The rumours about ex-cons struggling to find work were right. Nicola spent the last two days using the little money she had on a cheap room in a pub in London while she tried figuring out where to go next. The woman had been used to 5 star accommodation 6 years ago. Now, after a 5 year stretch in a free and compulsory accommodation, this dingy little room made the previous place look like heaven. There was heating, water and a relatively comfortable bed. For the first time in five years, Nicola was actually getting a couple undisturbed nights of sleep. This was priceless.

But now she was wondering around diagon alley trying to find anything. She desperately needed money and if she didn’t get a job then the ministry would be on her back. But there were only so many places that could knock her back. Apparently most people recognised her face from the prophet and were now about to hire someone who’d been in Azkaban, innocent or not. By the afternoon, the young con found herself getting wound up and ready to hex someone (not for fun this time). A drink was needed.

She dipped her fingers into the pockets of her well worn and oversized robes and pulled a couple coins out. Enough to drown her sorrows she guessed. If she lived like this for much longer the woman would be going clinically insane. Well, more so. The coins were dropped back into the pocket and Nicola turned off the bright alley on the claustrophobic, darker one. She pulled the hood of her cloak up (it was just something done in knockturn alley) and headed for the Black Chimeara pub.

Once inside the dark dingy front room, Nic crossed slowly to the bar and sat on a stool. There was no-one waiting at the bar and she frowned before shouting, “Oi! Paying customer waiting!”

Officially, The Black Chimaera was still closed for repairs but that didn't seem to be effecting business much.  It just required that customers be a bit self-sufficient when it came to their refreshments.  Cinaed couldn't very well make the repairs to the building and serve drinks at the same time.  The help that had cropped up during his stay in the Bridge House had found other ways to occupy their time during the evening hours since his release.  Cinaed was used to the pub being, largely, a one-man effort but business had increased and the damage to the pub had distracted him. 

He'd opted to take a break from the repairs.  Sitting at a desk with Bentley and Richardson, he gazed at his hand of cards, considering his options.  If he was feeling risky, he'd play his deuce.  He was fairly certain Bentley would snatch it up immediately but, Richardson then continued with play normally, that golden cauldron would come back to him. 

Of course, he was always willing to take a risk.  He held the cigarette firmly between his teeth to free his other hand.  As if he was feeling the silky curls of a young woman, he brushed his thumb over the corners of the cards, leafing through them in a last minute bout of decision making.  "Fecking wench followed me all the way to my mum's place.  Came alone though.  Woman's either stupid or she's got a set hidden in those knickers of hers."  Cinaed had just as much desire to admit he'd had no intentions of starting a conflict with Raynor as he had to go out to a muggle nightclub and buy some teenaged muggle brat a drink. 

Richardson nodded towards the bar and Cinaed followed the man's gaze.  While still attractive, the woman had all the telltale signs of a recent-Azkaban-release: the hollow face, the darkened rings around the eyes, the unnatural paleness to her skin.  "What will you be having?" he asked, his weight pressed against the back of the chair as he leaned back to get a better look.  If she was just looking for a simple beer from the tap or even a straight shot, he was happy to extend the open bar policy to her.  Especially if that spared him from having to get up. 

"We've got an open bottle of firewhiskey, if that's what you're looking for.  You can take Bentley's glass."  He smirked to the fellow but quickly nodded towards the bar again.  "There are clean glasses on the shelf above the sink, though."

"What will you be having?"

The youngest Randall turned her head around to see a bulky blonde haired man address her. There was a time that Scottish would have made her weak at the knees. But after just being released from the clutches of the ministry, the very sunlight had that effect on her. Thankfully this bar didn’t seem to have much of that making its way in. It was just as she’d expected a bar in knockturn alley would look like inside. In fact, slightly worse if she had to be honest. Before Azkaban she’d never have stepped designer clad foot in such a dive.

A smirk graced the Ex-Azzie’s lips as she was offered some of the firewhiskey. Through some grubby man’s already used glass? No thank you, Nicola still had some class. She pushed herself of the barstool down onto her feet and wondered around the bar in search of said shelf above the sink.

