It was cold, and a fog had started laying it’s thick grey blanket over the cobbled streets between the houses. It was hours past midnight, and the small town of Upper Flagley[1] was asleep, and there was a heavy silence which only made Omari’s staggering step sound even louder. His left leg, which was a prosthetic made out of goblin silver, made an echoing metallic sound, and his uneven steps and stumbling did not help.

Omari was drunk. And cold. And quite far away from where he lived. A combination of things that wasn’t a good thing to go through in the middle of the night. He had visited the small bar, the one down the side street that was frequented by other wixens, and had probably drunk his own weight in Firewhiskey by the time the bar had closed, and they had shooed him off. Normally, he would’ve apparated home, but his blurry vision and foggy head made it impossible for him to focus. Luckily there was a small part of his brain that was sober enough to realise that it would end in tragedy if he tried.

A hiccup escaped his lips, as he turned the corner and was met with yet another foggy street. How in Merlin’s name would he get home? He didn’t have a broom, and didn’t know any of the wixens living in the village. He swore loudly, and stopped walking, putting a hand against the wall to steady himself. Should he wake some muggles up and use their fireplace? He could always obliviate them afterwards. No. He didn’t have any Floo powder. Maybe he could steal a car? He had never driven before, but it didn’t seem hard enough. He could probably figure it out.

Yes, he would take a car and drive home. How far was it to Edinburgh, anyway? Didn’t matter. Cars were quick, at least that’s what he had heard. You could get anywhere quickly, as long as—

A thought occurred to him, and he yelped in excitement. How had he not thought of this before? He fumbled with his robe, trying to get his wand out with his, by now, ice-cold fingers. The wand slid out of his hand, and fell on the ground, sending out a scattering of sparks. He swore, bent over (swaying as he did so), and managed to get it off the ground. In a sweeping gesture, probably much too grand for what it needed to be, he held it out in the street, as if he was hailing something.

1.	Upper Flagley

Sam had been working for around nine hours now, a long long day. But he had gone for a longer shift, he needed the money, simple enough really. And they were willing to oblige him, it meant that his next payment would have a nice amount in it. But it did make him somewhat tired. Most of the pubs were closing now or already closed, along with nightclubs closing, although luckily he hasn't had to deal with many drunken people, Wix had tended to be somewhat smarter and not as drunk, he'd had a couple but that had been about it, he was just happy his shift ended at four and he wasn't due to work again until Monday so he had plenty of time to recover from tonight and still have a weekend, even if he wasn't sure what to do.

He heard the ding as a wayward Wix required their services. Going to the front he looked at the location and nodded, he was getting the hang of this job, and he was happy. It was several things for him, a paying job that was paying well, maybe not amazing like strong Ministry work, not an Auror salary, but it was a good paying job, it also did weekly payouts which were almost saving his life. But it also meant meeting interesting people and getting to travel.


With a thunderous crash, a large object sped to a stop infront of the drunken Auror. Standing high with its rugged design, including the three layers of decks and in brilliant deep purple. The Knight Bus had arrived to take the Wix to their destination as was desired.

Sam opened the door and stepped down onto the first step of the bus, dressed in the uniform which he believed he was pulling off quite well, even if not his type of fashion he seemed to be doing it better then a previous conductor. For a start his uniform was kept in a good condition and pristine, showing the violet shirt underneath only slightly, the black tie, then the purple jacket and hat. Matched with the purple trousers of course, they knew how to do subtlety.

He fumbled a little with the ticket machine around his neck before nodding towards the Wix on the side of the road, he retrieved a card he had almost memorized and started to read it out.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded Wix." A change he had made to his. "My name is Sam Forester and I shall be your conductor for this evening." He then flipped it over. "Tickets are Eleven Sickles for anywhere in Great Britain and the Republic of Ireland. Thirteen Sickles if you want a hot chocolate also. And Fifteen Sickles for a ticket, hot chocolate, a hot water bottle and a toothbrush in the colour of your choice." He hoped they liked purple as that was the only colour they were given.

The massively loud crack a violently purple three-decker bus appeared on the little street, just a foot away from Omari. The sudden appearance of the vehicle made his drunken body stumble backwards, and he fell on his end, his metal leg clanking against the cobblestone. For a moment he was utterly confused, not understanding at all what had just happened. His thoughts weren’t exactly going along the right paths. But then he looked up. The Knight Bus.

