"Moira!" Figaro had shouted.  Moira! Another human being, a face he knew. A Hufflepuff, from school. He'd trotted up, greeting her like an old friend he hadn't seen in years, rather than a classmate he hadn't seen in months. He'd badgered her into going out with him that night.

---

Old Brick is a cheap but lively wizarding bar in Southwark in London. It's in one of those very narrow buildings with a hidden entrance down a tiny close, magically concealed from muggle eyes. It has three tight-quartered cozy levels (basement, ground floor, first floor), and a small rooftop patio.  There are musical acts from time to time.

It's a common hangout for Daily Prophet folk, so Figaro has come to know it.

---

And now it was Tuesday, the 27th of September, about 9 at night. Figaro bounced as they approached the tiny alley. The blonde wizard of eighteen had on his nice suit jacket and the red plaid pants he'd gotten from the lost and found at the Ministry. He'd hated them at first, but now he considered them lucky. And hilarious. Both excellent reasons to wear them.

"Brilliant you came out," he said, walking almost sideways to face Moira. "I never see anyone from school and I work so much - it's sad really. Not like you're my last resort or anything, I just - shit - I haven't been out in ages."

He and Moira hadn't really been friends in school, but that didn't matter to the personable, gregarious Figaro Sellaphix. He knew she wasn't horrible or anything, and she was funny in a dry way. What more did you need?

Following Figaro towards the alley Moira asked herself again why she agreed to come along. The answer to that was simple, it was too late to cook dinner as her dad and uncle would have already eaten and fed Casper. The young witch had worked late again, which was beginning to become normal and she wasn't even through her first full month. Then tomorrow was also her day off, so if she stayed out too late it wouldn't have detrimental effects on her work quality. Besides, a change of scenery, and alcohol once she'd eaten something, might not be all that bad.

Considering what Fig was wearing, Moira wasn't quite so concerned with her own outfit. Not that she'd have cared much anyway, just after working with animals all day her jeans and grey t-shirt were far from clean. She felt like the plaid pants would call more attention, which matched Fig's personality most of the time from what she could recall. Even at school she had never disliked her fellow Hufflepuff however he could, at times, be rather loud. That went for a lot of classmates, though.

"You're just lucky I'm off work tomorrow," Moira glanced over at him. Work days had her up by 5:30 am so this outing would have been impossible. Of course, he was still talking a bit like he was trying to convince her, afraid she'd change her mind and leave. Doing that would be rude and the wix was not in the habit of going back on agreements, even if it was just a night out.

Entering the narrow building with him Moira's gaze swept over the establishment, taking everything in, before settling on a menu. They had appetizers here. Perfect.

The bar's ambiance, if you could call it that, was between a dive and a French WWII resistance bunker. The walls were brick on one side, and painted a dark brown on the other. There were pictures in frames, but the glass had become so tarnished and clouded you couldn't see what they were of.

While Moira ordered food, Figaro got them drinks: a pair of shots of tequila with the lime and salt, two Dirty Auror shots, and two pints of cider. Thing had been stressful and he was not going to mess around tonight. Unlike Moira, he had to be at work for the evening edition at 4pm.

"I didn't know they had food," Figaro said, pleased, as he levitated the half-dozen brimming glasses to their table. They'd found a tall table with stools on the main level by the thin, dingy window.  The bar was filled with a Tuesday crowd, so mostly regulars and locals. A younger witch plucked a mandolin on the tiny raised stage. A jaunty but mournful tune.

Fig slid the tequila to Moira and licked his hand so the salt would stick. "Don't leave me hanging, Mo. Here."

The food here was definitely sub-quality, Moira could tell by the smell, but she was starving and it appeared her former classmate intended for them to drink quite a bit tonight. Assured the food would be delivered when it was ready she took a seat at their table watching Fig levitate their drinks over and tried to ignore her growling stomach.

As the drink was pushed over to her he, for some reason, licked his hand. Moira's confusion must have shown on her face because he was then kind enough to explain what she needed to do. With a dubious look Moira took the shot as instructed; salt off hand, drink, bite of lime. For a moment she stared at the table then looked up. "It's alright."

A glance towards the bar couldn't be helped as her stomach growled again. Knowing the order had just been placed she wondered just how long it would take for them to make their sub-quality food.

Social. This was a social setting where people came to be social, get really drunk, or both. Moira was better about being social than she used to be but there were some days she struggled more. No doubt the alcohol would end up helping with that as the evening wore on. "You're with the prophet, right?"

