Knockturn Alley, outside the Black Chimaera

The morning had begun bright and early with a muffled explosion down the street.  It had been enough to jolt Jonas awake, and had nearly been enough to cause him to barricade himself inside his office before he realized the noise had likely come from some yobs setting off practice fireworks in anticipation of Bonfire Night the following evening. 

Unfortunately, it was still too early for a drink, which is what he would have really liked after the sudden reveille, and so Jonas had thrown on clothes, left a note for his new assistant, and taken to the street, intent on accomplishing something if only so he felt less jittery.  Knockturn Alley had never been high on the list of places where he liked to spend his time.  Snooping there had always struck him as the wizarding equivalent of sticking a wet finger in an open socket, although with the potential for more variety in the results.  The residents of the dark, dingy alley formed a tight-knit community, and although their commerce depended on a steady flow of darkly-inclined visitors with a taste for the macabre, outsiders and snitches still stuck out like a sore thumb in a bowl full of tacks.

Jonas had long ago made it a habit to look as though he belonged wherever he happened to be.  Urban camouflage could be a bit tetchy: look too nervous and others noticed you as a victim, too confident and you stuck out as only an authority figure could.  To blend in, you had to adopt the look of the neighborhood, thoughtful or rushed or harried or bored as the general populace allowed. 

Today, he was going more for "thoughtful," although "in need of a strong drink" was still placing a firm second.  Luckily, he presumed that the second emotion would fit right in with his destination, assuming that the bloke behind the bar had stopped grumbling about not having anything to do with customers for long enough to pull a few pints. 

Jonas didn't remember the Black Chimaera from his time as an Auror, although judging by the article he'd read in a week-old Prophet, it certainly sounded as if it had become the exciting center of the magical combustion scene.  He had told himself over and over again that his visit to it had nothing to do with the article about the Runespoor venom explosion, that he had only come in another attempt to gather information about the missing dagger, but he still slowed his pace as he approached the scene of the crime.

The bloody kids who had been testing fireworks outside his office could have probably learned a thing or two from whoever had devastated the pub back in October.  Even now, weeks later, the outside of the Black Chimaera still looked rather the worse for wear, although it had been cleaned up a bit since his last visit over a week ago.  The bloke who was laboring outside had to be part of the reason for the improvement.  He was huge, big and hairy, with a hard look to him.  Jonas was surprised to note that he was attempting the repairs by hand - although upon second thought, the lack of a wand made sense.  In the aftermath of a Runespoor-triggered explosion, any lingering droplets of cured venom could be accidently set off by a cleaning spell.

"Bit of a task, that," he quipped, stopping well short of where the other man was working.  He was not about to make his day worse by getting cursed for accidentally sneaking up on a part-time construction wizard.  "I hope you're getting compensated for all the work, mate.  That's a lot to take on as just a labor of love."

The potential for a subsequent explosion did play a significant role in Cinaed's decision to not enlist the help of his more magically-capable companions.  There were no shortage of offers.  McCormack, Murphy, Siepher and many others had offered to pitch in their wands and labor to help speed the pubs resurrection.  Perhaps it was a testament to the Black Chimaera's role as a cornerstone of the social culture of Knockturn Alley or perhaps it was impatience and a strong desire to avoid having to the Leaky Cauldron.  The food and drink were, arguably, of better quality but the company was far too clean - far too proper to accept the average Knockturn resident without a scowl or suspicious glare. 

The Leaky's owner was also much more particular when it came to things like paying tabs on time. 

Cinaed had been quick to accept the offers of labor but more reluctant when it came to the magical assistance.  A thick, rancid stench still lingered in a few spots along the alley - like rancid head cheese accidentally dropped in a fire and left smoldering for days.  Perhaps it was just the leftover stench from the original explosion - air had a tendency to sit for days in these back corners of the alley but Cinaed wasn't willing to take the risk.  Who knew how far the runespoor venom had splattered during the original explosion.  If one spot of venom ignited, the ensuing chain reaction could, quite easily, take out the wall of the building. 

At least approaching tasks involving manual labor without the assistance of magic was a familiar circumstance for Cinaed.  It had been over a decade since the Ministry had snapped his wand though, of course, life within the dark, damp, stone walls of Azkaban made the presence or absences of a wand nearly negligible.  But, like so many other ex-Azzies that were deemed 'too volatile' be allowed a wand again, Cinaed had been forced to accept life without a wand.  Every single action, every single activity performed was a harsh reminder of his ex-con status.  Like every other ex-Azzie, every time he was forced to reach down and tie his shoes or cross a room to fetch something out of arm's reach, he was publicizing his ex-Azzie status to anyone that chose to pay attention.  It was a transition, and a state, that, like many ex-Azzies, Cinaed had found near crippling.  But, he'd quickly recovered - had changed his perspective.  He now bore that ex-Azzie brand with a certain degree of pride. 