A young wix was standing at the step of the bus, rattling off prices so fast that Omari couldn’t follow. He sat there dumbfounded for a while after the wix had finished, before he slowly, and with much strain, heaved himself up off the ground. Staggering, he made his way over to the bus, steadying himself on it’s metal side. A warm, inviting light emitted from its within, and he could feel the heat of the engine underneath his hand.

“Aye, give me that,” he said, without indicating which one of the tickets he wanted. Fumbling with a small pouch beneath his cloak, and managed to produce a large golden coin. He thrust the galleon into the wix’s hand, and without waiting for change brushed past him onto the bus. His broad shoulders and height towered over the youngster, and a very distinct smell of alcohol laying as a cloud around his person.

He took a few uneasy steps inside, not without bumping into railings and beds, and flung himself on an empty seat. He put his left leg up on a railing in front of him, and started to unfasten the goblin-made silver that had replaced his lower left leg.

“I cannea’ ask fer an Irish coffee, can I?” he grunted to the wix, struggling with the fastenings. He probably shouldn’t have more to drink, but who was there to stop him?

Sam wasn't quite sure what to do. Its not the worst state he's had to deal with, but he hasn't been told to just pay for anything, on the one hand it would be better for him if he got someone to pay for everything, but what if they got angry for doing so, they did say do anything. And an Irish Coffee? He didn't have coffee here, especially any Irish brands, so that didn't seem too possible for Sam to do either.

Ultimately he settled on doing the right thing, it may not look as good on his record for not getting a certain amount of toothbrush sales, but he didn't want to just take advantage of a drunken man. He took the money and started to print for just a ticket, that was the better option.

As he started to print the bus burst into motion again, although Sam by now was getting good with it, there were tell tale signs of when it was going into full speed, the way the metal lurches, he's just happy the beds and benches don't move anymore, Sam made sure they were stuck down when they swapped over. Whoever thought it was a good idea to have loose beds on a three story bus wasn't thinking straight, probably enjoyed Gillyweed more then they should have.

With the speed of magic, the bus lurched and swerved, a somewhat maniacal laugh coming from the driver as they sped on through the streets, how they were able to tell where they were at all, given everything blurring outside was a mystery, however they haven't had an accident for atleast as long as Sam had been working...a week now. Somewhere thumping was heard as someone's unsecured luggage fell. Several apologies of people bumping heads and atleast one person calling for silence as they tried to sleep.

Sam still wasn't sure how or why people slept in the beds, passengers are rarely on for longer then an hour.

Making sure he counted out the change properly, he went over to the drunken man. Offering the ticket and coins in one hand as he stood calmly, okay on the inside he wasn't calm, the guy had that rough edge but handsome look, but it wasn't that bad.

"Here you go sir, your ticket and your change. Where is it you're off to today?" He put on his most professional voice possible, a small smile with him also, proud of himself for how professional he was managing to be, and at having a chance to talk to more people! And his parents said he would amount to nothing.

Dido experienced an UNPARALLELED pleasure this evening - she had been invited for dinner at the home of the legendary Mrs L, that silver-haired fixture of level four's administrative realm. Apparently it was tradition for a new department assistant or secretary to dine in the village of Haworth, where the old witch lived in an impossibly adorable cottage with her partner of many years.

They had feasted on a simple vegetable roast, followed by a treacle tart that tasted three weeks old. And then Harriet, which is what Mrs Lanningham went by in her own home, broke out a bottle of sherry so that she could relate a hundred old stories to Dido while they sat in front of a blazing fire with the Wireless on in the background.

Gossip, really. For purely educational purposes, of course.

The sherry, on top of the red wine they had taken with the main course, was enough to give the younger witch some wobbly legs. Not actually drunk or anything, but totally tipsy enough to want to dance to those old '20s tunes on the Wireless. Which was why Mrs L insisted on hailing the Knight Bus.

It was surprisingly late. Like, late late. Dido had been offered a bed first but she really wanted to go home to her own. Which was how she found herself boarding that purple monstrosity in what the English might call the wee hours of the morning.

"Put another nickel[1] in...!" Dido sang as she paid for her ticket, rummaging in the pockets of her baggy duffel coat - the most respectable coat she had for a dinner with proper old ladies. "... in the nicklodeon, all I want is loving you and music, music, music...!"

