outfit

Dressed down, not unlike she usually was when she went out alone for a drink, or to run errands, or simply to wander around after dusk, the Magpies seeker pressed the sole of her boot into the brass pole lining the bottom of the bar stool. She twisted idly, at the pace of a sloth, back and forth like a rocking ship on a petulant wave. The moodiness suited her, though she wasn’t in a particularly bad mood. More so, a pensive one... a resting state that fashioned a natural frown of sorts.

Laney whisked her straw through the arctic dregs of her Oden’s and Pumpkin Juice. The orange had faded as the ice took over, and the whiskey had been inhaled in record time. Something about the holidays inspired such carousing. Or perhaps it was just something about Laney.

Nudging her glass toward the bartender, like a puppy pressing its nose to the door, she indicated none too subtly that she’d like a refill. While she waited, her russet eyes eyes swept the tavern, noting the familiar, woody bowels of the Cauldron, its cheerful but uncomplicated decor. She’d always preferred it when she was in school, and London was near inaccessible. Now she found herself more easily blending with the crowd at Tawse’s place, where being a noted athlete (in the making) was less likely to stir baffling emotions in the everyday gin drinker. Not that she minded being talked about, or even questioned, if it was complimentary, but sometimes she just wanted a drink, and her eyes were bigger than her stomach when it came to things like fame. Or infamy.

Chirpy, chubby women chortled over pitchers of mead. A man dragged two brats away from their second round of hot chocolate. Another man, similarly burdened with arms full of children, Accio’ed several wrapped holiday packages as he tottered out the door. The ancient wizard behind him wobbled and staggered, reeling left to right, but not for the same reasons. Laney smirked and wondered which old soul had been pouring his drinks, and whether it ate away at one’s heart after a while. It wouldn’t do hers.

But when had the set in Diagon become so old?

Landis had been out in London today - Muggle London, he felt so dirty - taking care of a few vital errands, paying a few careful visits, nothing too strenuous so close to the holidays. It was cold outside, not the pure, clean cold of Hogsmeade at night, but the kind of bitter wet cold even Landis couldn't stomach, so he'd ducked into the Leaky Cauldron with the intention of passing through into Diagon and maybe, eventually, Knockturn. The warmth of the place hit him like a nearly physical wall, and Landis felt his face and fingers tingling as the cold seeped out of them; he paused just inside the doorway, flexing his hands in his pockets to quicken their recovery. As he did so, a man sitting next to the door threw him a dirty look for letting in the cold, clutching a mug to which Landis' eyes lingered rather than the man's expression. He passed the tip of his tongue over his frozen lips and thought very seriously about ordering something to warm them, since he was already here.

His eyes swept over the pub, taking note of the lack of dangerously lurking cloaked figures and overabundance of families. The noise level was fortunately low, a steady, comfortable buzz of conversation, laughter, and children's voices which was - presumably - appealing to those who liked that sort of thing. Landis, who preferred dangerously lurking cloaked figures over happy families or friendly drunks, found it just tolerable. But it was better than the Three Broomsticks, cleaner than the Hogshead, and far, far less reputation-damaging than Cinead's place.

It was then that he saw Laney; despite himself, he smiled, eyebrows raising in mild, pleasant surprise. The girl was twisting on her stool like a desolate windmill, and he hadn't seen her for months, the second-to-last time he'd been to Dominik's flat. Landis had never cared much for Quidditch, and the thought of making a fool of himself over an athlete was appalling, two of the best reasons that - although he wouldn't even know Dominik if not for Dazmond, much less be in the man's flat often enough to know Laney - the two Quidditch players might find him more restful company. She'd just graduated, hadn't she?

Taking off his cloak and laying it over his arm, Landis made his way to Laney's side. He slipped into the space beside her, touching her lightly on the shoulder to announce his presence. To the barman he murmured, "Nettle wine," and to Laney, with a dazzling smile, "I hear congratulations are in order?"