So, by the time Cinaed found himself chiseling away at the blackened mortar between the damaged stones by hand, he gave the menial task little in the way of a second thought.  Black, grey and putrid yellow flakes of mortar speckled the still-shiny pair of brand new black dragon hide gloves which protected his hand from any runespoor-venom-contaminated stone.  Alas, indeed the gloves were brand new - contaminated debris from his previous days of work had already eaten through four other pair.  His hair had been pulled back and tied out of the way and in classic bandit style, two equally brand new handkerchiefs had been tied around his face - one shielding his nose, mouth and chin, the other covering the top of his hair and forehead.  A pair of goggles covered what little of his face which wasn't concealed by the bandages and a bag containing a healthy supply of backup handkerchiefs and goggles lay a short distance away. 

The windows along the side of the building, allowing the music from the phonograph inside to spill out into the alley.  With a firm jab of the chisel, the last bit of mortar securing the one brick in place gave way, allowing the brick to be carefully eased from its spot. 

Cinaed turned slightly and noticed the newcomer as he tossed the brick into the dumpster with a loud clank.  He regarded the fellow for several moments, giving him and his words careful consideration.  "Aye, it's a bitch," Cinaed he finally agreed, lifting an arm to scratch at an itchy droplet of drying sweat through the handkerchief tied around his forehead.  Compensated?  Cinaed chuckled and stood up, eying what little progress he'd accomplished.  "'Fraid not.  No compensation, just can't leave it like this, you know?"  The pub was, truth be told, an accomplishment.  His accomplishment and he took pride in it. 

"Well, it's sure not going to fix itself," Cinaed admitted with a shrug.  Of course, that little rat-nosed prick that caused this mess could be here pitching in.  Taking care to avoid touching the outer surfaces, Cinaed tugged his hands free of the gloves before offering one to the fellow to shake.  "Can't say I recognize you as one of the regulars down here.  Just visiting?"   

It was hard to get a sense of the other man's age, especially when he was bundled between two bandanas and a pair of goggles like a space-age train robber.  He easily had a handspan of height on the private investigator, as well as the advantage of several bichons' worth of hair knotted behind his head.  Between the makeshift protection, the goggles, and the Scottish burr, Jonas nearly asked him if he were intending to try out for some secret league of supervillains, but he stopped himself just in time.  The magical world had had more than its share of real arch-nemeses throughout its history; cracking jokes about fictional Muggle ones wouldn't win him any friends.

"Yeah, more or less," he said good-naturedly, reaching to grip the proffered hand.  "Been trying to, anyhow.  I stopped by last week, but the bloke behind the bar was grumbling something about large sticks and anatomical possibilities if anyone ordered another drink, so I stepped out right quick."  Jonas flashed the other man a crooked smile, looking more amused than put out by the lack of customer service.  "Reckoned I'd rather try me luck another time."

He glanced past the other man at the side of the building where he'd been working.  If the Ministry had given permission for the repair works to begin, they must have gathered all that they could from the crime scene.  That was an advantage since it meant that no one in scarlet was likely to be dropping by anytime soon.  His first visit to the Black Chimaera had ended when one of the regulars, in the process of offering his wand to the fellow behind the bar for experimental anatomical purposes, had muttered something about bloody Aurors stopping in.  Jonas had no intention of potentially running into any old colleagues, especially since he was decidedly not investigating anything to do with Runespoor smuggling, so he had given up his attempt soon afterwards.

Still, that reduced the chance that he'd be able to find anything useful here.  Not that he would have to begin with, Jonas thought dryly, since his ability to analyze explosions mostly consisted of identifying the point of worst damage and pointing to it.  Chances were that if there had been any clues at the scene of the crime, they would have been picked up by the investigating Aurors.

Which was probably a good thing, since they were actually looking into it and he decidedly wasn't.

"Must've been a bastard when that went off," he remarked, his gaze flickering back to the man.  He offered him a commiserating smile.  "Glad to see the Ministry is taking such pains to help you lot recover your property losses.  They really have the back of the tax-paying citizen, eh?"

Again, taking care to avoid touching the outer surfaces, Cinaed slid both bandannas free from his head and draped them over the edge of the singed dumpster.  The brisk autumn air whisked against his sweat-dampened forehead, leaving a damp chill in its wake.  If Cinaed felt any discomfort from the chill, he didn't show it as he nodded his head. 