She grinned at the bus boy as she passed him and a struggling drunkard, grabbing a pole to swing herself over on to the next seat over. "Whoah," Dido exclaimed, staring at the two wizards. "Dude," she addressed the older guy. "Are you taking your leg off? What the hell did Mrs L slip me?"

1.	Teresa Brewer!

Omari accepted the change from the conductor with a grunt, and shoved them down into a pocket, where he would undoubtedly forget them in the morning.

          ”Where is it you’re off to today?”

“Home,” Omari said, and went back to struggling to get his prosthetic leg off. “I need ter be home.” He was mumbling, not focusing on what he was saying. The clasps of his leg was giving him trouble. Normally he would be able to do this in his sleep, considering how long time ago it was he lost his leg, but that last shot of Firewhiskey was making it hard for his fingers to cooperate.

As he was doing so, and without Omari noticing, the bus had stopped and picked up another passenger. The young witch seemed to appear out of nowhere, plopping down on the next seat over, and gave a loud ’woah’. It took Omari a moment before he realised she was addressing him, asking about his leg. He looked up at her, trying to focus on her dark locks, made so much harder by the movements of the bus.

“Aye,” he muttered, and sat back. “Th’bloody thing is givin’ me a headache. Just get those clasps open, will ye?”

He motioned towards her, apparently expecting the witch to finish the task. He sighed heavily, and looked over at the conductor, still awkwardly standing there.

“And where’s me Irish coffee, lad? …Lass?” He added questioningly, and scrunched up his face, looking the conductor up and down. “Yer haven’t forgotten, have ye?

He was doing his best, he was, but the one drunken man was taking his leg off and before he'd noticed the bus stopped again and another customer had gotten on singing. The man wanted to go home, it was understandable, Sam wished he was home right now in his thin blanket all nice and cozy, or as cozy as he could be. But he couldn't do that if he wasn't given a location, or was this man more of the general variety, they don't mind where they drink, its just pub. The other customer was now asking about if the man's leg was real or if they had something else, Sam thought best not to comment on the policy of no drugs on the bus at the moment.

With the new passenger onboard the bus took to its speeds again with a sudden lurching, almost as if the bus had recoiled into itself before dashing off like some sort of cartoon, the driver bellowed out in a hysterical laugh as it swerved, causing several bins and lamp posts to bounce out of the way of the titanic public transport system as it went onto its maddening journey for the next stop. The faint cries of a spooked cat echoed out in the bus's wake as it too was only just bounced out of the way before any incident reports would of had to have been signed by the driver.

"Sir I'm sorry b-" They asked about an Irish coffee, he didn't have any coffee from Ireland, they only had Hot Chocolate an- His heart skipped a beat slightly at the drunken customer guessing at his gender, a faint blush and smiling coming onto him as it hit him of what had happened.

"I would need an address, and I'm sorry, we only have hot chocolate to serve." He said in his most professional tone possible while still going off the dopamine rush before turning to the other customer with an apologetic look towards them.

"Hello, sorry, I'm Sam, your Conductor for this evening. Its eleven sickles for a ticket, thirteen for hot chocolate and fifteen for those, hot water bottle and toothbrush." He said softly as he shuffled a little to get out of the way of the two if she really was going to help the drunken man with his leg problems, it was better then himself doing it he reckoned as he didn't want to be responsible for if anything were to happen to the leg, he couldn't afford it in the slightest.

Dido wondered if the Knight Bus was also, like, a party bus. She had never had to take one before - and they weren't a thing, not where she was from in the States - but she understood the general concept of it. The drunk guy asked for help with his leg, while the conductor (Sam they called themselves) stammered out some prices.

"Thirteen sickles for a hot chocolate? That's robbery!" she exclaimed as she stumbled over to the next bed, plopping herself next to the troublesome leg. "It better be super tasty. I'm talking heaps of cream, I'm talking sprinkles, fudge syrup, marshmallows! The works!"

Maybe what she was thinking of wasn't so much a hot chocolate as it was a hot sundae. Sans ice-cream. Dido started to work on the clasps, not quite sure why she was doing this... but she was so used to the unreasonable requests of Bruce Ballentyne, it seemed natural to help a man get his leg off in the middle of the night.

