Evening, the Hogshead.

The first weekend of November was drawing to a close and already it promised to be a much better month than October.  They were two days into the month and as far as Charlene could tell, no ranking member of the Ministry had been murdered, no Aurors had been imperioused, and there was nothing to suggest that her workload would quadruple when she arrived back at work on Monday.

It had taken all of her mustered resolve to force herself to take a day off.  She had no doubt that Level Two would be busy that weekend.  Not going in to the Ministry meant that she'd be even farther behind once tomorrow arrived, which was an exhausting thought, but the past few years had taught her to be more cognizant of her breaking point.  Becoming too worn meant making mistakes, and for an Auror, those mistakes could be disastrous.

She'd taken the day and gone to visit her grandmother, who lived in Hogsmeade.  Unfortunately, it was a free weekend for Hogwarts students, which meant that her youngest brother had been paying a visit as well.  Charlene didn't want to talk about work, she didn't want to answer his questions, and dealing with the frustratingly awkward conversation had not helped her to relax.  Finally, she had begged off and said that though she hated to leave, she had to get back so that she could make it into the office early the next morning. 

It probably said something that both Dixon and her grandmother, though disappointed, never questioned her excuse.

The Hogshead was not Charlene's usual choice of establishments, but with the last few Hogwarts students lingering about, it seemed the better choice for a quiet place to spend her evening.  Thankfully, the customers there that night were relatively subdued.  The hooded-and-lurking atmosphere at the Hogshead usually set her senses tingling, as if she could ferret out potential dark artists and lawbreakers through sheer willpower alone, but for once, Charlene was glad to be amongst a crowd that treated eye contact like an Unforgivable Curse.  At least here she could have a drink and get her wits about her in preparation for the coming week without work springing back and to the forefront.

Savoring in the lack of noise and complete absence of initiative, she placed an order at the bar, waited for her drink, and then made her way over to a table, giving the shabby-looking man at the next table over a polite smile as she settled into a chair.

Technically, Michael Dark was on the run. Technically, to play it safe, he should be avoiding public places. He should be sticking to the family manor, abandoned now to dust, silverfish, and old Dark family relics that recognized his blood and seemed to welcome him home. He certainly shouldn't be here in this popular wizarding town, much less Hogsmeade weekend when students were swarming everywhere and practiced professors packed the pubs and walked the streets looking after their charges.

But then, his daughters Beatrix and Bellatrix were here. And Michael had never been too keen on following the rules, much less the law. It wasn't so much that he couldn't see the intelligence in staying out of public places as it was that he hadn't felt like being too intelligent recently. He hadn't the mind to think of what he should or shouldn't do. Sitting at a table in the Hogshead, surrounded by his ilk and wearing another man's face, he was drunk on freedom and a tiny bit on ale.

So when a pretty woman too clean and soft-looking for this place grabbed a table across from his and smiled at him, he smiled back, eyes glittering with sudden interest. "Drinking alone?" he inquired. "What a shame."

His voice was rough from misuse, but his high-class accent and intonation were still intact, and it made an odd contrast to his shabby robes and gaunt cheeks. Oh sure, he could look like anyone, but the airs of near-starvation and madness were hard to shake off no matter the form, and this pale-haired scruffy facade he'd chosen, nothing like his real face, was no less indicative of that. Michael had no incentive to clean up pretty. But he smiled at her some more, and when he concentrated he could almost pass for friendly.

Charlene did not want to talk.  She wanted, more than anything, to sit at her table and drink her firewhiskey and think about things that had nothing to do with the coming week.  Though, if she were honest, she would probably admit that no matter what her intentions, she was going to end up thinking about work.  If there were a way to stop herself, she hadn't found it yet.

It was just her luck that she'd sit next to the only lurker in the tavern who was hoping for a conversation.  She gave the man a tight smile, her eyes flickering quickly across his faded robes, his scraggly face.  If he was intending to buy her a drink, he was going to be severely disappointed.

"Yes, well," she said, giving a half shrug.  She arched an eyebrow at him pointedly.  "That seems to be what most everyone in here is doing, isn't it?  This isn't really the sort of place that you frequent for the company."