An amused grin settled on Cinaed's face and he nodded his head, fully able to guess who the grumpy bloke was that Jonas was referring to.  With Izadora away, Dilly confiscated by the Ministry and Cinaed distracted by repairing the place, Manfred Ashford was picking up many of the bartending duties.  There was no shortage of bitter grumblings from the older man, but he rarely refused when Cinaed asked him to pitch in.  "He's a loyal and helpful mate, though he's not always the most pleasant."  Or, really, Cinaed couldn't remember the last time the unfortunate fellow could be, truthfully, described as pleasant.  "But, can't exactly blame him, can you?  Twenty-seven years in Azkaban would destroy a veela's social charms." 

Quite simply, there was little chance the old ex-Azzie would ever find social acceptance, let alone employment, outside of Knockturn Alley.  He had as much of a vested interested in the Black Chimaera as Cinaed did - if not more.  After all, there were a few options open to him.  Not many, mind you, but far more than Mannie ever hoped to find. 

But, Mannie still shouldn't scare away potential customers. 

"Can I offer you something, now?" Cinaed offered, gesturing towards the front alley and the door.  A break seemed well-deserved, any how.  "Yeah, it was pretty dramatic.  'Fraid Seamus got the worst of it," he admitted, nodding a head towards the now eyeless fawn mastiff stretched out on a brand new dog bed in front of the fire.  Much of the dog's bruising had gone down and the burns littered across his face and chest were scabbed over.

Cinaed arched a curious eyebrow in the fellow's direction and considered him curiously.  So, the newcomer wasn't much of a fan of the Ministry, eh?  "You'll find yourself in good company," Cinaed admitted with a nod. There were few Ministry fans in his pub.  Some were indifferent, many disliked it.  There were a fair few, like himself, who outright loathed the Institution and wouldn't rest until they saw its destruction.  It was too early, yet, to gauge whether this fellow would be a candidate for the Wizarding Blood Alliance, but, so far, the comments were promising.  "No, I suspect I'll be paying off my debt to society for the rest of my life." 

"What will you have?" Cinaed asked, hopping over the bar and patting a distracted Mannie on the shoulder to reassure him there was no need for him to tear himself away from his issue of Veela Vixen's Weekly.

The red-haired man raised an eyebrow at the description of what was nettling the bartender.  Twenty-seven years was an eternity to spend in the wizarding prison, especially among its dark-robed, inhuman guards.  Suffering from mere disgruntlement as a result was getting off lightly.

The length of the supposed sentence, though, put the fellow's arrest sometime during You-Know-Who's first rise to power.  It hadn't occurred to Jonas that the prison term of former Death Eaters would expire eventually, nor that they'd be released back to the streets once it did.  The thought that so many dark wizards, whether they were rehabilitated or not were here in London was disquieting, but he tucked the information away in his mind.  Yet another reason to be glad that he had nothing to do with the Ministry or its messes.

"Yeah, if I got out after a stint like that, I'd have the charisma of a wet shoe," he agreed, flashing the other man a crooked smile to show that there were no feelings hurt.  "Reckon we should be grateful that all he's threatened to do is educate us on anatomy, yeah?  Can't say I mind even that much so long as he doesn't go through with the instruction."

The offer of a drink was close to heart-warming, whether or not it was coming from an establishment that employed former criminals as a matter of course.  Here in Knockturn Alley, such waitstaff was more or less what he would have expected anyhow, and prior convictions or Muggle-hating tendencies had never turned good beer to bad.

"As long as you don't mind the interruption," Jonas replied cheerfully, shooting the big Scotsman an enormous grin.  "The swill they serve in Diagon's right abominable, and I couldn't say no to a drink."

At the other man's implied invitation, he followed him inside, taking note of the dog by the fireplace.  The poor thing looked like it had taken a bath in caustic acid; the cured Runespoor venom had obviously spared no mercy for Wizard's Best Friend.  Jonas considered the canine curiously for a moment as he followed Cináed to the bar, only re-focusing at the man's last comment.  That apparently added another to the former convict count, although his host was impressively friendly, especially in comparison to his mate with the pin-ups.

"Depends on what you have," Jonas replied, giving the old man that he recognized as the erstwhile bartender a cheerful wave as he levered himself onto a stool.  The list of drinks posted behind the bar was somewhat intriguing, and he was almost tempted to veer away from the usual to find out what a Dirty Auror or a Broken Wand was.