"There, is that it?" she looked up from the undone clasps, squinting at the one-legged man. "What if you need the toilet? Do you have to rent a crutch from good ol' Sam here or go through the whole song and dance again?"

Her mouth, as always with enough wine, ran on without a check.

“Aye, give me that!” Omari bellowed to Sam’s note on only having hot chocolate.

His leg fell off with a loud metallic clunk as the witch with the American accent unclasped the last of the fastenings, and Omari gave a combination of a burp and a triumphant cheer in response. The stump of his leg, cut off a couple of inches above his knee, lay bare and he started to rub it absent-mindedly. It had been a long day, and it had started to throb, since he had forgotten his ointment at the Office.

He looked up at the witch and the lad-or-lass with a moment of confusion. Normally he wouldn’t take his leg off until he got home, and in that instant he forgot completely where he was. The first thought that came to him was of who these people he didn’t know had managed to get into his Edinburgh flat. But he peered closer at Sam, narrowing his eyes, and when he saw the violently purple uniform it came back to him. He gave a loud laugh, which, to anyone but Omari, must’ve seemed incredibly strange.

“Address, huh?” he said to himself, before turning to the witch. “Where ye reckon? Where’s the bus takin’ us?”

Sam flinched as the man shouted, he didn't mean to, but suddenly getting shouted by a man with one leg would surely make anyone flinch he figured. It wasn't entirely a normal thing was it? Especially when they were still not giving an address to go to. Luckily they were working down a passenger list so they wouldn't be for some time but it would be good to set up regardless. He didn't want to be the one who had to wake up a sleeping drunk to ask for an address and get choked out, it could come out of his pay.

He turned to the woman first, who despite seeming a little tipsy herself seemed to be doing better. "Thirteen for both ticket and drink. We...don't have syrup or sprinkles though." Imagine if they did have sprinkles, getting them on would be a nightmare, the stops and turns spilling everywhere, he wondered when a no glitter policy might go into place, even magic cannot clean away glitter properly.

The driver, Dobbs McCobbs burst out into another laughing fit as the bus would jolt stopped, the rear wheels gaining some air as it rocked forwards with the impact, the gentleness somewhere between a head on collision and finding yourself becoming intimate with a lamp post while distracted as you walk. Footsteps could be heard as a passenger descended the spiral staircase that makes the only vertical option for moving between the levels.

"And sir I'll need another two sickles for your hot chocolate." He can make hot chocolates, he can handle them, they were simple. Drunk people were not simple, they were the opposites of hot chocolates.

But making a hot chocolate may give enough time for him to come up with a better approach, as so far just getting the destination other then a vague statement was like trying to teach a dragon to tapdance, painful and is likely to end up on fire. Plus it might let them calm down or cool off a little.

This whole going-along-with-the-madness thing was, she decided, not exclusive to the Ministry of Magic. They were all mad here. And she was mad for playing along! Why not? She snorted as the one-legged man burped and laughed and muttered. He was hilarious. If they were muggles this was totally a thing she would record on her phone video.

            "Where ye reckon? Where’s the bus takin’ us?"

"The bus was gonna take me home!" Dido shot back with a giggle and then hopped to her own bed, adjacent to the wizard's one. "I dunno. Is there like a... magical night zoo here or something? I wanna go to a magical night zoo," she rambled, holding on to the railing as the bus zoomed and whizzed and sped down impossibly narrow alleys.

Oh but they couldn't go to the zoo! "Scratch that," she addressed Sam, businesslike. "I ain't wearing the shoes for the zoo. I need home. Home's like... oh shit. London. Somewhere. I have the address somewhere!"

Dido rummaged her pockets for her purse, where she kept a card with all the details of her new life in Great Effin' Britain.

"You comin'?" she glanced at her fellow drunken passenger. "I'm Dido by the way. You can have granda's bed if you want. He's dead."

Once again Omari reached inside his cloak to find some coins. He had already forgotten the change he put in his pocket, so the ordeal took longer than he wanted, and by the time he found two silver coins he was swearing under his breath.

“Two sickles,” he said to the conductor. “Here yer go!”

The American started babbling about possible destinations, and Omari struggled to keep up. Was she talking about a Zoo? There was a magizoology wing at the London Zoo, his mother had taken him there when he was younger, but he doubted it would be open at this time of night. But then again, some creatures were nocturnal right? Maybe there was a Mooncalf dance happening this very instant.