If she were going to be technical about it, it wasn't really the sort of place that anyone frequented.  Really, they just skulked about and hoped that they wouldn't be noticed.  All except for the rough, shabby-looking man, who was unfortunately intent on being a good neighbor.

Charlene sighed.  "It's been a long week," she said tiredly.  It wasn't intended as an apology, but hopefully it was enough of an excuse that the bloke would pick up on it.  "Sometimes solitude's all you can ask for, you know?"

Michael wasn't fazed by her somewhat obvious desire to be left alone. He'd been locked up for years, with only ghosts and his fellow madmen for company, and now he wanted to consort with someone half-way intelligent. Ghosts and madmen got awfully boring after a while, couldn't hardly follow a train of conversation. You could talk for only a little while before they dissolved into screaming, and Michael was tired of that.

"On the contrary, do you see anyone here being truly alone? No, surely not- a pub's where you go for the company. For the background noise, at least, or to get out of the cold. You'd be better off drinking on your cozy little lonesome if you thought coming here would give you any quiet."

"Sometimes solitude's all you can ask for, you know?"

"Can't say I'm too keen on solitude," he answered easily. "It might seem nice at first, but lady, it's got monsters in it." The way he lilted on the word 'lady' was sing-songy, and the last half of his sentence sounded almost like a promise. But then he continued, and his tone was normal again. "Drinking won't make you feel better. Not at home or at a place like this. There's nothing for it but a spot of conversation- ohhh, you don't think you're interested, but tell me, how long on your own before you'd be dwelling on the very things you're trying to forget?"

Charlene gave the man a dry look, glancing at the other scattered figures throughout the establishment.  If she had been picking a pub for the company, she thought, she would have chosen something closer to London, or at least with a more lively clientele.  The option of drinking alone was even less attractive.  Charlene was very firmly determined not to adopt that particular habit.  Aurors had a difficult enough time coping as it was, and she had long ago decided never to allow herself to take the first steps down that slippery slope.

"I suppose I'm just an optimist, then," she replied, a dry note to her voice.

The man's response came smoothly enough, but for the briefest of instants, it seemed like a shadow passed over his words.  Charlene started, but there was barely enough time for her unsettlement to register before the man had continued on in a friendly tone.

"Maybe I'm not trying to forget anything," she replied.  A few years ago, the attention in a place like this would have made her uneasy, but Charlene Malone was an Auror.  Whether or not she could look after hersef was never a question.  She gave the man a firm, tight-lipped smile, determined not to let it seem like he had intimidated her.  "It is possible just to want some time to think, you know.  No ulterior motive to it."

"What about you?" she asked, turning the conversation back to her companion.  "Not keen on solitude yourself?"

"I suppose I'm just an optimist, then."

That set Michael off into a laughing spell, dissolving his smooth tone into hoarseness and, eventually, a hacking cough. His fingers clutched at the side of the table, his face going slack and his eyes wide in between coughs- always so cold, he was remembering the cold, like a knife to the soft tissue of the throat - but that ended when he abruptly took up his glass and drank it dry. Then he dropped the cup back on the table as if he'd forgotten completely about it when his wandering stare came back to her.

"An optimist, eh?" he asked, and a grin flickered on his lips then dropped as fast as it'd appeared. "That's damned funny. A real riot."

Similarly, her next answer to him followed in the same vein. Optimist, truthful, nothing to forget- why, what he had here was an honest-to-Salazar innocent. "What are you?" Michael demanded, but it was said softly, and he was laughing again as he said it. Dry, quiet, laughter, still hoarse but so quiet that it was like leaves rasping over stone: "No tinker tailor soldier sailor- not a rich man or a poor man or beggar man or thief. So what are you then, a shopkeep? A librarian? Ahhh, no- " He smiled, a sudden flash of teeth. "I'll bet you're a Ministry worker, aren't you?" 