"Holy hell," Figaro laughed. Moira had never had a proper tequila shot but downed it like it was nothing. Fig had made the compulsory gasp and grimace at the strong, bitter liquor. The night was officially off.

"Uh, yeah, Daily Prophet. I do the shit jobs," he said. He wasn't ashamed of it at all. He really liked it. "It's boring sometimes, but usually there's so much going on, the place is a mad house. I think you'd hate it."

Moira was one of the Quiet Ones, but the kind who would Stab You.  Even though he was sure she'd hold her own, she didn't strike him as someone who would enjoy the cacophony of a massive warehouse full of shouting reporters, clacking typewriters, (a screaming Editor), and a constantly roaring monster of a printing press.

"It's a lot of hours, though. I sleep a lot."

Moira dropped the fully bitten lime into the empty glass, listening to Figaro talk. "I would hate it." Open spaces with no people and no buildings were more her speed. She couldn't deny the charm of places like this and Diagon Alley. Watching and studying people had almost become a kind of hobby for the young witch. There was an unconscious ebb and flow to their movements while their minds were focused on other tasks or problems and that alone was fascinating. Horses, in comparison, seemed to always be aware of their surroundings and fellow herd members. They had to.

"Since I started this month I work all the time. If I'm not at work then I'm working at home." When spoken out loud it seemed a rather sad fact however Moira enjoyed it. "I sleep an average amount." She slept six to seven hours of sleep to be exact, sometimes five, and there was always more to do. When foaling season hit in the Spring she would have to do something to not suffer from minimal sleep.

When a few strands of her escaped the prison of the hair clip and fell in her face Moira reached up and redid the clip, not caring about any ensuing tangles from the process. This had become a more natural state of being for her hair by the end of the day as well. At this point she was getting rather tired of dealing with it. Maybe it needed to be shorter.

"Your hours don't bother your flatmates?

Figaro furrowed his brow, trying to remember what Moira did for work. Whatever it was, at least he wasn't the only one who spent his time working instead of living whatever fantasy high live apparently everyone else was, some 1920s jazz age ne'er-do-well free fall into booze, cars, and boys. He and Moira, yes. They were boring salt of the earth. Hard working, loyal, Hufflepuff Stay Home-ers through and through. 

His thoughts had run away with him, and he'd forgotten to ask where she worked. And now they were on flatmates.

"I don't have flatmates," he said, as if she'd asked him if he had fleas. "I mean, yea, I lived with Zelig Trumble for awhile, but he had, like, family things, so I'm on my own in Bromley. I'd prefer to live with some people, but I haven't have time to look."

He narrowed his eyes. "Maybe I'll get a cat..."

Fig moved one of the Dirty Aurors closer to him, leaned forward and slurped the top of the shot loudly. "Or maybe a life..."

Moira nodded some when he talked about living at a flat by himself now since Zel moved out. She was still in the cottage with her dad and uncle. Nothing to brag about. Getting a flat, paying rent, and not being there much anyway seemed more of an effort than was necessary. Naturally she planned on getting her own place but she needed money to build it first and it wasn't a cheap project.

She was about to comment on him getting a cat but he spoke again.

                                         Fig moved one of the Dirty Aurors closer to him, leaned forward and slurped the top of the shot loudly. "Or maybe a life..."

Moira watched Figaro now with more attention than she had for the whole evening thus far. He was joking about it, but she wondered if there was more to that statement. Some of their classmates had taken to post-graduation life with ease. They had jumped in with their sleeves rolled up and eyes on the future. Others had found themselves thrust into a world they were forced to adapt to. Moira was in the first category but in a much less rushed sense. Even after finding her job she had postponed the start date until summer was over, taking a break to get herself settled. Her drinking companion appeared to be swallowed up by work with a craving, or need, for more. He had always been more of a socialite than a recluse.

Her stare was broken when three plates of appetizers was set down on their table. Immediately she grabbed a piece, not entirely sure what it was, and took a bite. "Mhm. This is awful." She finished off the last few bites.

Figaro quickly finished the oddly flavored shot (was that coffee and salt or...), and, presuming that Moira wouldn't care for it, drank the other one as well. Three drinks in him in less than 15 minutes, and he was well on his way. He wasn't feeling it yet, but it was just a matter of time.

"Oh, fried something," he chirped and reached for a greasy, crusty, lump from the basket.  What in the world was it? He sniffed it, gained no additional information, than ate it. "Why is it wet?" he wondered as he reached for another one.

