Approx. midnight at The Pit in Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan.

He had already been to some queer night clubs in wizarding New York - they were his first port of call when settling into the city for the exchange program. So Virgil didn't feel unprepared for The Pit, surprised as he had been by Cyrus Hawthorne's casual invitation tonight. They hadn't done much beyond that one vigorous fuck[1] last month.

He was all dressed up based on what he knew about the place, its reputation for seedy glamour and private corners.

"Why is it always basements?" the younger wizard remarked as they descended dimly lit stairs, Hawthorne's hand on his lower back. "Wilde had it right, give me a courtyard and some fresh air."

Virgil had no idea where he pulled these opinions from. It was like background noise in his head, a lifetime of reading too much just spilling out as erudite nonsense.

       "You'd love that, huh?" Cyrus muttered knowingly. "Some mad artist obsessed with the sight of you."
"I'm not as cherubic as Dorian," he replied in a regretful tone. "Devil on sight."

The stairs opened onto a wide entrance hall - black tiled floors, matte gold walls. Beyond this was something that resembled a night lounge more than a club and it took a moment for him to orient himself.

Beaded curtains cut the seating areas off from the main floor, where a long marble-topped bar drew a loose swarm of drinkers and would-be socialites. If he had come himself, he would be among them in that aura of relative safety.

1.	15 May 2017 - Needs Must

Cyrus was guiding him to a quiet corner with a little pressure on his hip, talking all the while. "What's your poison tonight?"
"Wine, red, none of that Californian stuff," V answered airily as he ducked through a beaded curtain--

--and tried not to look surprised by the presence of two other wizards, who glanced up in greeting but returned to their conversation presently. He recognised one of them from Cerebrum, a tall fellow with delicate features and a wide mouth. The other man was unfamiliar. Agency too, he bet.

They were both somewhat younger than Cyrus, and already had their drinks.

       "Sit," Hawthorne ordered. "I'll be right back."

The nook they occupied was formed by a sectional sofa of dark damask, centred around a low table. Virgil dropped into the corner seat because it would look too awkward putting all that space between himself and the other two.

He considered leaving. But he'd talked himself up as gutsy around Cyrus and he was too proud to look scared.

       "Alright, Carstairs?" the Cerebrum wizard turned, smiling.
"Right as rain," he smiled back and remembered his name, "You a regular here, Max?"

The other man leaned in over Max's lap, interrupting to hold out a hand. "Cyrus invited us," he had a kind of handsome grin and thick eyebrows. "I'm Ervin, just in from Cascadia. Heard all about you."

Virgil shook his hand, effete - slipping into his coquettish ways while trying not to think about why Hawthorne didn't say so.

"What is it that you've heard?" he asked archly. "I hope Cyrus hasn't been telling lies. I'm an angel."
       "Angels don't dress like this," Max pinched the lapel of his open blazer. "Oh, you concealed the tattoo. Ervin wanted to see."

Everyone who knew about it wanted to see it and V had only allowed cursory inspections. Francis Pepper's family secrets remained secret. He was about to say something to that effect when Cyrus returned with drinks.

       "Making friends, V?" he handed over the wine, settling next to him on the sectional.

"Something like that..." Virgil drank deeply and without pause, tilting his head back. Liquid courage for whatever in Merlin's name was going on.

This prompted Max and Ervin to exchange looks. "Take it easy," the former laughed. "Won't be fun if you're too far gone."

Maybe this was a game of chicken and Hawthorne wanted to see him fluster. Virgil did not fluster. He hasn't flustered in years. So he put down his glass, smiled uncertainly at their watching faces.

"What, exactly, won't be fun?" he leaned back and felt Cyrus' arm over his shoulders, Cyrus' hand unknotting his neck scarf.

       "Well Max here told me something really really interesting the other day," the older wizard slipped V's scarf off to wind it around his hand idly. "Maybe you can clarify."

V didn't speak. As a person who liked the sound of his own voice, he recognised the same quality in Hawthorne and simply waited. Attentively.

      "He says there are some things a natural Legilimens can do that a learned one can't," Cyrus tilted his head slightly. "Is that right?"

Ah. Right. That.

Virgil didn't fluster but he felt his face warm - he remembered one awkward night, years ago, trying to explain to Cepheus Gamp[1] that he had trouble tuning other people's thoughts out when he was fucking.

Learned Legilimency took concentration and eye contact or some other tether. Cyrus and his friends made the natural ability sound like a neat party trick. Or maybe there was more to it.

Maybe Cyrus thought his sleeping around was a way of getting Agency Unspeakables to speak.

1.	11 Feb 2012 - The Sight of the Stars Always Makes Me Dream

"I wouldn't dare contradict Max!" Virgil drawled, eyelids half lowered. "I'm sure Cerebrum has done all sorts of perverted experiments on the subject."

       "You'd be surprised," Ervin was talking now. "Americans are much more conservative than you think."
"We thought you'd like the challenge?" Max added, goading.

The Cerebrum people did that a lot. They were salty about losing Yavin to the Brits and V was terribly British. Emblematically British.

He wanted to laugh hysterically. God. This was so stupid. He could see exactly how Hawthorne's mind worked and how this was such a pretty way to dress up what he wanted to know. Maybe even find a way into V's head.

"That isn't how it... that isn't how it goes," he tried to sound amused. "You're all Occlumens, I can't pick locks while I'm..." he trailed off, biting his lip.

Cyrus looked at him frankly. "You've never even tried?"

Virgil didn't say anything. He had, obviously. He looked at the faces around him, affecting an air of consideration.

It had seemed terribly straightforward when he was leaving London. Get close to Hawthorne, Yavin said. Do what you do, get into his bed, get under his skin. See what he's worried about.

And now they knew he was worried about a spy. So worried he'd go through all this trouble! For little old V. Who wasn't actually the spy. It would be a mad double-bluff for Yav to choose him.

"I like trying new things," Virgil affirmed as reached for his wine, to finish it.

He didn't fluster.