Michael didn't have Auror in mind, though. He was thinking rather that she had some sort of cozy little desk job, something boring and safe. She didn't seem nervous here in this den of criminals, but he hadn't realised that yet; he was taking her on her word, and the thought of someone who didn't have anything bad to dwell on was an enchanting one. A real rarity. And therefore instantly considered a fool.

Well, if she was a Ministry worker, no matter how safe, she'd know who he was. Not what he looked like, no, Michael Dark never had that problem, but his name and his past ... oh, yes. Thinking of it, he felt a little flare of satisfaction and anticipation- what a pretty thing, she'd scare well, and he wanted some fun tonight.

"Not keen on solitude yourself?"

"You could say that." He heaved a dramatic sigh. "Well, I've never been, but now the streets just don't feel as safe, you know? Not with that wicked Dark bloke all about...no, I'll stay here in the safe and warm with plenty of people 'til he's caught." He tilted his head at her, dark eyes- had they been that color when she sat down?- staring up from under lowered lashes, and added blandly, "No telling what a fellow like that'd do to you, is there? Hope you're keeping yourself safe, miss."

Charlene couldn't have put her finger on what exactly it was that made the man so unsettling.  The hoarse laugh that didn't fit with his smooth tone or  friendly words, that sounded as if it belonged to a man who hadn't heard anything funny for a long, long time.  The quick, too quick flow of words that burst out, one after the other, as if he wasn't quite used to conversation.  Maybe it was a combination of all of the traits - either way, this was clearly a fellow who didn't spend much time with company.

She was on the verge of telling him very firmly that it didn't matter what she was, because she wasn't interested.  In a way, Charlene knew that she had brought this upon herself.  The Hogshead attracted a less than refined sort of clientele.  Women of any sort were likely to attract attention here, and it wasn't uncommon for the patrons to be inclined to darker tastes.  But the Auror told herself very firmly that that didn't matter.  It didn't matter if she were in the middle of Knockturn Alley in a bathing suit in the middle of winter; if she told a man to leave her alone, he was damned well going to leave her alone or face the consequences.

Charlene raised an eyebrow as he ventured that she worked at the Ministry.  The expression was neither a confirmation nor a denial.  He could think she worked wherever he liked; she'd worked hard to get where she was, and she wasn't about to go discussing her career with a half-mad man in the middle of Hogsmeade.

But there was something in his tone of voice as the topic shifted.  At first, Charlene glanced across the room, her brow furrowing, as she tried to determine exactly which hood in a roomful of hooded heads made up this "wicked and dark" bloke that the man seemed so concerned about.  But then the pieces slid together; she remembered the alert that had gone out for the Metamorphmagus who had escaped from Azkaban.

It wasn't her case.  Charlene had never really gotten involved in a manhunt officially before, though she tried to keep up on all of the investigations in the office, just in case one of the other Aurors dropped the ball and she had to jump on board.  That sort of case usually went to someone like Pratt or Radley.  She didn't know very much about Michael Dark, save that he had been a traitor to the Ministry and had managed to break out from the wizarding prison.

She regarded the man as inconspicuously as she could, quickly hiding her frown.  His eyes were disquieting; she could have sworn they were light a moment before, even as they reflected her own now.

"I keep myself safe enough," she said, her voice calm and even as she watched him carefully.  "I hadn't heard that Michael Dark had been spotted in Hogsmeade, though.  Has someone told you that he's about?"

Michael was disappointed and momentarily stumped at Charlene's reaction. Or rather, her lack of one. No flinching or sneering or anything. Really quite boring, he'd been expecting better.

So... not the gossip-monger sort, then. But nor was she panicky or nervous at the thought like most people would've been. No, she was calm, serious and... intelligent. Those were intelligent questions to ask. Oho, and she was watching him now, the suspicious-minded little - wait. Now who did Michael know who were practically famous for their suspicious-minded natures?

Despite his madness- benefit of his heredity or solitude or both, take your pick- Michael was not a stupid man. Of course he wasn't.  Any madman could commit a crime, but not every madman could spy and keep it up for months before being caught. And Michael knew Aurors; he'd worked at the Ministry, after all. He knew the Unmentionables less well (more like not at all, but no one knew anything about the Unmentionables, that was the whole point). Maybe she was one of the two, an Auror or an Unmentionable. The woman hadn't answered her question about where she worked, she wasn't threatened by him or anyone else here. Little things like that, all adding up, and it might seem like a stretch but Michael thought maybe she could be either.