“And what will the landlord have to say if he finds little me lurking behind the bar?” She chanced, not bothered in the least. After all, she was already reaching up to the shelf to pull a glass down. Tiptoes poised and she’d claimed one between her thin fingers. Slowly, Nic re-emerged and wandered leisurely to the table where the three, uncouth looking men sat, in the midst of a card game.

She reached over the largest man’s shoulder to grab the firewhiskey and slowly poured herself a tipple.

Nicola lifted the glass to her lips and drained the liquid, wincing ever so slightly. It was strong stuff; something she’d not had the pleasure of in a long time. But she didn’t spend long enjoying the effect of the drink; instead Nic bent down to the blonde man’s ear and began to whisper to him, covering the side of her mouth to prevent the other two participants in this card game from hearing. Her eyes however flashed from each as she spoke.

“I’d raise the bets, the way your mate’s rubbing the back of his neck’s a telltale sign he’s bluffing. He’s got nothing on you.” She smirked and stood back up to her full height, reaching over the table and once more filling her glass.

Amused and good-natured laughter simmered around the table as the woman at the table smirked in their direction.  Richardson even chanced one of those oh ... oh ... oooh battle cries that men seemed to love to employ at their friend's expense when they thought a pretty lady was going to get the better of them.  Aside from a subtle grin that settled on his features,  Cináed gave no acknowledgement of their jovial mocking. 

But, the mocking soundtrack continued as the woman pushed herself off her stool and crescendoed steadily as she strode around to the backside of the bar.  As if picking up the glass was some strange goal on team-female against  Cináed, Richardson and Bentley next to him cheered as she tugged out the glass. 

"The landlord's not much of a man for words," Bentley called over to the woman, carefully avoiding  Cináed's gaze as the pub's owner glanced back in his direction.  The man seemed to be on a roll.  Fortunately, chances were good he was decreasing his chances with the woman with every passing bad joke.  "He's been known to strike deals without saying a word," Bentley continued.

"Shall I ask about payment on your tab?"   Cináed asked, simply, with a slight smirk.  The threat was enough to shut the man up.  It was amusing - in a rather depressing manner - to think about how wealthy he might be were he to collect all the lingering tabs.   

Light footsteps behind him and lifting eyebrows on the faces of the men opposite him heralded the arrival of the woman at their table.   Cináed leaned his head back just as the woman leaned over him for the bottle.  Entirely unabashed  Cináed let his gaze slide from her face, down the length of her neck to her chest, enjoying the view that had been offered before turning back to his cards. 

"Or, Richardson's just got fleas,"  Cináed whispered back without missing a beat.  "Besides, I'm usually not that worried.  Even if I loose a hand, I'll just get the money back when they buy their drinks.   Cináed Tawse, landlord," He offered, reaching over his shoulder with his opposite hand to shake hers.  "How long'd ya do?" he asked, reaching a foot out to drag a vacant chair over.

Well this cat calling and leering wasn’t something Nicola had ever been accustomed to and she wasn’t sure if she favoured it or not. It was, however, somewhat pleasurable to once more be receiving attention. She kept the playful smirk on her lips but didn’t show much acknowledgment of the reverberating noises being projected from the vocal chords belonging to two of the pub’s residents.

Instead Nicola proceeded to whisper a suggestion in the quieter man’s ear and continue to sip at the firewhiskey. A grin arrested her lips as she envisioned the man across the table scratching his skin mercilessly to banish a terrible infiltration of fleas and she bit her lower lip for a moment.

“Nicola Randall.”  Dark eyes scanned down to the hand being offered and she took it, shaking firmly before letting go.

Nicola’s eyebrows did however rise at the question posed. How long had she done? Where? It only took a beat to realise what the blonde bear meant and she looked down at the firewhiskey, draining the liquid once more. Feeling the burning sensation slowly invade her throat, Nicola’s expression turned sour as she screwed her face up before letting out a breath. The glass was placed unceremoniously on the edge of the table and her rump slowly parked itself on the chair.