Laney might have been studious in her perusal of the Leaky’s patrons while she waited for her drink, but she did not notice Landis Morgan until he slipped into the seat beside her, coat over his arm, light hair framing his face as aristocratically as ever. The touch stirred her, and she soaked up his order. “Wine?” She asked. “You even sound like a Professor.”

Or librarian...

Grinning, she inclined her head toward, a sort of leisurely nod of greeting. She was only kidding. She loved wine. She loved alcohol, really. But bars were for whiskeys. It was habit she’d had since she’d weaseled her first glass out of a sympathetic bartender while young enough to still wear braids and not look ridiculous. (She’d not been wearing them, for the record). Wine was so... personal. Not that it should matter. Not that Laney cared. And really, one might argue that a girl like Laney shouldn’t be tossing back whiskeys in front of people’s children. Not when she was catching their snitches for entertainment. Their hard-earned galleons.

The glass glittered in her peripheral, floating in front of her, freshly sent from the barman’s wand. She took it with a sharp, skilled wrist and took a sip. “Why are you congratulating me, Landis?” She posed. She didn’t know whether she was allowed to use his first name, having met him only a handful of times. He worked for Hogwarts. It was all so foreign. But Laney felt old. Old enough. Graduation was light-years in the past. Adult life had treated her well, and had also been something of a wake-up owl-- an education in just how long a day could really be. “You’re the one who escaped the castle.”

Setting down the whiskey, she pushed a little toward the other side of the bar, as she had the empty glass. Only this one was nearly full. "You know what..." She leaned into the handsome, scratched wood and flagged down the man in charge. "I change my mind," she called. "I'll have a wine, too."

“Wine? You even sound like a Professor.”

Landis quirked a coy eyebrow and let that speak for itself, folding himself onto the stool next to her and turning in time to meet the bartender. It was only after he had the glass in his hand that he turned back to her. "Librarian," he corrected, and drank. Nettle wine wouldn't warm him as much as the whiskey in her glass, but now he'd sit and talk for a while instead of depending on the quick fix of alcohol to warm his blood before he rushed back outside.

Well, she knew why he was congratulating her. Graduation may not have been literal light-years away, but it was nearly Christmas now, after all. Laney would have drunk deep of the cup of adulthood by now. Many students went at least a little freedom-crazy at first, and a professional Quidditch player had the money, the time, and the open doors to go crazier than most. If she had - and Landis didn't exactly follow the tabloids, or Witch-Weekly, so he had no idea - then she looked good despite it. Good in a definitely, younger than him, off-limits, barely legal, not interested sort of way. The distinction was important. And unfortunately, he hadn't escaped. "Don't say it so cavalierly- you'll have me forget it's only for the night." A pause as he drank more wine, and eyed her whiskey with amusement. "They still require a skeleton staff at Hogwarts over the break, and I'm part of it."

Of course, he wasn't required to be there the entire break. Landis had a flat in London, and he did intend on escaping from the castle at some point to stay there. His mother would nag him to come for Christmas - well, she already had - and he might or might not go, but he was to stay at the castle at least for now. It wasn't so bad. Most of the students were gone, and even his brother couldn't ruin the bizarre quiet that lay over Hogwarts. He had even thought about selling his flat, since paying for a flat he didn't live in filled him with vague wasteful horror, but the thought of not having a place to hide out need be was even worse.

Laney called out to the bartender for wine instead, but Landis snagged her glass after she put it away. "I'll take it," he said, and drained the last of his glass. "I need the warmth." He glanced over at her. "How long did you plan on sitting here alone, drinking? Or were you expecting someone?"

Laney raised her brows, offering a rare glimpse of widened eyes, and gave her head a silent but sing-songy tilt this way and that, one for each syllable in librarian. “Forgive me. I’m a sinner.” She splayed her hand over her heart, but then swooped lower, closer to the bar, planting her elbow down and staring up at Landis from a strange angle. “But do you know where every book in the entire collection is, exactly? Or do you get to choose? Is it... a perk of the job?” She bit her lip in a sly, half-grin.