Then again, his people skills were a little rusty. For all he knew she was a broomstick cleaner.

Or MAYBE she was a criminal like himself. That could be why she'd come here to drink, why she wasn't frightened at the thought of himself out on the loose, why she'd raised an eyebrow when he asked if she worked at the Ministry.... It didn't fit in with her words earlier, her tone, but Michael knew how easy it was to pretend so that was no real indication. Hmmm, choices choices choices. So many choices. He could try selling her something illegal, that was always good for a laugh.

"No one's told me anything, but they don't have to, do they?" he asked, wrinkling his nose. "Big wizarding community here, verrrry advantageous. Lots of trees and a lovely view of the castle in case he feels like visiting, in case they decide to let him in. And this place's nice, they wash the tables sometimes - oh, Merlin! What if he's in this very pub!" His eyes widened and he looked around wildly, theatrically, as if expecting some man in ragged Azkaban clothes to be sitting at the next table over.

Then he paused, as if remembered something. In this case, he was remembering her earlier words. He turned a curious face back to her. "So, in this dangerous, dark, dirty day and age, how exactly d'you keep yourself safe? And how much is enough?"

The man enthusiastically went off on the possibility that Dark was lurking somewhere around the town.  As he spoke, Charlene could feel herself relaxing slightly.  Chances were that he was one of the usual odd individuals who gravitated towards the wizarding town.  She had no idea why there seemed to be so many eccentrics among the magical community, but she'd long grown used to its perks.  Rambling men with hoarse laughs were hardly the worse that the Hogshead had to offer.

Under normal circumstances, she would have kept herself from rolling her eyes at his expressed concerns and assured him very pointedly that the Aurors and the Hitwizards had things under control.  After all, it was extremely unlikely that an escaped felon - even a Metamorphmagus like Dark - could scramble around under the nose of Level Two.  As it was, she merely sighed inwardly at his dramatic gestures, and then gave him a polite smile.

"I'm sure that if he were here, then Magical Law Enforcement couldn't be far away," she said matter-of-factly.  "Besides, I hardly think an escaped criminal is going to tempt fate by going anywhere where it's likely that he'd run into an Auror, do you?  There's usually one or two around Hogsmeade."

She couldn't help the uncharacteristic shiver that ran down her spine as he turned his attention back to her.  The alliteration, the hard sounds that rolled off his tongue, did little to quiet her nerves.  But this wasn't right, Charlene told herself firmly, forcing a smile as she met the man's dark eyes.  Some strange, eccentric bargoer was not going to get the better of her.  She hadn't let anything scare her since she'd been eleven.

"Enough is being able to get a drink in peace," she replied, dryness tainting her voice.  She held his gaze, her determination surprising her.  It wasn't as if she needed to challenge this man.  She had nothing to prove to him.

"And I keep myself safe by refusing drinks from strangers," she replied.  Not that he had offered her one, but it seemed as if there were only one destination for this conversation.  "What would you expect?  That I stay indoors, never take chances?  I can look after myself," she said pointedly.  "I'm not afraid of some non-existent boggart that might go by the name of Michael Dark."

Michael chuckled, a sound as unused as his laugh. "Some predictor of human nature you are," he said, and slipped out of his seat towards the bar to get a refill. In the Hogshead, you got your own drinks. The customers here had no use or patience for a cheerful little bustler like Madam Rosmerta, despite her many curves.

He strolled back, tankard refilled, and got settled back in his chair. Then he turned his attention on the matter of these Aurors apparently lurking about Hogsmeade, a topic which he felt he had quite a stake in knowing- or would've, if he hadn't already known it. Common sense, common sense, he had plenty of that. He'd seen red robes here in the past, though none this weekend. But to the girl, he said, "[Is there? Oh, yes, that makes sense. Can't hardly see them for the trees, though... ahhh, but then, perhaps they're not wearing their highly visible uniforms around here, what do you think?" He tapped his chin exaggeratedly. "Yes, yes, that might be it."

