Ah. Knockturn Alley. The Sites... The Smells... The overwhelming sense of impending doom that enveloped Devlin like a well worn cloak, albeit one with suspicious holes and splatters, and caused him to have to take a deep breath and a furtive glance around Diagon Alley before diving into the fray. Even though he had been amongst those voted 'Most likely to lurk around Knockturn Alley' (Alongside that scumskull Trent no less...), Devlin liked to think of his reputation as one of a dignified young man above reproach, a reputation that would be ruined by entering into Knockturn Alley without a legitimate reason.

Sure, he was there, toting around a rather small but heavy looking bag, in order to deliver some 'supplies' to his 'boss', but that would hardly explain matters to his more virtue minded classmates if they saw him there. Especially since they would recognize most of the supplies as things that had 'disappeared' from Hogwarts right before the end of school. He needed a real job. Something he could use to explain the sudden, and rather ample, amount of galleons he was receiving. It also needed to be somewhere close to Miss Kingstreets office so slipping over there for his night job wouldn't call needless attention to himself.

The answer was right in front of him, though he didn't realize it at the time, as he came upon his destination: The Black Chimeara Pub. In the past, entering into a bar and pretending to be old enough to score some firewhiskey had been fun and dangerous, especially a place like the Chimeara. But now that he was old enough to legally order the swill, it had lost some of its allure. No longer was he looking for glamor and danger, just a stiff drink and a place to put this damn box down before his shoulder cramped. The fact that Kingstreet lived above such a place was a godsend. Entering into the dark and rather cramped interior of the pub, Devlin tried to ignore the usual pub smell of liquor and body odor and made his way to the bar. Dropping the box onto the table with a thud, Devlin eyed the bottles on the wall warily before pointing at one “I will take a shot of Thestral Jacks...”

It was still relatively early and the usual late night denizens had yet to arrive.  The chubby, middle-aged, dark-haired man with the receding hairline sat on a stool behind the bar, flipping through the pages of Sorceresses and Temptresses, the type of monthly periodical that only saw the light of day in the darkened corners of Knockturn Alley.  He tilted his chin up in acknowledgment of the pub door swinging open - the bare minimum of what he perceived as his pub-tending duties - but his gaze remained fixed on the page and his fingers roamed blindly through a bowl of bar snacks for a tiny bread stick.

"Huh?" he said, absent-mindedly, when he heard a voice speak from across the bar though he hadn't been paying the customer any attention.  "Sure, go for it.  Candle's in the back."  At the bottom of the bowl of snacks, his fingers closed around a stale bread stick and he retrieved it, spilling a few stray pretzels on the bar top. 

He flipped the page and chortled a crisp, "uh huh huh huh," as he gazed down at the piercing eyes and long sleek body of a black-haired witch with blood red streaks in her hair.  "Man.  I swear - you'd love to go to bed with one of those next to you but, Merlin forbide if she wakes up before you the next morning, don't it?  It'd be like those stories our mums used to tell us.  About those girls that have -"

Manfred had, finally, looked up at the rather (comparably) young man sitting across the bar from him and quickly slapped the magazine closed.  The lad must not have been out of Hogwarts, yet.  "You didn't see ... That wasn't ... Very interesting article.  Lingering magical effects - magical hair dyes - You'd probably find it boring," he quickly reasoned away before stashing the magazine under the counter top.  "What was it ... why are you here?" he asked trying to shuffle himself into what might be a convincingly relaxed position.

The magazine the man was fingering through lasciviously was not new to Devlin. In fact, he had that one and a couple others hidden in a lockbox under his dorm bunk. It was one of his enterprises, you could say, to sell them to his classmates for double the initial price. Quite a successful endeavor actually, since there was quite a call for nude pictures when you lived in a school with no real privacy and the inability to venture into a females room (Unless in rat form, he recently discovered). He snorted at the bartenders attempt to preserve his 'innocence'. Seriously, how did the man think that an innocent young man had somehow wandered into the most dangerous looking pub in the seediest part of town and survived to tell the tale?

