn’t conceal a roll of her eyes.
“Did that idea come to you in a drunken stupor?” She couldn’t help the biting tone, didn’t want to. “No. People need something to hate.” She paused, thinking for a moment before pushing off from the bar and moving back around to Aviad. "Vampires. Sexy pale bastards. Vicious. Dangerous. Supported by the ministry.”

Being nudged by a spirit was akin to having his elbow plunged into ice water. Grumbling, Aviad leaned over to turn the requested page, though he nearly startled out of his chair as the skeletal dog went suddenly clattering away across the room.  A moment later, the bony creature had been replaced by the blind mastiff, shoving its head at Aviad's legs with a low hrumph. 

Rolling his eyes for the second time in several minutes, the mage acquiesced, reaching down to scratch Seamus's head.

"Yes, yes, yes, vampires," he agreed, giving a wave of his free hand.  "You might say the same think about werewolves, too."  He shot Nicola a sharp smile, and then gave a nod in the direction of the shade that was drifting back to its original seat.  "Not to mention spirits. There are plenty of things for them to hate."

He picked up his shot glass again, swirling it for a moment, and then took another sip.   "I think the trick, brother," he said thoughtfully, nodding to Cinaed, "is balancing the noise with the fury.  From what I've heard about your cousin's reign of terror, he gave the red-robed bunch plenty to hate, but he also made it too personal -- too easy for them to pull together and hit back."

Knowing full well the gesture would be no more appreciated then the elbow in the side, the specter patted Cohen on the back and drifted back to stare greedily at the disrobed witch sprawled across the magazine.  Ahh.  The pleasures of the flesh.  So close and yet so very, very far away.  He was forever relinquished to the sidelines of what, at best, had become a spectator sport. 

“Back in your day?  What did you risk it for, Mannie? To see a lady’s ankles?  No! Weren’t we being hunted back then?”

Manfred looked up from the magazine and narrowed his eyes at Nicola.  “I risked it so we wouldn't be ashamed for being proud of our rightful wizarding heritage.  I risked it so we wouldn't have to hide in shadows.  I risked it for all of us and I gave thirty years of my life to that hell hole for it.”  What?  She’d killed a person or two and spent a few months in a dementor-less Azkaban?   

"Just because he puts up with your condescending -" 

Cinaed lifted a hand and the ghost fell silent, albeit with unveiled reluctancy.  The Scottish wizard set to making a pot of tea on the bar next to Nicola, decidedly ignoring the smug grin directed at Nicola on the ghost's face.  This wasn't the first time Manfred's relative impatience with Nicola's brand of humor had boiled to the surface. 

"We're already outnumbered.  If we keep provoking each other and turning on each other, I might as well surrender to the Ministry.  Because we're done for," he directed to the witch and ghost in turn.  Maybe it was the sex, but Cinaed was better equipped to ignore the witch's insults.  It was, however, nice to have the Israeli wizard there to balance the personalities.  Or, at least, just bring a fresh perspective to the conversation. 

"Vampires, werewolves, spirits-" Cinaed tallied up, the groups.  "All are alienated and all able to promote fear.  Any or all of them could be of help.  Cohen's right, blind strikes would just stir chaos for chaos' sake.  Dugan made it too easy to fight back, but there was also no purpose, no message beyond just stoking fear.  We don't just want noise, do we?  Don't we want a message in that noise?  The fury's just there to make people sit up and listen, so they can hear the message in the noise?"

Cinaed's gaze shifted towards Nicola.  "If you don't like the idea of rising above muggles, what message do you want to send?  Surely, not just hating vampires.  That won't help us in the long run."  Very briefly, almost imperceptibly, Cinaed's gaze flickered down to Nicola's abdomen.

Was the handsome Israeli brushing her off with a wave of his hand? What was wrong with using vampires to stir discontentment?

Throughout Manfred’s sad little tirade, Nicola watched him and smiled. He grew riled so easily and she’d always enjoyed pissing off a ghost who’s only threat was that he might choose to walk through you. Maybe she liked the sensation? For all he knew, she loved it. In truth? She simply loved making him irate, it was easy. Too easy. Too easy to resist, for certain.

"Just because he puts up with your condescending -" The ghost was about to really get going but Cináed put an end to the entertainment with a raise of his hand. Nic’s grin grew wider and she winked at the ghost.

“Hate can be strong. Especially if something is unfair.” Nic said in a sing song voice, rounding the bar once more to be on the side for the drinkers. “People are scared of vampires and our Ministry protects them.” She slipped past Manny and once more stood close to Aviad, placing a hand on his arm, leaning forward so her lips brushed against his ear, hair falling down over his arm. “What makes you quake with fear?” The words were whispered smoothly.