December 2011
The Shodding Arms Hotel
Knockturn Alley
10:30pm

Permanent resident Nathan Briggs returned to his apartment by way of the stairs. He'd runed his place to prevent Apparitions in (but allow Apparitions out), that and he needed to pick up his mail at the front desk. Negotiating for letters legally his always reminded him of dealing with a thistlewhite fairy from the back of a cart doing all you could to get what you needed without accidentally selling your soul. The only reason he'd lived here as long as he had was that exact thing - no one else wanted to come near and he had all the privacy he wanted. Few others had his residence status in the shambles of a cursed and haunted hotel, and he'd clearly made the most of it.

Recent events, however, were beginning to tempt him leaving and finding some hole in the ground. Since the shoe that tied him directly to Theodora Kingsteet, since Cinead Tawse discovering his thieve's name, and since Kurby Bagnold had targeted him for some very confusing harassment, there was more and more chance of visitors and therefore more and more reason to feck off. There were complications however. Namely parole. The math, at this time, favored avoiding Ministry attention, namely disappearing.

He padded down the creaky hallway of the seventh floor to his corner suite, sorting through his many keys. His door was the one that looked like it had been salvaged from some World War II explosion. The hinges were mismatched and repaired and the hints of seven locks could be seen on its surface.

As he sorted out his keys, he glanced at a door across the hall from his. He'd seen light coming from a crack on the door for months but hadn't yet met the occupant. There'd been comings and goings too, and caught a glimpse of a tall bloke via his peephole, but just the back of him.

Then he noticed it. There on his own doormat was a small wrapped parcel. And despite his door being very clearly labeled 73 the tag on the package said 77. Damn it. That meant someone had been up here, the object likely delivered in person than by owl (see previous post-collecting challenges).

"Well, shite, that could be anything."

He wasn't going to bloody touch it, and he didn't want to just leave it out here to go off or grow legs or whatever. Nate sighed, stepped over the box and let himself into his room. He dumped his apron, changed his shirt and lit a nightshade cigar. Then he went back out in the hallway to mull over the little box.

"No one wants to hear you clack your beak," Aviad grumbled at the skeletal bird sitting on his shoulder as he rounded the last steps up to the seventh floor landing. 

It was a long climb up to the room that he'd been renting month-to-month in the old ramshackle hotel, which certainly lived up to the first five letters in its name.  But for all that he complained about the endless stairs, grumbled about the smell of mildew and griped the general run-down appearance of his accommodations, at least the Shodding Arms Hotel delivered to its guests and residents a sort of amaranthine privacy, deliberate and endless in its discretion.  It gave him a home base in London, somewhere to stay away from Tawse's machinations.  And for the year-plus-some-odd-months that he'd been renting a room here, at least no one had ever really questioned the presence of Tzippori, or his own late-night comings and goings.

Tzippori clung to his shoulder with its boney talons as he reached the landing, its head bobbing back and forth and its beak still clacking happily in time with Aviad's steps.  There was someone else already in the hallway: the shabby-looking wizard who lived a few rooms down, behind the door that looked like it had recently fallen victim to a full-fledged frontal assault. 

Aviad barely spared his neighbor a look as he headed over to the door of Room 77 and began searching for the correct jangling key to unlock it.  After the events of the recent full moon, he had been particularly careful to avoid drawing attention to himself; he had stayed away from casual conversations and generally tried to keep his head down.  Tawse might have reveled in the chaos that they'd caused, but as far as Aviad was concerned, his continued anonymity in London was hard-won.  The last thing that he wanted was to catch the Ministry's eye and to have to go entirely underground.

Well, look who it was. The neighbor. Standing in his own open doorway with a lit cigar, Nate watched the wizard approach. He was tall and dark with short-cropped hair and beard. But it was hard not to notice he had a living bird skeleton beak-clacking on his shoulder. Nate lifted his eyebrows. Impressively, perfectly on brand for the Shodding Arms. And it explained the occasional squawk. Its beak was massively out of proportion with its head; maybe a toucan. With the empty eye sockets and all, Nate couldn't tell if he was being inspected.

"Oi," he said. He wasn't offended at the deliberate silence - it was usually best to avoid the other denizens of the building - but the package deserved attention.

"This yours?" he gestured down at the package. It was about the size of a shoebox wrapped in plain brown paper and and twine. "Says seventy-seven. No name."

He'd just found the correct key -- had been about to slide it into the lock -- when his shabby-looking neighbor spoke up.  Aviad stopped where he was.  A beat later, he turned his head, first to examine the wizard behind him, and then to regard the aforementioned package with wary suspicion.