“5 years.” Was it that obvious? Nicola sat back in the chair and crossed her legs, causing the skirt of her dress to rise further up her bare thighs. She made no attempt to rectify the new revealing position of her clothing. “I must say, Mr Tawse, it’s not a regular occurrence to walk into a bar to be instructed to help yourself by the esteemed landlord."

Whether or not that attention from the other men was welcome, Cinaed doubted there was much he could do about it.  Any attempts on his part to stem them would probably just cause them to be redoubled.  It wasn't too long ago when the Black Chimaera just didn't see many of the fairer sex - Izadora had been amongst the first to change that trend.  Since then, women have been infiltrating the pub faster than the men have been able to adjust. 

"Pleasure to meet you," Cinaed offered with a nod towards the woman. 

To the average passerby, the woman's ex-Azzie status was probably not that obvious.  But, to one who'd watched countless in her position pass through his pub the signs were quite clear.  "Are you scot clear?  Any time at the Bridge House?  Any wand restrictions?"  Those Bridge Houses were an experience - one which Cinaed would have been happy to have missed.  Perhaps he was prying too much; many new ex-Azzies were less than thrilled to be sharing their history.  But, it was natural to be curious about your fellow cohorts. 

"Yes, well, we are technically closed.  But, most landlord's simply deny their customers any chance of a drink when they're closed," he offered in his own defense though he hardly seemed all that concerned about his own defense.  "Some lowlifes set runespoor venom off in the alley and we've been closed for repairs.  Unfortunately, it's got to be done by hand so it's going a little slower than I'd like.  So, until we're up and running again, I'm not going to be doing a whole lot of tending bar.  And, my usual help's been gone." 

“Any inquisitive bearded men requesting a life history as well?” Nicola asked quickly, her head tilted ever so slightly to the left as her eyes inquisitively took him in. After a short moment, the woman’s pale lips twitched into a grin and she tapped her pocket. “One exquisitely made wand, yew, dragon heartstring, blissfully accounted for.” Miss Randall hadn’t been one of those imbecilic Death Eaters. She’d been found innocent for murder which allowed her to once more grasp a wand between her pale, bony fingers. Nicola was a lucky one.

However lucky she was, Nicola was not in the mood to discuss her experience with the ministry’s attempt at law enforcement. The poor woman wasn’t built to be locked in a cell all day surrounded by grubby petty criminals and lunatic murderers. No, she was supposed to be free around high society. But now, out of prison, apparently the high society was a further reach when one didn’t have the same financial independence and freedom as one had once possessed.

While the landlord spoke, Nicola stared down at the empty glass. This was the first time she’d consumed alcohol since her release and therefore firewhiskey probably hadn’t been the wisest of drinks to consume. She could feel it going directly to her head. “I’m guessing yours was snapped?” the witch ventured cautiously in reference to his wand. People didn’t do repairs like this by hand.

“So you need help?” Nicola asked, looking around at him, her eyebrows raised as she tried to focus. Was this what happened upon consuming alcohol after five years without that or a cigarette? How much had she yearned for a nicotine fix during her first few months inside?

"You mean there's more than one?" Cinaed asked with a slight smirk, leaning his head back to cast a quick glance around the room.  As the pub was still largely empty; there were a few stray regulars dotted around the room.  Most were congregated around the card table.  The back corner was occupied by a fresh ex-Azzie; fifteen years on that rock and they'd cast him out of the Bridge House after two months to fend for himself.  He wasn't adjusting to life out in the world well at all and was crashing on a flat in the kitchen since all the rooms at the inn were full.  "Just me," he said with a grin. 

Taking the tapping as an invitation, Cinaed's gaze dropped to her hand at her midriff and he nodded.  "Good for you.  Yep - they snapped mine when I was sixteen - haven't been allowed one since."  Not that that stopped him from using one when he came across it.  And, each blast of power; each rumbling of a spell was just more delicious for the months of separation.  It was annoying but it had taught Cinaed to be resourceful.  And, the benefit of making friends.  Especially those that had wands. 