"Whiskey... Thestral Jack's..." He repeated before leaning back in the stool, supporting himself by latching his feet under the pole attached to the base of the bar. Rocking a little, he offered the bartender a leer as he added "... Have you seen the newest Playwizard? They have a phenomenal pictorial of Lana Dubois.... I like the more... wholesome and innocent look myself, but she is as fit as they come..." When he said 'wholesome and innocent' a rather risqué image of Fauna flashed through his mind, her cheeks red with embarrassment as she feebly tried, and failed, to cover up. His smirk widened at the thought and he chuckled to himself, earning a wary stare from the bartender as he retrieved the whiskey from the top shelf.

Tipping forward back to the bar, Devlin reached into the snack bowl and retrieved a few stale pretzels, which he crunched rather loudly as he eyed the man. He didn't look like the type that Kingstreet would allow in her company, let alone rent a place from. He probably wasn't the owner, but Devlin felt it necessary to ask "... So...uh...” He glanced at the mans grubby shirt. No nametag, but one could hardly expect that here of all places. He shrugged and continued “...This your place?"

"I ... yeah ... Whiskey," Mannie repeated pushing himself to his feet.  Pondering what a boy of Devlin's age was doing this far down Knockturn Alley or questioning how that might relate to the need to protect the boy's innocence required more deductive reasoning than Mannie used on a regular basis.  All he'd seen was the youngster's age when he looked up at the boy.  Now, still slightly flustered, Mannie had taken hold of the bottle of whiskey and began to pour a shot before he stopped himself.  Should he be pouring a drink for someone who he had to hide a magazine from.  He set the bottle back down, eyeing Devlin with considerable confusion.

"I ... well," Mannie stared at the lad, still clutching the bottle of whiskey still.  He poured the amber liquid into the shot glass in his hand but, rather than handing it to the lad, quickly downed it himself.  "You ... read ... Playwizard?" Mannie asked.  Not that anyone really read those magazines.  "I ... Dubois.  Yes," he stuttered over his words.  The wholesome girls were, definitely, not Mannie's first choice.  He definitely preferred the exotic and icy ones.  "Um...no.  This isn't my ... Cin!" he shouted over his shoulder, somewhat relieved to have a reasonable way out of this predicament.  As he watched Cinaed slip through the door, he was more than happy to let the younger man take over the decision making when it came to this lad.  "He wants whiskey," he explained, refilling the shot glass in his hand and handing the bottle to Cinaed.  Still clutching the full shot glass, Mannie circled around to Devlin's side of the bar, more than happy to take the role of drinking customer again.

"Evening," Cinaed offered the young man, pouring Devlin a shot of whiskey without hesitation.  But, before he slid the glass towards Devlin, he leaned across the bar so his eyes were only a few inches away.  "I don't care how old you are, but if this is some little plan to rat me out to the Ministry, you'll find yourself in a world of trouble.  Got it?"  He wouldn't hold it against the Ministry to try to catch him serving underage witches and wizards.  "Be it on your head if your fecking with me," he concluded, sliding the shot across to Devlin.  "Name's Cinaed Tawse," he offered, pulling back and becoming more relaxed and cheerful as he extended a hand. 

Devlin didn't understand the issue. He was 17 now. If he wanted some whiskey, then the man better produce a damn shotglass and a bottle of Thestral Jacks, and make it snappy. Maybe Devlin had made a mistake in asking for anything when the man had obviously used all his blood and brainpower in the wrong end of his body earlier. There was a reason Dev wouldn't sell any risque magazines during test time, since the conflict of where the blood went would harm his test answer business. Sighing, he waited for the man to finally get around to answering his question by doing what all bumbling peon employees did, call a manager.

"Um...no.  This isn't my ... Cin!"