"I'll try the stout," he offered, nodding toward the list of ales.  "And that's the way of it, innit?" he asked conversationally, leaning his elbows on the counter.  "A debt to society, and all the rest's a wash.  You've got blokes in scarlet offering to help pick out flowers and plan your funeral after they make you pay for it, and to hell with any good governance."  It was tempting to throw in a few digs at Labour and the Tories once he was on a roll, but the analogy would likely miss the audience.   Jonas shrugged, flashing Cináed a sympathetic smile.  "But there's not much to bloody do about it other than take the punches, mate."

"He's all bark," Cinaed added about his fellow, older ex-Azzie as he cast the older man in question an amused grin.  Manfred acknowledged their conversation with a slight grunt and a page turn in his magazine.  Cinaed didn't doubt that, as a young man during Voldemort's first attempt at domination, Manfred had been a powerful and dangerous wizard.  One might have even considered him handsome in his younger days but those days were long gone.  Without a wand and with few social skills, Manfred was merely a shadow of his former self.  It was unfortunate that Manfred was, very much, one of those who recognized that.  "He doesn't exactly have the determination he probably had once."  If determination was what one would call it. 

But, in the end, it didn't matter.  Manfred was as loyal as they came and he did his share to pitch in.  More importantly, Cinaed owed the man much of his own sanity.  The former Death Eater had been in Azkaban close to twenty years by the time Cinaed had been deposited in the cell closest to his.  He'd spent the previous month in the Ministry holding cells as Level 2 waited for him come of age so they could, legitimately, toss him in the island prison.  Though he'd tried not to show it, he'd been terrified, lost and confused.  His own childhood had been spent watching his own father whither behind the stone walls and he had seen his father's vacant expression after the Dementors had stolen his soul which lingered until he'd died behind those walls. 

Azkaban changed everyone that found themselves stranded on that rock - in most cases, its prisoners were broken and beaten.  Like Mannie.  In Cinaed's case, those six years only served to toughen his physique and his resolve.  Though already grumpy as a disoriented mother bear, Manfred had offered the teenaged Cinaed guidance, companionship, advice and the tools to survive the place with his mental capacities intact.  It was largely because of him Cinaed had emerged from the place the way he had. 

"Ahh, well, down this way, we still take great pride in the pleasures of life," Cinaed offered brightly to the fellow as he washed his hands in the sink behind the bar and wiped down the bar top with a wet cleaning rag.  "I'd be lying if I said the grub was fancy here, but it's sure not swill."  Cheap, filling and stereotypically British. 

With a nod, Cinaed poured a hearty-sized glass of stout and slid it towards the newcomer before leaning against the counter along the back wall.  As a general rule, Cinaed avoided talking politics with strangers.  Such a topic could be, potentially, dangerous for the likes of him.  The WBA wasn't public, yet, with the sole exception of it's insignia.  The runic encased skull had shown up on two occasions: it had been branded into the back of Akiva Katz' hand before she was ditched in Hogsmeade and it had been featured, prominently, at the murder of the Head of the Department of Law Enforcement.  The Ministry knew something was up - they knew there was something being organized.  And, they very well might have their suspicions that Cinaed was involved. . This stranger could be Raynor in disguise for all he knew.  It was best to stick to general statements. 

"Level two and I go way back but, I have to admit, the Aurors and I have never been on the best of terms, I'm afraid."  That was quite an understatement.  Though, as of yet, Cinead was really the only one who knew the full extent of their current discord.  "But, I guess it all depends on whether you believe good governance is possible.  Or what that might be.  Though, to be honest, I've never been one to sit back and just take the punches.  Not without hooking a few strikes back." 

Jonas quirked an eyebrow at the other man, giving him a careful look as he took the drink.  It was the rare revolutionary who spoke of gunpowder unguarded.  Either the bloke just liked to gripe as much as many of his Muggle comrades in the bartending profession, or he was feeling his visitor out. 

If it were the latter, Jonas couldn't necessarily blame him - 'undercover' became a different beast entirely once polyjuice and other complications came into play.  The wizarding community in England might be small, but the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had a whole host of advantages to work with, which was surely something that the Knockturn community had to be on guard against.  Any newcomers had to be treated with care in case they proved to be not so new after all.

In this case, though, the private investigator had nothing to hide.  He was a private citizen representing another private citizen, and any left hooks launched against the Ministry were less his business than even the Runespoor investigation might be.  And besides which, even though the other bloke was perfectly in his rights to be suspicious, he had been downright friendly so far.

"'Remember, remember the fifth of November'?" Jonas quipped, keeping his tone light as he gave the other man a nod of thanks and raised the mug to take a drink.  "In terms of good governance, not haunting around a pub when a fellow's just trying to get an honest drink would be a start.  You'd reckon the lot of them would have better things to do with their time than lurking about here, unless they're worried that the beer's going to right up and scamper off if they don't stand guard."