A package?  Aviad looked back at his door, which indeed had the number 77 displayed on it in faded paint.  But who the hell would send him a package?  No one back home had any idea that he was here in London -- or at least, no one knew now, now that Savvina Katopodis was probably barbecued after the last full moon -- and Tawse wasn't exactly the kind to thoughtfully deliver Hanukkah gifts to his most loyal followers.

"I'm not expecting any packages, brother," he replied, although he stepped over to look more closely at it.  The tag on it unmistakably matched the numbers on his door, but there was no other discernible marking, no indication of who it was addressed to other than the twin sevens.  "Are you certain they didn't leave it for you?"

Damn it. Now this was a thing.

Nate clicked his tongue and shook his head, disappointed. "Yeah, no. I mean, it's not my name on it and it's not my room number. Didn't bloody order anything, that's for sure."

He stared at it a few moments, starting in on the risk evaluation, but before he was done he shut his eyes and let his head tilt against his doorframe. He breathed out a grunt, his fatalistic outlook on the package renewed with greater intensity. Nate had about seven reasons why this was going on and more than half of them ended with bad things happening to him.

Nate looked up at the other man who was, in a very neighborly way, giving the object some consideration. That meant something. Meant that it mattered to him what the package was. And what mattered to Knockturn-folk were not what mattered to other people. What they had to lose was very carefully balanced on the edge. That buy-in, that helped Nate.

"This would be far simpler if it was yours," he said suggestively. "I mean, you're new. Housewarming. From someone who ... doesn't know your name. Or values your privacy. That's really a far better scenario for me. Better a nice thing for you than a bad thing for me."

Tzippori leaned over Aviad's shoulder and craned its head to peer at the package, first with the empty eyehole on one side of its skull, and then with the other.  The skeletal toucan seemed far more interested in the mysterious delivery than his shabby-looking neighbor, who let his head bang back against the wall behind him and let out an unhappy grunt.

This would be far simpler if the package was his?  Aviad arched an eyebrow, giving Shabby Neighbor a dubious look.  The only person who could find where he lived and might possibly leave him a package without sending notice ahead of time was Lorelei Hunt, in which case he decidedly did not want to open it himself because whatever was inside would probably attempt to tear his nose off.  Even if the apartment number was wrong, it seemed much more likely that the package was intended for his overly dramatic neighbor.

"I think someone leaving me an anonymous housewarming gift in front of your door more than a year after I've moved in is asking a lot, even from you British," he pointed out skeptically, stepping back so that the package was physically closer to Shabby Neighbor than it was to him. 

He eyed the other wizard doubtfully.  "Besides, how are you so certain that it's something bad if it's for you, anyhow?" he asked, each word crisp.  "Maybe you've got a secret admirer that you don't know about."

Had it been that long? Time moved, didn't it. Nate hadn't estimated that he'd been ignoring the tenant across the hall since he got out of Azkaban back in April. That was the Shodding Arms for you; a black hole of hospitality that tricked you into staying longer than you meant to so more bills would come due.

"A year? Damn," he mumbled. He pivoted into his own apartment to set his cigar on the mantle and trade it for his wand. His neighbor wasn't going to make this easy, unfortunately, and his logical basis for the package being Nate's was about as solid as his own.

"I have managed to establish a mite of infamy from both sides of the line," he explained without any affect of regret. "Let's just say it's far more likely an unhinged werewolf hunter has more questions," (air quote), "than I've won a Witch Weekly sweepstakes."

Down the hall, a rattling came from the broken lift wandering its shaft. Nate looked up at the sound. The lift's atonal chime sounded from the floor below.

"Really, though, mail tampering is less his style..."

Nate nudged the package with his shoe.

"Let's just say..."

Aviad blinked, and was suddenly inclined to regard his fellow Shodding Arms denizen with a much more shrewd look.  Was Shabby Neighbor a werewolf?  That would certainly explain the wizard's general unkempt appearance, and the fact that on the rare occasions when Aviad had caught sight of him in the hallways, he always seemed to have the same perpetual aura of facial hair.  It might also explain why he was stuck living in the budget Knockturn hotel, since most werewolves in British society couldn't quite seem to hold down a respectable job.

The mage paused, trying to think back to the last few full moons.  Had Shabby Neighbor been missing on those nights?  Truth be told, he didn't really pay enough attention to his floormates to be able to say for sure.