Pursing his lips a moment, Cinaed's gaze traveled back up to the woman's face and he nodded his head slightly.  "I am looking to hire.  Finding good, reliable help down this way's not the easiest.  But, I can pay pretty decent and tips, of course.  Room and board's possible - if they don't have better offers."  Some were lucky and, indeed, have access to some place better than the Black Chimaera's comfortable but humble rooms.  "Mostly bartending.  We serve some basic pub grub but it's easy enough.  All our inn residents are long term so I don't bother with too much housekeeping." 

Arching an eyebrow, Cinaed pivoted in his seat, sticking a long leg out to catch a neighboring table's empty chair with his foot and drag it towards their table.  "You looking for work?  If you'd rather something different, Crinchley's is hiring a stocker.  But, that old hag'll cheat you of pay at any opportunity.  But, since the explosion, we've had Aurors crawling all over."  Which, frankly, in a neighborhood where a good third to a half of its business was illegal, Auror presence did a number on the economy.  And, therefore, the job market - both legitimate and illegitimate.

"Could always try up on Diagon as well.  You don't scream ex-Azzie as much as some of us.  And, you've got a wand.  So, unless you admit it, they may not know." 

The very prospect of having her wand snapped made Nicola feel sick to her undernourished stomach. A wand was an extension of a witch or wizard. It made them who they were and without it? Well she’d found that out. 5 years locked in a dark, damp and cold cell without the use of magic or the prospect of freedom had quite definitely left Nicola feeling vulnerable, bored and propelled her further down the avenue to madness. Not that it had taken much to set her on this path in the first place.

She felt for the strong man besides her. Coming out of Azkaban without a wand was like emerging without one’s left arm. It was hard enough for Nicola to find her feet now with no money or a home and a criminal record for accused murder. But without a wand? She would practically be useless. Dark eyes carefully studied the man besides her, lips pursed in thought and quiet contemplation for a short moment. In just these few short minutes of discussion, she already held respect for Cináed Tawse. Not something that would have happened 6 years ago. Then she’d have just deemed him dim-witted. After all, who was idiotic enough to get caught?

Better offers? Nicola had no offers. Even her lousy, gullible and unintelligent cousin hadn’t offered her a place to say! What appalling family loyalty! No wonder her father had never had a good word to say in regards the ‘traitorous brother’. One was supposed to help family out. Not send them packing.

Nicola’s eyes scanned the room as Tawse spoke. She had a good feeling she was now onto something. She could work for this man for a few months, possibly live here and earn some money until she found something better coming along. A rich pureblood perhaps. But was he really about to be so generous as to simply offer her this? In her experience male criminals weren’t often the kind to just offer such things.

“The residents of diagon alley have a habit of reading the papers. With an unflattering picture of me on the second page a couple days ago I doubt anyone in that alley fancies taking on such a celebrity.” The left corner of Nicola’s lips twitched up into a smirk before she leaned forwards in the chair. “I’m a quick learner, I can give you a hand with repairs and I can sing if your establishment is into that sort of thing.”

Glancing at the members of the table quickly, Nic sighed and leaned in towards the landlord’s ear, whispering lightly, “I can also make it worth your while in other areas if you are willing.” She pulled back, smiling flirtatiously at the wizard.

The long-haired wizard was obviously oblivious to the inner musings of the woman perched in the chair next to him.  Had he been aware of inner monologue mixed with sympathy and pity, he would have shrugged her off with a casual wave of his hand.  He wasn't thrilled about being wandless, of course.  It was the most grievous insult the Ministry had managed to throw at him.  But, like any challenge, it only made the champion stronger, more versatile and more adaptable.  Cinaed had been forced to make do.  In one of the harshest environments.  His wandless status only made him stronger and, when the time came for him to be united with a wand again, he'd be that much more powerful for it. 

There was no need to feel sorry for him.  He'd come to wear his ex-Azzie status with pride; it frequently put him in good company. 