Which was, Jonas decided, a distinct possibility as he tried the stout.  It was full and dark and just the right temperature, which was a definite advantage to drinking at a wizarding establishment rather than visiting one of the many taverns in London that had given in to tourist sensibilities and started serving drinks in chilled glass.

"Though if there's really a threat to its well being, I might come around to see the righteousness of their work," he concluded with a lopsided grin, giving the bartender a brief, approving nod.  "Not bad at all." 

Taking a second sip gave him the opportunity to consider how best to phrase his inquiry.  Circling around the subject wasn't likely to get anywhere.  If he ever wanted to find the bloody dagger, he was going to have to ask outright.

"I've got to admit, I've got another reason for stopping in besides appreciation for a good brew," he added, lowering his voice slightly.  He didn't bother to try to drop the volume entirely; private conversations were next to impossible in a quiet pub, and managing one would be counter to his purpose anyhow.  Even if the bartender wouldn't or couldn't help, there was a possibility that someone else might overhear and step in. 

"I'm on the lookout for something, and I'm hoping that you or one of the regulars here might be able to point me towards it," he said, giving the other man a shrug.  "I meant to ask the last time I was in, but from the sound of it, there was a chance that some of our mutual friends were still lurking about and I didn't want to cause any more of a commotion."

A dry and hollow grin settled on Cinaed's face as he considered the man's light hearted quip.  It was hard to tell, initially, what the man's intent was with the Guy Fawkes Night reference.  Though there was no doubt Cinaed was a pureblood wizard first and foremost and such references were, largely, muggle history.  But, the Tawse family's pride in their pureblood status was only marginally stronger than their pride in their identity as a Scottish family.  Perhaps, subconsciously, there was some parallel in Cinaed's mind between Scottish liberation from England and wizarding liberation from the oppression implemented by the Ministry and the Secrecy Laws. 

"'Fraid we never did much celebrating of Guy Fawkes Night back home."  Cinaed tugged a metal shaker from under the bar and poured a healthy measure of liquid from several unmarked bottles into it.  "Our clan hasn't been the biggest fans of English government since Edward I marched across the Highlands." 

But, the fellow made valid points, despite the curious manner in which he launched into them.  "The sooner they're out of my hair, the better.  There lot must be pretty bored if they're still hanging around here."  Of course,  the Ministry might have their suspicions on him and their close scrutiny wasn't, entirely, without merit.  The Ministry was suspicious and, as far as Cinaed could tell, they were only potentially aware of a very small part of what he was actually cooking up.   "Things are, generally, pretty quiet so they don't know what to do beyond standing around, polishing their wands." 

After a quick tip of the shaker, Cinaed poured the charcoal black liquid into a short, fat tumbler before resting back against the back counter. 

He nodded at the fellow's approval before scratching at his scalp where the edge of the handkerchief had come to.  "There's nothing like six years living off of water in a cold cell to make one really appreciate a proper pint." 

Cinaed wasn't surprised there was a hearty dose of business mixed in with the pleasure.  The Black Chimaera was frequently used for shady business dealings and other questionable transactions.  It never bothered Cinaed.  It helped his business, after all.  And, any small thing he could do to help undermine the Ministry of Magic he was more than happy to do. 

"What are you looking for?' Cinaed asked, cutting quickly to the chase.  "We've got a couple potioneers that frequent here - if you're looking for hard to find ingredients.  And, there are a few that can help you find some Dark Artifacts, if that's what you're looking for.  Keep in mind, though, we've got a pretty stringent Keep To Your Own Business policy - talking about stuff you hear here beyond the Alley can land you in a world of hurt.  Just so you know up front."

Jonas regarded the mixing process with something between wariness and amusement, shaking his head as the other man tipped the dark liquid into the tumbler.  "Bit of a pint, isn't that?" he asked bemusedly.  "And I don't know how much of it is really celebrating the English.  I always reckoned at least some of the Muggles were raising a glass to honor the bloke who came closest to doing in their government."

He paused thoughtfully, pressing his lips together, as Cináed laid out the terms.  The polite caution about discretion was certainly neighborly, but it made him wonder how many outsiders came through to get information without realizing it on their own.

"Yeah, fair enough," he agreed, giving a brisk nod.  "Wouldn't be proper otherwise."

There was a trick to staying alert while looking like one wasn't.  Jonas leaned an arm on the counter as he took another drink of the stout, keeping his posture relaxed.  He could listen for signs of reaction or interest as well as watch out of his peripheral vision.