She’d been talking to a lot of people about books lately. It was sweetly ironic, how she cared more about their... well-being? Existence? Content?... Post-graduation. Ah, the perks of being an adult.

She poured over his next words with glee, laughing like a breath, soundless and seamless. But she welcomed a new dose of oxygen, and the dwindling chuckle sounded faintly as she pushed the glass away, head and heart having not yet made their joint decision to trade whiskey for wine.

“What? Will the books get up and walk off? Breed if they’re not babysat?” She continued to laugh. “Do they even pay you?” Having to spend one’s holidays at Hogwarts was worse than having to spend one’s holidays with Laney’s step-mother. Well, almost. She’d rebelled enough to be grudgingly allowed to stay in the castle one Christmas, while it was empty and explorable. Basil, the suck up, had volunteered to go home and kiss ancient ass at the family dinner table. “And how are the staff quarters? I meant to get around to them while I was still there, but... ‘Muggle Studies professor’ isn’t my type.” And Merlin knew the rest of the male staff were challenged, physically speaking. Minus the man beside her, who hadn’t been working while Laney was in school, and didn’t seem the type to fall for such schoolgirl trickery, anyway. Shame.

And with the change in the direction of the wind-- Laney’s desire to sip wine with the intellectual-- came a new and appetizing glass. Which promptly magicked itself straight from her clutches.

Laney called out to the bartender for wine instead, but Landis snagged seemed to switch gears, too. She eyed him, again quirking a brow, and then shook her head. “Look at us, trading drinks... how adorable,” she announced sardonically. “I was expecting someone, eventually. But then you showed up.”

What an odd girl. Perhaps she was living the wild side, even now, and all the theatrical widening of eyes and bobbing of head and coltish-grace  slouching on the bar was a result of some particularly fine wares that Dazmond had given her. Or, at least, would partake of herself. Used to Dazmond and her drug-fueled behavior - once-upon-a-time memories of himself with an arm around her waist half-carrying her down to the dorms - Landis was not much bothered by the thought that Laney could be less than clear-minded.

He was slightly more bothered by the idea that she might be teasing him, not least of all because he wasn’t sure if she was or not. “Hardly,” he said, in answer to her query as to his knowledge of the books, whether he knew each of their whereabouts. He raised a brow at her, as if warning decorum; silly, silly girl, with her fox grin, Landis was not meant to be teased. “But I’m working on it.”

“What? Will the books get up and walk off? Breed if they’re not babysat?”

If Landis had not already raised an eyebrow at her, he would have done so now. Hogwarts had the largest library of magical books in the UK, and while they were mostly safe enough for the children, they were hardly tame. Some of the books were even chained to their shelves, and not to prevent stealing; although they wouldn’t breed, Landis wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised to find them in places they hadn’t been left. She should know that, having just graduated – but then, students didn’t often pay attention to things like that. It wasn’t until after he’d left Hogwarts that he’d found himself remembering some of the magical tricks of the castle, and finally had the magical theory knowledge to wonder at how they were done.

“They’re a restless lot,” he said, speaking of inanimate objects as if they were alive – but in this case, in a very basic way, some of them were. “Prone to accidents when unsupervised, whether helped by students’ hands or not. I’ve already caught one boy anxious to get into the Restricted section while everyone was gone.” His own brother, big surprise. But Laney didn’t need to know that. “Come, you know student mischief. Tell me you wouldn’t have been tempted… or did Quidditch players have no need of books?”

”Do they even pay you?”

“Oh, yes,” Landis said, and he meant it. Hogwarts’ salary was a decent one – well, it was the only magical school in the UK, and as such the professors were more prized than their common Muggle counterparts. He was not a professor, but he still made a decent wage. “And over the summer, too, should I choose that option. Don’t underestimate the Ministry’s desire for a prize school.”