"Ahh yes." Cinaed nodded his head, turning back towards the table now that the woman was settled in her seat.  "The Prophet does seem to have an unhealthy interest in our lot.  Shame we don't use that to our advantage more."  He scowled a moment, staring at the cards in his hands.  The Prophet used to their advantage.  Why hadn't he thought of that?  That was ... what better way was there to reach the majority of Britain's witches and wizards?  They needed someone there! The WBA needed a presence at the Daily Prophet. 

But, who?  Did they try to recruit someone already there?  For better or worse, the place was overrun by Thrusby's group of hippie, friends-with-everyone's-house-elf girlfriends.  Those were all lost causes.  Skeeter - she was certainly more likely than any of Thursby's hens.  But, she was too much of a self-motivator - could she be convinced she had something to gain from joining them?  Perhaps, there was someone new - someone amongst them they could be convinced to take a job there.  Ó Morain?  She had a job. And, was on the Ministry's curiosity list.  It was an idea to ponder. 

"Well, I wouldn't say it was entirely unflattering.  But, I suppose, it depends on the audience, does it.  But, you're right.  Rumors spread around that alley faster than contraband.  And, they'll hire muggles before they'll hire ex-Azzies."  It was a horrendous insult.  If they only knew.  He fingered through the cards in his hand, pulling one out and tossing it on the table. "I'm sure you'll learn just fine.  I've got the recipes written somewhere for the house specialties - everything else is a straight, unadulterated pour.  All the grub's straightforward enough.  It's not hard.  And, we do have music on weekends.  You're probably going to have a fan club before your first week's out." 

Cinaed grew still as he felt the woman's breath brushing gently against his ear.  His eyes fluttered closed and, despite the fresh surge of guffawing across the table, his attention was fully on the witch. 

"It'll be a hot day in Azkaban when he's not willing," Bentley barked across the table. 

Continuing to ignore the remarks, Cinaed turned his head over so slightly so he was facing her more but his cheek was a mere breath from her lips.  "That, my dear, is, of course, not necessary for the job.  But, I'm nonetheless more than willing."

It wasn’t as if Nicola hadn’t recognised the name Tawse. She’d have been an idiot not to. After all, according to the law, she was married to one. A very angry one that fortunately remained locked away in Azkaban until the end of his short sentence. It was when he was released that Nicola would have to start staying far away. E was no doubt going to want to chop her pretty little head off for accusing him of the murder.

And now the young, recently released witch was sat besides another member of the violent Tawse clan. This particular Scotsman seemed a lot more pleasant, however and this only served to help Nicola decide this would be an adequate spot to settle in for the moment. Not like she had more choice. Moira had offered her a place to stay which Nic had politely said she’d see and no one else was willing to offer up any employment to an ex-azzie notorious for killing a young auror in cold blood.

The mention of a fan club brought a small smirk to the woman’s lips as she glanced over at the other males at the table, judging by their expressions and interest in the couple’s conversation, they weren’t wel acquainted with seeing females in this dingy little bar. Yes Nicola and her old snobbish habbits would not have stepped into this place 6 years ago. It was now that she had no choice that she was here.

Nicola’s dark eyes once more left Cinaed and swept across the table. “I suppose the same could be said about you, my dear.” Her teeth bit into her lip, grinning before she turned back to the landlord and as she presumed, cousin of her husband. He obviously hadn’t realised this fact so she wasn’t about to ruin her chances of a bit of fun, harmless sex and a chance to earn some money. Not that the man looked like the kind of fellow to even care, if she was being perfectly honest.

His lips were so close to her now and she felt a small tingle run down her spine. A man hadn’t been this close in years. And she most definitely wasn’t counting an auror in this. They weren’t real man. They were pathetic excuses, long wands to make up for lacking in other, important departments.