"Enough is being able to get a drink in peace."

He turned a blank gaze back on her own, his expression full of put-on innocence as if he didn't have the slightest idea of the threat lurking underneath her words. She had quite the scary glare, this little lass, oh yes, but she needed to work on it even more if she thought it'd have an effect on any of the denizens of, say, Knockturn, much less an escaped prisoner who'd murdered his way in and out of Azkaban. To Michael, she held about as much threat as an enraged kitten. He mentally upgraded that to a feral enraged kitten- criminal or Auror, either way, she'd give a merry chase if pushed too far.

And Michael was very much planning on pushing her too far.

"And I keep myself safe by refusing drinks from strangers." Michael's lips drew back, more a baring of teeth than a smile. It was very startling, especially considering his teeth had suddenly all turned pointed. No one could say that Michael was terribly subtle.  "You're too presumptuous. As if I cared to drink you into my bed." His tone was utterly contemptuous. What nerve the little kitten had. Touching even her potentially mudblood hand in any effort but to harm it might give Michael more diseases than his prison cell.

And from here he might've continued to get angry, to be prideful, to throw a hex or a curse or add another murder to his record, if not for the simply enchanting words the woman spoke next.

"I'm not afraid of some non-existent boggart that might go by the name of Michael Dark."

"Ha! Haha!" He was delighted beyond all expectation. What a wonderful thought - did parents perhaps use his name in the night to scare their children? "Your naivety is beyond charming, but you can't be serious. No criminal you - everyone knows he's out. So that only leaves..." He pinned her with his sweetest smile. It didn't work as well with the pointed teeth. "Auror. What's your name, legal lady? Shame on you for not telling it to me before."

Charlene was very firmly holding on to the idea that she should not feel threatened by this man.  A little too firmly, she might have allowed, if she were admitting anything like doubt into her mind.  Visiting the Hogshead was nothing new to her.  After her parents' deaths, her grandmother's house in Hogsmeade had become her second home, and venturing to the darker mirror of The Three Broomsticks had always seemed daring.

She met the man's gaze undauntedly, but she couldn't help her attention flickering to his teeth.  There was something wrong.  They couldn't be human.  Charlene ran through the list of possibilities in her mind - vampire, werewolf, an incredibly masculine hag - but none of them seemed to make sense.  Almost unconsciously, her fingers shifted to her belt to make contact with her wand, which sat in its normal holster.

The thought of sharing her name with this man was unsettling, but she met his disconcerting expression with a tight-lipped smile of her own. 

"Are you planning to tell me yours if I tell you mine?" she asked evenly, doing her best to affect an unimpressed air.  She didn't like this conversation, and she was liking it less with every second, and something in her was starting to very urgently suggest that she just pull out her wand and curse this man. 

But Charlene met his eyes, determined not to flinch.  Even if he was whom she was starting to suspect he might be, he couldn't do a thing to her in Hogsmeade.  Not here.  Not like this.

Ahhh, now she tensed, as if aware for the first time that there could be danger lurking here under whimsical prattle and sharpened teeth. No friend he to Ministry workers, and she hadn't answered his confirmation - accusation? - even to deny it. That meant it could only be the truth. But she was a bit slow for an Auror, really, considering he'd been dropping hints since she sat down nearby and it'd still taken her this long to lay hand on her wand. Of course, her department had never been known for its intelligence; if they'd been smarter, they would have sent more men for his arrest, and perhaps avoided a death or two. And they would have thought that he'd come here now - he had daughters at Hogwarts, after all, they had to know that. Any criminal would have thought of his children immediately. Michael supposed Aurors weren't devious enough to think of things like that.

It was mildly annoying that he'd had to do this much just for a bit of fun, but he should probably be grateful his pursuers were so dim-witted.

"Are you planning to tell me yours if I tell you mine?"