The owner, who was much younger and cleaner... and as much as Devlin hated to admit, more frightening looking, came out. The peon made some stumbling remark about Dev wanting whiskey, as though it was unheard of, and Devlin retorted "Yes... The paying customer wants some damn whiskey..." He dropped a handful of coins onto the bar slowly, letting the clinking of the heavy metal make his point. Apparently the owner was not impressed or convinced.

"I don't care how old you are, but if this is some little plan to rat me out to the Ministry, you'll find yourself in a world of trouble.  Got it? Be it on your head if your fecking with me,"

As much as Devlin fought to keep his cool, he couldn't help but flinch back a little when Cin came inches away from his face, like he was going to plant a big wet one on him... or bite his face off. Maybe both, he was one of those guys you really couldn't tell WHAT he would do. Devlin managed, though, to keep his tongue and his head about him. Slowly, he pulled the shotglass of whiskey away from the older mans reluctant fingers and downed it in one swift motion. Smacking it loudly on the bar, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before shaking Cin's proffered one "... Jack Spade..." He offered his alias rather then his real name for the exact reason that he was sure, positive in fact, that Kingstreet would have told her landlord to keep an eye out for him. Maybe he would take the name as a sign to get the hell of Devlin's back.

The day the Ministry started marking kids' foreheads with official I'm now 17 tattoos was the day Cinaed would stop worrying about whether they'd send some measly little scruffy looking 15-year-old in here.  He knew it was only a matter of time before the Ministry tried to catch him in the act of offering alcohol to underaged wizards.  They were looking for even the slightest excuse to give him grief.  It was nothing personal.  If the boy really wanted to drink here, he'd have to accept that thngs weren't always as warm and cozy as out there on Diagon Alley.  Course, it wouldn't have hurt if Mannie had shown more mature tact.  But, one couldn't always be picky about the help they recruited. 

And, Mannie was a comrade, friend and loyal WBA cohort first.  His waitering skills were second priority.  Just as the rugged and meager bar room up front was the second priority to the much cleaner and much more comfortable WBA meeting room. 

Cinaed watched the boy playing with the coins on the counter clearly under the impression that the coins gave him some sort of power and authority in this establishment.  Oh ho ho - was he mistaken.  It'd take a lot more gold than that to impress him.  Cinaed reached out to grab the boy's hand and stop him from playing with the coins.   A few blue veins bulged under the silver grey tattoos that littered the back of his hand.  "This isn't Madame Puddifoot's," he said, jovially, though a trace of threat was evident in his voice.  "And, I'm not a dog that comes running at the sound of a few jangling coins.  There are more important things than money.  I haven't seen a silver sickle from many of my most loyal customers."  He cast a pointed glance at Mannie. 

That point settled, Cinaed took the boy's hand and gave it a firm shake before settling back on a stool on his side of the bar.  He poured himself a drink and toasted the young man before refilling the boy's glass.  "Jack Spade?" Cinaed repeated, an eyebrow lifted.  "Never heard of the name Spade.  Is your lot newcomers?"  He left it open ended whether he meant to London, Knockturn Alley or the wizarding race completely. 

This meeting was not off to a good start. Somehow Devlin had managed to make the much larger and burlier man angry, apparently because he indicated he actually wanted to pay for his drink, and he knew that he needed to backpedal quickly. He figured out that asking how Cin managed to stay in business with that attitude was not the best idea. Instead, he just shook the mans hand with a 'sincere' smile and bit back any comment that came to mind. However it was much harder to maintain this forced pleasantness when Cinead acted as though he had never heard of him.

"Jack Spade? Never heard of the name Spade.  Is your lot newcomers?"  