“I never mentioned its necessity, Mr Tawse.” She turned her head so her lips were a mere inch from his, her eyes lightened ever so slightly. “I simply can’t resist an attractive Scotsman as generous and obviously strong as the one before me.” She leaned in closer, past his lips to his ear where the watching men wouldn’t see, voice lowered and hand moving under the table to find his thigh, fingers trailing up slowly. “There’s something about the accent that makes me want to climb on the table now.”

There was a time, not long ago, when women just were not a common occurrence in the dark pub.  Its reputation for being a place only suitable for old Death Eaters and ex-Azzie - people that came there before they simply didn't have the choice of going elsewhere - kept most decent ladies at a distance.  The last year, though, just as the WBA seemed to grow, business seemed to grow.  First Kingstreet, again, out of necessity - then Izadora.  After that, they just seemed to keep coming.  And, even a kid.  Now, Cinaed was finding better quality drinks and hiring extra help.  It was actually becoming a respectable business.

And, Cinaed hadn't complained a single moment.

Cinaed followed her gaze around the table, as if doing so would help illuminate what was going on in her mind.  Flirting and propositioning wasn't always a safe activity - it wasn't unheard of for women to take offense, violently at times.  And, when a witch has a wand in her hand, the risk was that much more profound.  Cinaed had been hexed on not just a few occasions.  But, every nuance of her demeanor was radiating willing - from the lip pinched, lightly, between her teeth to her willingness to remain close. 

"I give them free drinks," Cinaed offered in a quick explanation for the reasons for his fan club. "The power of free alcohol."  Of course, he liked to think that wasn't the only reason.  Perhaps, that's what drew them to the Black Chimaera but many of them hung around even when they started paying their tabs. 

Another round of deep-chested guffawing offered a soundtrack as the woman's lips approached his.  He could feel the woman's breath on his own lips, just a sharp accent on the temptation.  She leaned in closer, her hand upon his leg, forcing a quick, raspy breath from his lungs.  Oh, bloody hell.  Witches were going to be the death of him.  A small smirk settled at the corner of his lips and his voice lowered to a deep grumble.  "I'd hate to have to share the show," he murmured quietly. 

His hand found the fingers of her wandering hand and he took hold of it.  Quickly, he moved his head, closing the short distance between their lips and pressed his firmly against hers.  He lingered, briefly in the kiss before pulling back.  "The inn's in back," he offered, simply, in invitation.  He tossed his hand of cards on the table and got to his feet, not giving the anti on the table a second thought.  Any money they won they'd just pay back in exchange for alcohol. 

So this man was like his cousin. A simple bit of contact and he was no doubt eagerly imagining all sorts of sexy and hopefully nauseating possibilities. Just what she liked to see. It was this facilitating ability that had won Nicola a lot of favours with Billy 6 years ago. Men were always wanting and luckily for them, so was Nicola.

Especially after 6 years in a cell with herself and some drawings for company.

“How very selfish of you.” Nicola’s lips smoothly morphed into a grin, her dark eyes twinkling in the dim light. She felt his warm hand clasp around the fingers of her quite definitely frozen one, sending an electric tingle down her spine. It had been so long since she’d had any contact. His lips shamelessly closed over hers and Nicola’s eyelids flickered shut momentarily as she squeezed his thigh, leaning in towards the large bulky man.

He smelt good. Firewhiskey with a hint of tobacco. It made her stomach queasy. Aromas, they told a lot about a person. A lot about a place. Azkaban had smelt…dead. She’d felt dead there and now in the freedom of the outside world Nicola made damn sure she registered and remembered every last sensation, constantly worrying if the ministry would change their minds and toss her back into that hell she’d just recently emerged from.

"The inn's in back,"

Who said romance was dead? She’d just been selected over a poker game with this stranger’s friends. What a compliment! Perhaps most women would have been offended by the plain statement of intention. It was hardly a declaration of affection or the usual line to woo a woman into bed.  But Nicola? She took it as a welcome invitation back into the real world. A much needed invitation.

After a cursory glance at the table, Nicola rose to her feet. It wasn’t necessary to speak another word as she, grasping the large wizard’s hand, weaved between the various tables and behind the bar in her quest for ‘in back’.