“And how are the staff quarters? I meant to get around to them while I was still there, but... Muggle Studies professor’ isn’t my type.”

“Adequate. Doubtless you would have been disappointed even if you had managed to get around to them.” Landis’ tone was dry. Whether the situation – the two of them, one staff member, one ex-student - or Laney;s wording put the thought in his head, he clearly had an idea of how she’d have gotten into them. “Much like your dorm rooms, a little nicer.” Not that he would know, never having been to a Muggle school, but Hogwarts’ dorms were very nice. The staff rooms were, while not luxurious, fine enough. Two rooms, connected, one bedroom and then a sitting area. The one Landis had gotten must have been modeled off Gryffindor sensibilities, all squishy chairs and a big fireplace in the sitting area, a huge bed and comforter in the other and roughly-carved warm wood wardrobe. It did not suit him at all, and a week after he’d arrived he’d transfigured all the furniture into something a little more sleek.

“Look at us, trading drinks... how adorable.”

Landis gave her a long look. Adorable was not a word he liked applied to himself. But then, she didn’t know him well, and she hardly deserved a glare from him for it. He gave a half-shoulder shrug, as if to say, if you say so. “I’ll leave soon enough, and your expected will never even know I was here.”

Laney laughed in toast. If that’s how Landis wanted to spend his time... “More power to you.”

She wandered what she’d be doing if the Magpies hadn’t scooped her up into their nest of rowdy party boys. It was like an American frat house. Plus Laney. Augustus, bless his heart, seemed to feel the need to protect her. As if she were positively delicate. Ha! Had Laney not bagged the professional gig, she’d probably be lounging around one of Diagon’s less reputable pubs, helping Malynda set up shop, and inquiring after the ‘neighborhood parties’.

She’d never, Merlin cross her heart, end up guarding books at Hogwarts. If nothing else (though that was obviously doubtful, as he quite obviously had more than one positive attribute), Landis Morgan had a pair to agree to it.

“They sound like puppies...” Some of them probably even slobbered. Laney recalled the few times she’d swept into the Restricted Section. They registered as the handful of moments she’d enjoyed the library for what it was: a collection of knowledge.

“Of course I was tempted. What better way to cure that than to go for it? Who’s the kid? I’ll send him a signed snitch...” Or not. But she couldn’t blame them. She only pitied him for being caught. Stupid. Laney wouldn’t have been caught. She knew loads of places to become invisible when the staff were lurking. Her favorite by far remained a spiral staircase that led from the fourth floor to a freezer in the kitchens. She narrowed her eyes, even as he inclined his brows.

“Bitter, are we? I love books. And we can read, athletes... especially contracts with lots of zeroes following pretty whole numbers and galleon signs.” She had not quite been on the team long enough for such an... all-encompassing offer. But she was getting there. And she was doing much better much quicker than most of her ex-classmates. “I just like to read what I like.” She challenged him back, though silently so, to tell her off for preferring her own selections to those the school made for her. “Actually, I’m putting together a new shelf in my place. I’ve been working a book hunter to find a few rarities.” And to check out his bum, but the details were tiny and negligible. “How’s that for a Restricted Section?”

She tilted her head, appraising him as he spoke modestly but rather honestly about his wages. She wondered vaguely how such a man had become best friends with Dazmond, but then, was Laney not sitting here and holding a perfectly entertaining conversation with him? She’d liked what little she known of him, and eager to know more. Particularly because he didn’t seem the type to reveal himself. A seeker was doing what a seeker did best.

The Ministry. Laney’s wicked little half-smirk became a stony frown of sorts. They were such a waste of time-- too large, too bureaucratic to be of any use. Laney did not object in the least to elitism (she was a born and bred elitist), but she felt their looming over every witch and wizard in the land, breathing down their necks was not a reinforcement of wizarding specialness so much as a restraint on what one could manage if one put one’s mind to it. Archaic nonsense sleeping with political correctness.