"Ah... no." He paused a little, taking a drink to give him a chance to come up with a reply. The whiskey went down hard and he cringed slightly at the end, but tried to hide the fact. Didn't want to look like a light weight. Swallowing, he burped slightly before continuing "Its... well... it's my business name if you will. I am surprised that you haven't heard of me..." He made sure not to offer his real name. He couldn't be sure, but he had a feeling that Cineads interest wasn't that of concern or politeness. He had to tread lightly until he knew for sure "... This is where Kingstreet is boarding is it not? I figured she would have told you I was coming..." With that, he patted the bag of stuff to indicate that he was playing courier and not there for fun.

The balance had been established; Cinaed had reinforced his status with this newcomer and the issue could be placed behind him.  With no trace of the previous tension, Cinaed settled back on his seat with a relaxed and jovial grin.  He refilled his shot glass and lifted it in a slight toast before tipping it down his throat. 

"Ahh, business name," Cinaed mused curiously.  So, it was fake - which was why he'd never heard of the fellow's surname.  What was a kid of his name doing toting a fake name around Knockturn Alley?  If that didn't sound like a youngster on the search for trouble, Cinaed wasn't sure what would.  "What kind of business are you involved in that leads you down this way?"  Cinaed pulled a wooden box on the bar closer to him and flipped it open, fishing out a fat cigarette.  "Smoke?" he asked, holding the open box over to the youngster. 

Cinaed shook his head, pursing his lips in thought, eying the lad curiously.  "Nope.  Haven't heard of you.  Should I have?"  He wasn't sure where this Jack had gotten wind of Kingstreet taking residence here nor had the woman told him to expect any visitors.   Cinaed wasn't about to announce the woman's whereabouts to anyone - least of all not to some young kid with a fake name.  Without missing a beat, Cinaed laughed and shook his head.  "Kingstreet?  Theodora Kingstreet?  Certainly not.  Look around son.  Does this look like some place that woman would stay?  Never met her but I hear she's a bit too picky for a place like this."

"Nope.  Haven't heard of you.  Should I have? Kingstreet?  Theodora Kingstreet?  Certainly not.  Look around son.  Does this look like some place that woman would stay?  Never met her but I hear she's a bit too picky for a place like this."

Devlin paused, the tip of his wand poised mid-light over the tip of the proffered cigarette, a mix of surprise and irritation crossing his brow. Hadn't heard of him? Surely Kingstreet would have given her landlord some indication that he would be coming with her requested supplies. Was this another test? Was she trying to make sure that he wouldn't unwittingly give away her plans to random strangers? Or maybe there was some secret phrase he was supposed to say to tip off Tawse to who he was. Puffing on the cigarette, he considered his next move with the air of a well seasoned chess player.

"True true... but with her reputation, she can hardly go to the Three Broomsticks..." He said offhandedly, drawing on the cigarette and blowing out a thin trail of smoke. He watched the smoke dance in the air, curling and weaving it's elusive dance through the already smokey atmosphere before speaking again "... Speaking of reputations, I can hardly believe that a man of yours hasn't met her... But then, I suppose if you DID know her, you would know that Miss Kingstreet would be quite put out if you hindered the delivery of her much needed supplies..." He discretely nodded towards the bag on the table, a slight smirk at the corner of his lips. He was right, no one in their right mind, who knew Kingstreet, would keep her from her office supplies. It was certifiable suicide.

The irritation and surprise on the younger man's face was met with a curious though largely unconcerned lifting of an eyebrow on Cinaed's part.  Casually, he stuck the smoke between his lips and inhaled deeply.  The slow, casual nature of the gesture bought him a few moments to consider the situation.  As far as he could remember, Kingstreet hadn't told him anything and betraying the woman's presence here would, almost certainly, bring trouble Cinaed wasn't looking for.  Kingstreet had a wand - Cinaed did not.  It was a simple equation.  And, if this boy went blabbing to anyone, that could bring trouble from those who might not appreciate Cinaed harboring a fugitive.