Well, that made things interesting.  Aside from the fact that they had just likely made enemies of the Werewolf Capture Unit, Savvina Katopodis's inclusion in the December attack had proven to be an unexpected boon.  Tawse had been thrilled at how his direwolf had shown off its sleekness, its control, and its power in comparison to the mangy-looking common werewolf, even if both had ended up fried and crispy in the end.  Although they hadn't finalized their plans for the next full moon in January yet, Aviad had no doubt that the WBA's leader would want to kidnap more regular werewolves for their next show.

Judging by Shabby Neighbor's unimpressive human appearance, he'd certainly fit Tawse's desire for scruffy, flea-bitten canines to contrast with the luster of his direwolves.

"Always a chance for that sweepstakes though, yeh?" Aviad asked, flashing his neighbor a bright smile.  "Come on.  If you bring it inside, we can get Bird-Brain here --"  He flicked at Tzippori, which nearly faltered and had to stretch out its bony wings to maintain its balance on his shoulder.  "-- to open it.  That way, there's nothing lost if something goes wrong."

Nate stood still for a moment, noting a change in his neighbor's demeanor. This encounter had been crispy on his end right up to now, when out came a winning grin. This guy was weird. His bird was weird. The box was weird. A thousand people had reason to be unhappy with Nate. What he didn't need was something hanging over him while he was trying to keep his head low.

"Yeah."

He disappeared back into his own apartment for a moment. When he returned, he was wearing a thin red bathrobe over his shoulders and an opaque bottle in his hand. Then he crouched down next to the package and used the end of his wand to tip it up and set it back down again. It wasn't heavy. It didn't tap back.

Nate got to his feet again and lifted his eyebrows to the neighbor. "Not going to be able to sleep until I know what it is," he admitted. "Or, at least, that I know it's not going to siphon my soul out of my skull."

He addressed the bird. "Kind of you to volunteer."

Rather than bring the mystery box inside, Shabby Neighbor went to go fetch a drink and a bathrobe.  Aviad sighed and leaned back against the wall to wait for the wizard, boundlessly patient.  He knew that most of the other denizens of the Shodding Arms were a little strange.  That came with the territory when one chose one's dwelling based on its promise of anonymity and low cost, rather than things like 'being in a nice location' or 'not being home to oddball unregistered werewolves.'  That being said, he hadn't quite realized how strange his immediate neighbor was.

Tzippori, who was still perched on his shoulder, seemed happy to be getting some attention.  It quirked its head to the side to peer at Shabby Neighbor with an empty eye socket, and then attempted to preen invisible feathers with its long, hooked beak.  Aviad sighed, nudging at the skeletal bird as he lowered his arm so that his familiar could climb down onto the package.

"If you don't mind me asking, what'd you do to end up with an unhinged werewolf hunter wanting to ask you questions anyway, brother?" he inquired, arching an eyebrow at the wizard.  Tzippori was patiently making its way down his arm and onto the package, climbing beak after foot after beak.  "You don't exactly look the type to fall afoul of that crowd," he added, lying fluidly.

Nate watched the bird with a half smile. That crowd? Bagnold was his own crowd.

But then Nate realized his neighbor was making no move to open up door number 77. Then the context of the other wizard suggesting they go 'inside' dawned on him. Other bloke's bird, Nate's table. He'd been dazzled by that smile and accent. Knowing that further negotiation of terms would only erode this new neighborly camaraderie, Nate turned and pushed his door all the way open.

"Don't mind the mess," he said, chagrinned.

Nate's flat was a large single room on the front corner of the building. Tall windows with heavy sashes and cracked panes went all the way to the ceiling. Nate had a large bed, a table, and some good chairs. The patched wooden floor was covered in rugs. The fireplace mantle was built out and covered in dozens of bottles of potions and other things. Inside the fireplace was a stove, but Nate didn't cook much. Room 73 had a full bath.

The table was clear except for some mail and Daily Prophets. Nate moved them over to make room for the package.

"It's nothing to do with werewolves. I blew up the wrong pub," he said. "A few degrees of separation later and he feels like blowing off some steam. But this isn't him."

Nate had decided that. Unmarked packages, that was some 'Lucy' nonsense. Tawse, maybe. Not Bagnold. Bagnold was just going to pop up somewhere when it was most inconvenient.

It took a moment, but apparently Shabby Neighbor caught up with the crowd and decided to admit them into his flat.  Aviad let Tzippori drop down on top of the package as he drew his wand, flicking it at the box.  The paper-wrapped package levitated into the air, trailing behind him as he followed their host and entered the flat.

Inside were the trimmings and trappings of daily life.  Aviad glanced about briefly as he maneuvered the package over to the lone table.  Plenty of ingredients and indications of potions-making -- which made sense, if his newfound friend was a werewolf.