"Oh, if you really think that's necessary," he said lightly, but he was watching her like a hawk. The eyes, he just had to look at her eyes - yes, she knew who he was. He'd seen the wary flicker of recognition. "But I bet you know who I am. Still, I want yours, and you'd be best to hear mine. Looks very bad on the reports, doesn't it, 'Cursed anonymous stranger in the pub for giving me the eye - ' "

His eyes were locked on hers, and now she had no doubt that something was awry.  Of all the nights to come to Hogsmeade, of all the strangers to sit next to, it was now and she was here.  Calmly, Charlene forced herself to breath in, to think through her options.  This wasn't the sort of thing she'd had a lot of experience with, though she'd heard plenty - too many, really - of stories about what it had been like back during the War.

"No one's going to curse you," she said evenly as she started to her feet.  She wasn't intending to, at least.  A hot-tempered, quick-drawing duel was more the style of the male Aurors - Eleor, maybe, or Pratt.  Charlene Malone was calm and in control, and even if one of the familiar faces from the Most Wanted Wizards posters was sitting right next to her, albeit unrecognizably, then she was going to bring him in the proper way.

"Not as long as you do what I tell you, anyhow.  I'd like you to come down to the Ministry with me for questioning."  Even as the words left her, Charlene was aware of how ridiculous they sounded.  She was alone, off-duty, without even the authority that her scarlet robes could give her.  The Hogshead was hardly friendly towards Aurors.  She couldn't expect help here.  She was on her own.

She didn't let it show as she held his gaze.  "If you've done nothing wrong, then you've nothing to fear," she continued in a reasonable tone, watching him for any sign of sudden movement.  "Once we've had a word with you, then you'll be free to go."  Assuming that he wasn't whom she thought he was.  Assuming that he cooperated and came along.

"No one's going to curse me?" Michael repeated, eyes widening, and his voice was so suddenly prim, proper, and surprised that it could only be mockery. This thread of aristocratically proper pronunciation continued, interwoven with a gutter accent that rose and faded as Michael wanted the effect.  "No one's going to curse me? I don't know if I can take your word for that, kitten, not when I know how wand-happy those nasty Aurors can be. They'll curse a man for nearly nothing, they will, like a little bit of murder or a tiny bit of fun... " He trailed off , propping one booted foot on the table.

She'd risen from her seat, approaching him with her hand on her wand, but slowly, so slowly. Smart girl, but at the same time, slow was hardly going to catch him either. Michael grinned. "Sounds scintillating," he drawled, referring to her proclamation that he was going down to the Ministry with her, "But unlikely. I've got plans for tonight, you know, me and me mates here -" he nodded behind her, where the table of suspicious-looking characters had remained seated and completely uninvolved, not that she knew that, "were going to keep drinking for a bit. They don't take disappointment very well, I'm afraid." He looked up at her from beneath lowered lashes. "These restless types never do." He glanced behind her again, his mouth spreading in a pointed-tipped smile that was very clearly not aimed at her.

Even if she hadn't believed him when he'd motioned to his "mates" behind her, Michael knew she wouldn't be able to resist at least a quick glance behind her. With her back so open like that, and in a place like this, under these circumstances, no one would be able to shake the fear that Michael did have friends lurking behind them. Even that momentary hesitation, if she was well-trained, or stupid, enough not to look...

Michael didn't wait to see to see which it was, momentary hesitation or a full-on backwards glance. Instead, he'd hardly smiled before he'd twisted in his chair and launched himself away in one wild burst of movement. His foot on the table braced off it to propel himself over the side of the chair, and one hand pushed away while the other went to his inside coat pocket, where his grandfather's wand lurked at the ready. As the table and chair crashed to the ground behind him with a sufficiently attention-attracting racket, he whirled and cast some sort of vicious, red-tinged curse at Charlene, all from a half-crouch, and laughing like a madman while he did it. Around them, the denizens of the Hogshead scrabbled for cover with the assorted shriek or shout. The rapid scraping back of chairs was like music to Michael, who appreciated the little things like that, and who'd not even waited to see if his first curse hit before he'd hurled another one, and then another.