"I reckon this one's more along the lines of Dark Artifact location, although I don't know if it qualifies exactly," he said, raising his gaze to meet the bartender's eyes. "A dagger was stolen out of a private study a little bit over a month ago.  Ancient Egyptian, very likely cursed, which is why recovery is essential."

The last bit, he admitted to himself, might be a little bit of a fib.  Jonas suspected that Aileen Reid's desire to recover the dagger stemmed more from fear that the Egyptian government would notice it missing than any sort of altruistic intention.  But even so, the potential for danger was a reasonable justification.  At the very least, it allowed everyone to avoid discussing the elephant in the room, which was the missing object's likely considerable value.

The private investigator shrugged.

"Anyhow, the owner didn't want to bother the proper authorities since they've been so overworked with the recent rash of ale thievery that's been plaguing the nation," he continued, his voice very dry, "so she hired me on to recover her property.  Haven't had much luck tracking down a collector who might have purchased it, though, so now I'm back to finding the thief."

Cinaed chuckled slightlym his own bemused grin a fitting match for the other bloke's tone.  He was a strange fellow, this Jonas - Cinaed wasn't quite sure what to make of him, yet.   It certainly wasn't a typical line of conversation for your average guest but, perhaps the bloke was just odd.  Or, perhaps, the fellow was feeling Cinaed out in much the same manner Cinaed was feeling him out.  "Perhaps," he answered, simply.  "I'll stick to celebrating Martinmas, myself." 

Jonas' acceptance of the ground rules seemed straightforward enough.  This was just part of the routine - part of the ritual.  The standard laws and expectations that existed in Diagon didn't reach down this way.  They were usually left to establishing their own - and, enforcing them.

Leaning against the back counter, Cinaed nursed his own drink thoughtfully as he listened to the fellow's story. A stolen dagger - potentially cursed.  It was all sounding very curious and very potentially intriguing.  More importantly, it was sounding vaguely familiar.  Rumors, stories, tall tales all had a tendency to surface under the Black Chimaera's roof.  Some were legitimate, some were exaggerated and many were absolute rubbish.  But, the ones that were rubbish usually fizzled out on their own.  They usually didn't resurface in the form of a peculiar stranger.

"You mean Hogwarts Ancient Runes' professor?" Cinaed ventured to ask.   Jonas had offered no names, yet, though she had mentioned a missing dagger to Cinaed in hopes some rumors might surface in the pub.  Which, they hadn't.  Not that Cinaed had heard of - though, with all the time he'd spent out in the alley chiseling at bricks, he hasn't been entirely on the inside of the news circle. 

Cinaed chuckled, appreciating the fellow's awkward sense of humor.  "Well, in the grand scheme of things - if it's between ale and daggers, the daggers will probably loose.  But, I hear you on the discretion.  Soon as the vultures find out, they're liable to suddenly gain an interest and leave nothing behind.  She hired you?"  Cinaed finally asked, his brain settling on that bit of information.  "Is that your day job?"  Cinaed expected the answer to be no that he was doing this as a favor to a friend.  Perhaps, that friend was Reid. 

It wasn't often that Jonas found himself two moves behind the rest of the game.  A frown crossed his face as he regarded the bartender, forehead creasing and surprise showing through for a moment.

He had pegged Professor Reid as History, not Ancient Runes, but the latter subject made sense.  It made even more sense once he thought about it - she'd mentioned warding her home with protective runes, after all - and he felt a little perturbed that he hadn't cottoned on to begin with.   Despite his irritation, there didn't seem to be much point in outright denying it.  Lying to cover his client's identity when the other man already appeared to know it wouldn't get him any closer to an answer.

"There's a thought," he said after a beat. Cináed was clearly quick enough to read between the lines.  "A bit tragic if it were her, innit?"

He smiled crookedly at the second set of questions.  'Day job' wasn't exactly how he would describe it - the search for the missing dagger was quickly creeping into 'hobby' territory, considering the constant lack of success and the way the assignment felt like something out of a pulp detective novel. 

"Yeah, for the moment, it is," he agreed, inclining his head to the Scotsman.  "I hire out from time to time with folks who need tasks done quietly, but the work doesn't often bring me to this part of the world.  I'd hate to leave the lady with nothing to show for it, though," he added, flashing Cináed a lopsided grin.  "And I'd hate even more to see this get dragged out so that some bloke in scarlet happens across it.  A lot simpler to just resolve things without a fuss and let everyone go about their business."

Not to mention that such a resolution would be a lot better for everyone, if one really thought about it.  Reid would get her dagger back, Jonas would accomplish his task, and the mysterious thief wouldn't get dragged off to Azkaban with a black mark on her record.  Even the inhabitants of Knockturn Alley would come out ahead; if the Egyptian Ministry got word that a priceless artifact was missing, Jonas wouldn't be surprised if Level Two used that as an excuse to dig into dark corners that the alley residents would rather be let alone.