Except, it seemed, his host was claiming the opposite.  It's nothing to do with werewolves.  The mage raised a skeptical eyebrow, his back to the other wizard, as he landed the package on the table.  There was some mail sitting next to it, untouched. Aviad glanced at the address on the top envelope, and then flicked his hand carelessly at Tzippori, leaving the skeletal toucan to happily tear into the cardboard box with its beak.

'Blew up the wrong pub' was an interesting tidbit, too.  Tawse's original pub, he knew, had exploded at one point, as had the main pub that led to Diagon Alley late last year.  Part of him wondered what it was about London that had led to an epidemic of pub explosions.

"The name's Cohen," he offered, extending a hand to the shabby werewolf whose mail labeled him as Nathan Briggs.  Time to build camaraderie while they waited for Tzippori to dissect the box into its simplest confetti-like form.  "A friend of mine ran into some trouble with one of the Ministry's dog catchers a couple of weeks ago, too.  Headache and a half, yeh?"  He clucked his tongue disapprovingly.  "All we do is try to go about our business on a night out in the city, and they have to step in and rough somebody up."

Nate took the offered hand. "Nate Briggs."

"You're telling me, mate. It's a game," he said with a scoff.  The opaque bottle was mead. A small bee was stamped into the side of the ceramic vessel. Nate uncorked it and, in the interest of company, poured some into two glasses from a stack on the mantle. He offered one to Cohen. He gestured with his own glass.

"Rules change constantly, no winning, plenty of losers, they cheat, we cheat, and what really sets them off is that we're not crying about it. Blood-thirsty prigs."

Because it was the Shodding Arms, the room was never the right temperature. Nate opened a window a crack and then sat on the sill to watch the bird go at the box. The paper was torn away by now, in scrappy shreds. The box underneath was as plain as the paper, no brand markings. He knew no more about this package situation than when he'd first seen it. He wondered if it had anything to do with Dazmond - he hadn't thought of that. Wouldn't be the first time that someone showed up here looking for her. But it could still be Cohen's.

It could still be nothing.

"Your friend or you?" Nate glanced up from the box to Aviad with a noc of his head. "Who had that trouble with WCU? No judgement."

Shabby Neighbor was proving to be an unexpectedly hospitable host.  Aviad took the glass with a quick smirk, raising it in a wordless toast to his neighbor.

He kept an eye on Tzippori as the skeletal toucan made short work of the paper.  The bony skeleton seemed to enjoy tearing into things -- or at least it seemed to as best as Aviad could tell, considering its challenges in being able to express pleasure or other emotions.  Right now, it was balancing on one foot, the other closed around a ripped piece of paper, which it held up to its beak so that it could nibble it into confetti.  One by one, the tiny, torn shreds of paper disappeared down its esophagus and fell through its empty ribcage, littering the table surface underneath.

The newly-confirmed Nathan Briggs had countered with an almost accusatory statement.  Glancing back at him, Aviad decided that commiserating over shared suffering was probably the best way to build upon their current camaraderie.

"It was both of us," he said, flashing Briggs a quick smile as he took a sip of the mead.  "My friend got the worst of it, though.  And like you said, nothing to do with werewolves," he added, spreading his free hand to demonstrate.  "It just so happens that the full moon is out, and so they decide that they can throw their weight around."

Nate scoffed a laugh as he leaned back and put his feet up. "Fecking werewolf hunters. You think they'd have more to do on a full moon. They're going to zealously work themselves out of a job and then they'll just jog around using that extrajudicial authority of theirs to detain anyone who snaps at them."

Cohen may yet end up being some horrible surprise, but for now he was a welcome diversion - he was in good humor, shared his frustration with people like Bagnold, and had the cutest skeleton toucan he'd ever seen. If he wasn't still anxious that the box was going to twist into a giant cardboard snake and eat them, he could've watch her endless task for hours.

He had a big swig of the sweet spiced mead, then got to his feet. He shucked the robe and scratched absently at the Runespoor burn scars on his arm as he approached the box. Better monitor the birdie's progress.

"Oi, how you coming along?" he asked the bird. She had the paper and twine situation taken care of and now it was just ... a box. Unmarked. With a wince, Nate set down his glass and used his wand to give the bird a little nudge off the box.

He regarded the package briefly before casting Specialis Revelio. The spell worked at its task but nothing. He then tried Declaro Incantatum, a useful Auror spell. But nothing.

"Dammit." He picked up his glass again and finished it off. Then he went to the mantle and grabbed a stick of black chalk from a little sandlewood tray.