"But alright, where do you work again? You just come from there?" Figaro hadn't not noticed that Moira looked like she'd been tromping through something. She didn't look bad or anything, just, like, she'd come from work.

He indicated the second pint of cider was for her, and sipped on his own.

Moira watched Fig drink the third short and wondered how well he held his liquor. When he asked why the food was wet, though, she could only shrug. It was a bar, after all. "It's no home cooked meal, but it will do." She was picking her way through them fairly quickly, ignoring the protests from her taste buds.

"Oh. I work at one of the ranches for Wentworth and Son's Magical Menageries. Supposed to work from 8 in the morning until 6 but I usually end up working late." It was true most nights she could have gone home at the appropriate time. However, Moira didn't like leaving whatever she was doing half done or there would be something else that couldn't wait until the next day and she didn't trust anyone else to take care of it.

Taking a sip of the cider Moira decided the drink, at least, tasted much better than the food. Vaguely she wondered about the quality of their whiskey as she went back to eating. Her stomach was going to hate her the next day.

Wentworth? Figaro knew a Wentworth. They'd been classmates with Peyton, but he was playing professional Quidditch now the lucky git.  His name came up on the WWN's Quidditch coverage whenever the Tornadoes played.

"What do you, uh, ranch?"

Moira didn't strike a very robust silhouette; she was compact. (And she was sipping the cider like a waif.) But he didn't doubt she could wrangle dragons if she had a wand.

She responded, 'horses, and other things'.

"Hm!" Figaro nodded, genuinely interested and impressed. "Like, regular horses? Not, like phantom skeletal horses, or with wings, or human faces or something? Just horses. Horse horses."

In the way the son of Apothecaries would, he tried to wonder what part of a horse went into cauldrons. 

Moira considered his interested expression, taking another bite of food. That was different. This whole situation was different. People generally looked over her. Of course that was with a group of people and normally  she encouraged that behavior from them. Unlike Figaro, she did not like a lot of attention.

Hearing his misunderstanding she shook her head slightly, pushing the first empty basket to the side. "All kinds of horses. Regular horses, Abraxans, Aethonans, Thestrals, and more. I focus on studying magizoology. Their care and well-being are important to me."

Taking a drink and grabbing another appetizer, this one looked different than the last batch, she sat back. Moira was unconsciously starting to relax. "So, if you do get a cat, as a faithful employee, I'd suggest you check the shop in Diagon Alley."

"I don't - I don't - Shacklebolt was the best Minister ever lived! There is no way. There's no way!"

Figaro placed his palm down on the bar top emphatically and looked confounded at Moira. They'd moved from their table up to the bar thirty minutes earlier for flaming shots. Now they had whiskey's in front of them, which were Moira's recommendations. Something old and musty.

If you'd ask Figaro, right now, how much he'd had to drink so far the response would be, 'a bit'. He'd also have said that, 'Mo was a good good guy and not boring like everyone said.' And then he'd add, 'she's quiet but she'll stab you!'

They'd talked about horses, school memories, crazy parents, and now they'd stumbled into politics. A topic on which Figaro knew enough about to be loud.

Moira couldn't help but laugh at Fig's reaction. "He might have been a great minister, but the best ever is a bit of a stretch, Fig."

The past two hours of drinking had done wonders in getting her to relax, despite being in a bar surrounded by strange people. This was not a typical setting for the young witch and it certainly was not one she would readily relax in. Having whiskey in front of her helped, too, though the flaming shots and other drinks she had tried for the first time this evening had been interesting. There were no regrets in trying any of them.

Figaro Sellaphix was not bad company, Moira had decided sometime that evening. He was still very loud, and getting louder, and an attention hog but that didn't make him a bad person. If an opportunity to do this again came up she would still try to say no, of course, there would just be less reluctance if it did happen again.

Shaking her head with another laugh Moira took a swig of her whiskey.

Figaro stared at her incredulously.

"He banished the Dementors from Azkaban.[1] I mean - just - Mo, no one comes close. I knew it. You love Dementors. No, no, don't deny it. I'm going to publish a story in the Prophet. It'll be my big break," he said, his words beginning to slur a little.

"Local Witch Who Will Stab You Also Loves Dementors And Wants to Marry One," he said as he wiped a hand across the air between them, as if he'd painted the headline.

"By Figaro Sellaphix, star reporter." He slurped his whiskey loudly.

1.	Kingsley Shacklebolt removes the Dementors from Azkaban