She nodded mellowly, quickly moving on to the more interesting topic-- which Landis managed to discuss with the straightest of faces. Disappointed? Probably. But happy she could say she’d done it? Absolutely. Putting on an equally sterile mask, Laney shrugged. “Maybe I’ll get around to it. It won’t be as fun since I’m legal now, but it seems Hogwarts has upped its game.” She stared pointedly at the handsome young (but older than Laney) man.

However much she’d complained while in school, she’d had pride in her alma mater, and in her house. She routinely berated Clinton for being a traitor-- her silly brother and his Russian working girls was an anomaly best swept under the rug. Everyone had their kinks.

Laney delighted in his expression; had he taken her seriously? Or was he basking, unhumored, in her sarcasm? Adorable was possibly the last word one would use to describe either of them, not even if they’d been animatedly emblazoned in the Sunday cartoon section of the Prophet and tagged with small speech bubbles to supplement their ebullient cuteness.

The lie was a simple one, and had left her tongue in a manner most snake-like, but Laney didn’t bother correcting it so soon. “Please. Take your time. The last thing I need is dirty looks from the barman for running out his customers. My... friend... would love to meet you.”

Puppies, hm? "And just as destructive," Landis agreed, sipping demurely at his newly-acquired whiskey. And with a brief laugh, "Please don't. They hardly need the encouragement. Besides..." His eyes glittered in amusement as he nodded towards the golden writing floating in the air above the bar, currently scrolling over the day's top stories. Thehe corners of his mouth curled up into a smirk. "I would say you've done enough corrupting for today." The current headline read in glowing, indignant letters: CUDDYER WEIDMAN IRVING BRAWL IN THE SEASON'S MOST INFLAMMATORY SCANDAL! And even as they watched it scrolled into a commentary led by some of Quidditch's top names - decrying, defending, but mostly hastily back-pedaling.

“Bitter, are we? I love books. And we can read, athletes... especially contracts with lots of zeroes following pretty whole numbers and galleon signs.”

Landis laughed again, at ease enough to appreciate that he'd been both caught and reprimanded. He eased his elbows over the bar top, cradling his glass with the absent kind of care one picks up after a few months handling thin-paged books, and years behind that of fragile potion jars. "Not bitter, only dubious. Consider me thoroughly shamed by the reminder of the hefty amount of money you can hold over the rest of us mere mortals." He tilted his head ever-so-slightly to the side as she talked of her budding book collection, his dispassionately heavy-lidded eyes detracting nothing from the gesture's obvious invitation to elaborate. "Dear me. I am even more ashamed of my hasty words. Tell me about these rarities."

For his part Landis was predictably very scathing when it came to the amount of money Quidditch players got paid to fly around and catch little balls. He could vaguely see the historical significance of the Beaters, who were paid to bludgeon people silly in the time-honored tradition of giving people you don't like head trauma, but the popularity of the sport mystified him. Of course, Landis had never been much of a flyer himself. Nor a team player. But he had enough fondness for Laney not to belittle her livelihood in front of her, and enough respect for her quick wit not to expect a rebuttal should he try.

“Maybe I’ll get around to it. It won’t be as fun since I’m legal now, but it seems Hogwarts has upped its game.”

She stared pointedly at him. Landis did not rise to the bait. Nor did he return the blatant up-and-downs she'd been giving him, which was a shame because he thought he would have enjoyed it.

Too young, he thought, and when that didn't work, Four years older than Erin. That was much more effective.

"Flatterer," he said, so dryly that a desert would have felt threatened. But he was distracted by her next comment, his head tilting again ever-so-slightly like the human equivalent of a cat pricking its ears. "So it is the significant-pause type of friend?" Landis pondered this as he rolled the whiskey glass in both hands, too gently for the ice to clink. "I see. I'm sure I'll be delighted."