"Wouldn't know of anyone about who might fit the description of the thief, would you?" he asked Cináed with a frown, picking up his glass to take a drink.  "Female, blond hair, about five foot four or five.  Probably a foreigner, unless she was putting on the accent.  Even if she used polyjuice, it'd help to find out whose face she was using," he added, raising the mug to his lips.  "Always need somewhere to start, yeah?"

Yes, it would be tragic.  Aileen Reid was a fine woman - Cinaed had been intrigued by her every since she'd first wandered into Crinchley's several months back.  She was attractive, there was no question about that.  Even more so, she was attractive in that clean, proper, upstanding citizen type of way.  Dark, dangerous women were quite frequent in Knockturn - and winning a night with them was as easy as pouring a stout for Cinaed.  But - women like Reid, or Persephone Grosvenor - a keen grin spread briefly across Cinaed's face - they were definitely prizes. Real accomplishments. 

Cinaed had been chasing that blond tail for quite a few months.  There was no doubt Cinaed had kept an ear to the ground since she'd told him of the missing dagger.  Being the one to solve that mystery would only earn him a few extra points.  Perhaps bringing him a step closer to success. 

"Wish I could help you, mate.  Really wish I could.  But, I haven't heard anything.  She told me about it a short bit ago and I've been on the lookout since." 

Arching an eyebrow, Cinaed considered the man's self-proclaimed job title.  "Need tasks done, eh?" he asked.  So, he gathered information.  Provided insight for folks.  "Any particular kind of tasks?  And, are there any ... moral boundaries?"  There was, of course, only a limited number of tasks Cinaed would trust to a complete stranger.  None would be, exactly, illegal - Cinaed knew better than that.  But, information could be useful - just so long as it wasn't easily traced to any actions on the WBA's part.  But, if the need arose, didn't hurt to know who might be willing.

"And I'd hate even more to see this get dragged out so that some bloke in scarlet happens across it.  A lot simpler to just resolve things without a fuss and let everyone go about their business."

Cinaed's eyes narrowed slightly and he leaned against the back counter, gazing across at the fellow.  The man's tone was casual and conversational but the comment could have, easily, been misinterpreted as a threat.  Or, at minimum, a promise of foreboding consequences.  "I'm afraid, I have no information for you.  We have several women that come in here that could fit that description.  I would like nothing more than to be able to hand that dagger over myself but I've heard -"

"You're talking about a blond with a dagger?" Mannie pealed his nose away from a young twenty-something twisting witch on the page and glanced between the two men. 

Cinaed nodded his head, a little exasperated, before nodding towards Jonas.  "Yes.  This fellow here is trying to track down Aileen's dagger.  Have you heard anything about it?"  Of course, while Cinaed had been busy repairing the building, Mannie had been manning the pub room.  He was far more likely to have overheard something.  It took a moment for the older fellow to flop the magazine closed and turn towards them. 

"That blond chick that's in here every once in a while was going on about one the other day.  What's her name - That one Eudora's always talking to when she comes in here."  Mannie had never been good with names - perhaps a side effect of being isolated for so long.  He'd only managed to remember Eudora's because the woman had been living next door to him for a few months. 

"Boskonovitch?"  Cinaed asked, lifting an eyebrow in the older man's direction.  Mannie nodded but shrugged his shoulders.  The woman certainly fit Jonas' description.  It also didn't seem unreasonable.  With a shrug, Cinaed looked back to Jonas.  "Demelza Boskonovitch.  She seems likely - she may have some information at least.   However, I demand some credit," he added with a smirk.  "That Aileen's a charming woman."   

An eyebrow crept up at the inquiries about his professional definitions.  It wasn't the most unusual line of questioning - whenever Jonas introduced himself as a private investigator, the first query he usually got (after the smart observation that he must have forgotten his hat and pipe or left Watson at home) was what exactly that entailed.  Muggles had their own romantic ideas about what professional P.I.s usually did, all of them encouraged by the endless crime dramas on the telly.  It was often easier to just agree and flash a smile than it was to set them right.

But here, he hadn't introduced himself with a job title, which would have likely either confused the other bloke or made it clear that he spent most of his time amongst Muggles.  And he didn't think that that was what the other man was precisely asking, either.

"It's finding information, mostly.  Putting it together afterwards.  Sometimes tracking things down," he said with a shrug.  "Surveillance, but that always turns into a bloody headache.  Whatever you can do to make ends meet, innit?"