Cinaed shrugged and nodded in casual agreement.  "I suppose that's true - last I heard, the Ministry was quite keen on asking her a few questions.  I don't see her hanging out at the Broomsticks - I always figured she'd have gone afield.  Ireland maybe.  Or, even Europe.  But - dunno.  Haven't talked to her for a while now.  Sorry to disappoint." 

Of course, it still begged the question where the youngster heard the woman might be staying here.  It could only be through Cinaed or Kingstreet and Cinead knew he wasn't casually sharing that information.  Glancing at Mannie, Cinaed slid the whiskey bottle across to Manfred.  "Think you can handle it from here?  He can have a free refill on the house for his disappointment.  I need to finish the order I was working on."  Cinaed drained the rest of his drink and returned the cigarette to his mouth before stepping back through the back door. 

Once upstairs, Cinaed returned to his study, leaving the door a jar as he sat down back at his desk.  When, after several minutes, there was no indication that anyone undesirable had followed him up the stairs, he pushed himself to his feet again and made his way along the short hall of unmarked inn rooms to the largest.  He rapped quietly on the door.

Words could not describe how irritated Devlin was at that moment. He thought that Kingstreet had trusted him! Why else would she had entrusted him with getting her supplies? Was it just a test? Was her promise of money a ruse to get him to commit a crime? If it was, he had just walked into it like a fool. Grabbing the bag, he put it in his lap. Out of sight, out of mind. If she didn't trust him, then she probably didn't trust this guy either. He would play it safe.

"I suppose that's true - last I heard, the Ministry was quite keen on asking her a few questions.  I don't see her hanging out at the Broomsticks - I always figured she'd have gone afield.  Ireland maybe.  Or, even Europe.  But - dunno.  Haven't talked to her for a while now.  Sorry to disappoint."

"Not at all... It was as I suspected... I haven't heard from her in months so I could only assume she had disappeared..." Devlin sighed, sitting back and sipping his whiskey as though he had known all along. He would have to find another way to get her stuff to her and his money in his pocket where it belonged. "... If you see her, let her know that Jack came to see her. I am sure she would be pleased to meet with an old friend..."

"Think you can handle it from here?  He can have a free refill on the house for his disappointment.  I need to finish the order I was working on."

The firewhiskey was already making his head a bit fuzzy and Devlin wanted to get out of there before nark's came bursting in the door to take him in. The evidence was heavy in his lap and he couldn't ignore it presence any longer. "No worries, I will have to take a rain check on that drink... I also have things to get back to..." With that, Devlin wrapped his case under his arm and made his way to the door. As he left the pub, he glanced up at the upper windows overlooking the street, squinting to see if he could make out Kingstreets form through the grim. When nothing appeared, he sighed and made his way back down the street. Well THIS had been fruitless!

Two bloodshot blue eyes lifted over the horizon of a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, like red twin suns rising.  She was sitting primly behind an empty desk in an empty room.  Her wand was sitting in the pencil groove.

She had been sitting there each morning, setting her empty breifcase down near the empty rubbish bin.  And she sat there each day until lunch.

A rap at the door interrupted her routine of silence and waiting.  Without the tools of her trade, she had no trade.  But this was preposterous.  Anyone who knew her office was here also knew they needed to make an appointment.  She was very very busy.

She reached a bony arm out to her wand and taking it, stood up.  She donned her hooked witches hat and straightened her robes.

"Come in."

It was Cinaed Tawse, the ruffian owner who was letting her office space and a room.  He was usually as well behaved as he was hairy, so this intrusion was among his very first of offenses.  Lucky for him.

As soon as he stepped inside, she wand-waved the door shut behind him.

"What is it, Mr Tawse?  I'm knee deep in paperwork," she said, referencing the completely bare office.

One look at the woman standing in the middle of the room and Cinaed was quickly regretting getting in the middle of this whole Jack delivery nonsense.  Kingstreet paid well - there was no doubt about it.  And, it was a good thing; if she paid regular rate, Cinaed wasn't sure he'd have put up with her sense of self-appointed superiority. 