Omari opened his mouth to relay the thoughts that had slowly formed in his head, but by the time he got to it the girl said “Scratch that”, and Omari stopped mid sentence, not realising he left his mouth hanging open.

     “You can have granda’s bed if you like. He’s dead.”

Omari cocked an eyebrow over drunken eyes.

“I might be single,” he said, and burped. “But sleepin’ with ghosts is takin’ it a bit ter far!”

He turned to Sam, and gave him a quizzical look.

“Yer got any ideas?”

Sam's mind was filled with white noise as he screamed internally. He didn't want to lose this job, but he really wasn't sure he could handle people this drunk, how do you get this drunk? How do you survive at this intoxication level. Were they even drunk? Were they just mad? Was everyone mad? Was he about to witness a grinning pink and purple cat fade away into nothing? Was it his unbirthday? He screamed internally, for he did not know.

As he took the money for the hot chocolate and looked at the girl. "He...he...isn't still in the bed right?" He needed to ask, for his own sanity. If he didn't ask, what would he be? Why was this happening. Why was he made to ask these questions?

He needed the break of making hot chocolate. So he started to head to where the supplies were, he needed a break from the madness of the two. But the question struck him, he had asked several times for the address he wanted to go to, and now the man was asking what to do. He hoped the person didn't have some sort of important job you needed to keep a head for, as unless he was exceedingly inebriated, he had no clue how they would function.

"If you give me your address...we can get you home." He replied in the most professional tone he could as he started to pour the hot milk into the mugs for the passengers. Making sure one of them had every extra option available as per her request of wanting the works. Even if it was simply some whipped cream and coco powder ontop, for some reason they weren't given Marshmallows, every time he has asked he was met with a thousand yard stare and 'the accident'.

"If you really cannot get your home, we can drop you off at the Leaky Cauldron. Or..." He cut himself off, he didn't want to continue the or part, it was not something he felt he could manage right now really, although it may get him a pay rise for what he'll have to put up with.

She laughed - well, cackled - when the bus boy asked if her granda was still in the bed, and the drunken wizard reinforced the idea by saying he wasn't drunk enough to sleep with a ghost. "Nah nah, he's six feet under," Dido reassured the younger of the two, shrugging. Knight buses were cooler than she realised; if she ever drank or smoked too much, this seemed like the best bet to get home alone.

             "...we can drop you off at the Leaky Cauldron. Or..."

"Oh, drop me off at the Cauldron!" Dido interrupted abruptly. "That's perfect. I can floo home. Mrs L's floo is being repaired," she explained off-handedly, as if either of them knew who Mrs Lanningham was. "Hence, bus!"

Hanging on to her bed rail, legs swinging, she was coming down from her wine-fuelled evening. Other patrons climbed on and off the bus. Saturday night after all! Busy busy busy. Dido wondered how many of them were Ministry people. For all she knew, she passed by them all the time without realising it.

"You could grab a room at the Cauldron if you can't remember home," she pointed out to Omari, somehow committed to his drunken plea. "Or crash at a friend's. You look like you have tons of friends."

        ”Nah nah, he’s six feet under”

Omari tried to focus her eyes on the girl, scrunching up his face in the process. He was just about to say that he wasn’t desperate enough to do an excavation, when the conductor handed him a drink. His expression turned from confusion to that of pure glee, and he quickly (and more smoothly than should’ve been possible) produced a metal hip flask from the depth of his robes, and poured an amber liquid into the mug. He held it up to the wix and the witch and shook it slightly, producing a sloshing sound.

“Anyone want some hair o’the dog?” he said with a smirk.

He took a large gulp, and you could see his muscles visibly relax as he sank back into the seat. Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey always hit the spot. As he was enjoying the burning feeling running down his throat he closed his eyes, barely aware of the other two. Until the mention of the Leaky Cauldron. In another sudden movement he jerked forward and cheered loudly.

“Aye, Leaky Cauldron it is,” he exclaimed, raising his cup. “Night’s still a wee child. And yer right in the lodging. It’s always easier when yer don’t have to Apparate home in the early hours.” Under his breath he mumbled: “I can’t afford ter loose more limbs.”

He turned to the conductor.

“Care ter join fer a night cap, wee sir-or-mam?”