Jonas paused, considering the last question in the series, and then gave a half-shrug. "As for moral boundaries, if you're asking whether or not I'd turn tail on a client, then yeah, there are," he replied, regarding Cináed thoughtfully.  "I start breaking agreements, I'll find meself out of work right quick.  Beyond that..."  He pressed his lips together, then shrugged.  "There's a price to everything, yeah?  If a job's going to bring me too close to the Ministry's eye, rates'd have to go up to account for the risk."

It didn't surprise him to hear that the other man didn't have any information, though Jonas just kept himself from sighing.  He hadn't missed the change in Cináed's expression, and it was more or less what he would have expected here in Knockturn Alley.  Even on the chance that they did know something, the blokes here weren't going to rat out one of their own.  He'd been about to accept the explanation, to thank the bartender again and offer to pay for the beer, when the ex-con with the scholarly interest in two-dimensional catwalks spoke up.

Jonas quirked an eyebrow as he listened to the conversation, his interest peaked.  As Cináed settled on a name, the investigator broke into a lopsided grin. 

"Of course, mate," he agreed, flashing the bartender an enormous smile and shifting enough to include Mannie as well.  Considering how long he'd been search for any crumb or clue without the slightest bit of luck, he would have happily arranged the bloody wedding if Cináed had asked him to in exchange.  "I'm happy to pass on the sentiment and sound the praises for both of you if this one pans out.  Need a name to do it, though," he added as a cheerful afterthought, extending a hand across the bar by way of introduction.  "Don't think I caught one yet."

With a dip of his head, Cinaed tucked the man's answer away in the back of his head for future use.  It was hard to say whether that information would ever come in handy - chances were good the legality of any information-seeking Cinaed might need in the future would make seeking the help of someone who amounted to little more than a stranger potentially hazardous.  The man might claim a professional tendency towards discretion - he may even have good reason for it (maintaining business was always reason enough) - but everyone had their limits. 

But, one never knew.  Cinaed might need the man's help one day.  Stranger things had happened in the past. 

"Of course, of course," Cinaed agreed, casually, nodding his head.  The added 'hazard's pay' made perfect sense.  Chances were good, most things Cinaed dabbled in qualified as tasks which required hazard's pay.  Most people's associations with him were likely to garner at least a second glance from the Ministry.  And, at least, Level II.  "I'll be sure to keep that in mind.  It's highly understandable, of course."

Cinaed glanced down the bar to his older companion and offered the bloke an amused grin.  Whether the investigator would be true to his words, there was no way to tell.  It was even less obvious whether it would do Cinaed much good in the Reid department.  But, it certainly couldn't hurt.  It was unlikely it'd do Mannie more good then himself, at least, unless Cinaed had totally misgauged the woman's taste in men. 

"Tawse," Cinaed offered, taking the fellow's hand and giving it a shake.  "Cinaed Tawse and that there's Mr. Manfred Ashford."  Having been arrested during the first wizarding war, it was unlikely the older fellow's name would have struck any bells.  However, a Tawse had been arrested during both wars - Cinaed's father, Fionn Tawse during Voldemort's first rise to power and Cinaed himself during the second. The Tawse family had been under surveillance for quite some time - they and Level II were old time acquaintances. 

"Glad it sounds like we could be of help. "

Neither 'Tawse' nor 'Ashford' struck Jonas as anything he could remember hearing before.  He had a fair head for names - being able to recognize disparate details or patterns was a necessary skill in his line of work, and even before he'd gone the route of a Muggle private investigator, juggling immense amounts of information was part and parcel of being an Auror.  But it had been a decade since he'd seen any case files, and if either man had been mentioned in them, it was not in any way that had stuck out in his mind.

It was a bit odd to think that the world had moved on for the other side as well as for his.  If it weren't for the bit where they'd murdered innocents, overthrown the government, tortured anyone who disagreed with them, and launched a wholehearted inquisition against anyone Muggle-born, he could almost feel sorry for them.  Azkaban was still a bleak, vivid memory, and he'd only ever visited the prison for a short time.  Watching the world change around you and knowing that you had lost it had to be a challenge.

"Jonas Trevelyan.  And I am too," he agreed amiably, giving the other man a crooked smile.  "Reckon I should owe you for the assistance.  Both of you," he added cheerfully, nodding to include Manfred.  The older man's volunteering of the necessary information made Jonas feel considerably more kindly towards him, disgruntled grumbling and all.  "If I can ever return the favor, just look me up, yeah?"

He finished off the beer, and then dug in his pocket for the pouch where he'd been keeping the gold, silver, and bronze coins that made up the wizarding monetary system.  "Thanks again," he added.  "How much do I owe you for the drink?"