He gave no reaction to the door closed behind him though, unwittingly, his gaze flickered to the wand in her hand.  But, his eyebrows arched slightly, questioningly, as his gaze continued on to the largely empty desk. 

Knee deep in paperwork, indeed.

"Sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but I thought it was important for you to know.  A young man just stopped by asking after you.  Gave himself some strange fake name.  Claimed I should have heard you were expecting him." 

Obviously, Cinaed hadn't.  But, then, since his re-admittance to the Bridge House, he'd been around the Chimaera less than usual.  It wasn't out of the realm of possibilities that Kingstreet had told Mannie to pass the word on and the older ex-Azzie had completely forgotten.

Feeling he'd satisfied his obligations, Cinaed turned, reaching to tug open the door.

Theodora smiled.  Cinaed's manners were improving.  Their previous interactions had been conspicuoulsy devoid of the proper decorum for the situation and Theodora had found all of it nearly too vulgar to continue.  But lately, he'd been under the more strict supervision of the Ministry of Magic which had apparently taught him some manners.

But her smile faded quickly.  "Hold on," she ordered Cinaed who was beginning to leave. "I told Mr. Manfred."

That had been unpleasant enough.  For all Cinaed lacked in grooming and etiquette, Manfred lacked twice that and deeply in nearly ever other area.  The Black Chimera was just further penance for her oversight in getting caught in 1998.  Inwardly, this entire discussion was deeply embarrassing for Theodora.  She felt naked with an empty desk.  Devilishly, slothfully idle without a proper datebook. 

"I had to relay the message verbally," she admitted with a slightly shamed expression.  "I would have provided a memorandum in triplicate to all concerned parties had I the proper materials - but thankfully that is what Mr. Spade has arrived to rectify.  Soon, you and I shall have little need ever to speak with each other again.  I trust you look forward to it as much as I do."

She inclined her head to the side as she spoke, trying to keep eye contact with the ex-Azkaban inmate.

"Jack Spade is my hired boy.  He may come and go occasionally on errands for me.  Do not serve him alcohol - he's underage and already prone to a beard."

She flicked her wand and the door unlatched.  "Thank you."

"Ahh," Cinaed said, as if that explained everything.  Which, it did.  "Mannie can barely remember his own name for more than a few hours."  An exaggeration.  A slight one, but an exaggeration nonetheless.  But, it was a challenge Cinaed readily accepted with the older ex-Azzie.  He didn't expect the woman to understand, though.  She hadn't seemed to be one that recognized the need for camaraderie amongst their lot.  "Poor bloke spent almost 28 years on that blasted island.  I know you know what time in that place does to the mind.  It's a wonder the man can think at all." 

As understandable as that mistake might have been in Cinaed's mind, it didn't offer a solution that would appear reasonable to Kingstreet.  Cinaed couldn't prevent the slight annoyed sneer as the woman continued blabbing on.  Memorandum in triplicate?  It was insane - this woman was almost as bad as the bloody Ministry. 

Merlin's beard, this woman needed to get herself a man.  Or a woman.  Really, Cinaed could see the effects of either being an improvement. 

He opened his mouth and, almost, voiced his inner recommendation.  But, just in time, he thought better of it.  "If you know where I can find this lad, I can have Chris go find him."  If, as Kingstreet claimed, the boy was underage, chances were the lad was likely to be someplace where both Cinaed and Mannie would be violating parole if they tread. 

Cinaed's eyebrows furrowed in confusion and surprise as he regarded the woman.  Don't serve him alcohol, he's prone to a beard?  Really?  Was she that daft?  "He's male," Cinaed said, slowly, this time unable to prevent the comment which, he knew, was likely a mistake.  "Most of us are prone to beards after puberty." 

And, if the boy came bearing galleons, Cinaed would continue selling him alcohol.  It was a business, after all.  He hesitated a moment but, finally, turned and stepped from the room.