The crowds in the street beyond the windows were thinning as the evening drew in and the collection of tiny silver bells that hung upon the shop door had not rung in perhaps thirty minutes or so, which suited Leoman Gild just fine. He sat at the large desk which served as his counter, polished black leather shoes resting upon its edge, the Prophet propped open upon his knees and a cigarette hanging languidly from the fingers of one hand. The lights within the shop were low, partly to soothe the slowly retreating hangover from the night before, which was currently being softened by occasional sips of the glass of fine Australia red which sat upon the table beside him. The other reason for the lighting was that it added a touch of mystery and drama to the place. The products he sold were of quite exceptional quality and he wished only to attract connoisseurs to his establishment. Leoman had other sources of income and he saw no need to waste his time and expertise upon philistines so he deliberately conjured an air of exclusivity that had the regular shopper quickly shuffling back outside after a few cursory glances around the place. He also made a point of neglecting to affix price tags to the displays, which was a sure sign of how expensive they would turn out to be should one be brave enough to even approach the desk at the far end of the store.

Christmas had been a particularly trying period in that regard once the hordes had descended upon Diagon Alley. The Zen-like tranquillity of this space had been shattered by aggravated Mothers dragging wailing children who would invariably drag sticky fingers all over the fine paper samples which so tastefully decorated the shelves lining the long walls of the store. Then there were the harried husbands who at the last minute realised they had left the task of Christmas shopping far too late and simply gathered the closest thing to them into their arms without a moment of thought as to the quality of the product or the time Leoman had spent in sourcing and even, in some cases, creating these works of genius. He had been sorely tempted to defy convention and close his store for the duration of the holidays but that would surely attract the wrong kind of attention and he certainly did not need that. How could an innocent businessman make a decent living by closing his store during the most lucrative time of the year? And so, he had endured, and now in the weeks that followed during which life slowly returned to its usual pace, Leoman recuperated. The wine was purely medicinal... yes.

The tinkle of bells drew his attention away from a rather fantastically misguided tirade concerning the perils of integrating those of lupine proclivities into Wizarding society. He glanced towards the doorway, his irritation at the interruption evident in the questioning arch of his brow...

Despite its foul stench and its filthy shadowed recesses, Knockturn Ally was no longer the choicest of clandestine retreats it once was.  The murderous, most-wanted Theodora Kingstreet had to tread with such extreme caution lest she be recognized that she'd taken to wearing a heavy hood rather than her very traditional witches' hat with the curled ram's horn point.  Even then, she'd been closed up tight in her secret offices in the Black Chimaera since her errand boy bumbled her task at St. Mungo's back before Christmas.  Because of that boy's unfortunate bought with idiocy, she'd had to hold off on plans to catch up on her correspondence.

But today, wretchedly cold, in the morning was an appropriate time to stop by and check up on Leoman Gild.  She'd heard about him and had encountered him in Azkaban for his admirable attempt to defraud the greedy goblins in Gringotts.  Despite his obvious flaws, she knew he'd have an expertise she quite enjoyed and would be the only stationary salesman who'd ever willingly sell to her.

She strode into his shop but did not remove her hood.

"Leoman Gild, I am Theodora Kingstreet," she said to him in her precise way of talking.  "You're literate so I don't think any more introduction is required.  How are you today?"

She smiled deliberately.  She'd read that people smiled when they were happy.

Leo stilled, his cigarette’s journey arrested before it was half way to its destination, the edge of the newspaper flopping over impotently as his grip upon its pages softened in his surprise. He mentally collected himself and a slow smile touched with genuine pleasure unfurled upon his lips. Though he was perfectly aware that the arrival of such a person in his store might herald all kinds of trouble he had a soft spot for this woman despite the fact of her quite obvious insanity. Well it was part of her charm, and so he overlooked her rather odd introduction. The two of them had encountered one another numerous times during his tenure in Azkaban and they had bonded over the very thing that he now sold... surely she remembered him?

“All the better for seeing you my dear! What a pleasant surprise... “ and whilst the sentiment was quite genuine he still clambered rather quickly to his feet, walking the length of the store and peering through the glass of the door before turning the ornate golden key in the lock and pulling down the blinds to cover the windows. It was nearly closing time after all, this would not look suspicious... at least he hoped not.

“There, now you can remove that ghastly hood, you look like a necromancer... was that your intention? Oh never mind... wait a moment my dear.”

Leo procured another chair from his back office and set it down facing his own before taking his own seat once more, folding up the scattered newspaper carefully and laying it upon the desk.

“Much more civilised.” He said with some satisfaction, “ Please do join me, would you care for some wine? It really is very good...”

He was perfectly aware that it had only been a matter of weeks since this woman had parted some poor fool’s head from his shoulders but he was sure that he had deserved it... fairly sure. Anyhow he was hardly a threat to her, (apparently) wandless, now just a simple businessman in this quiet corner of Diagon.

The waxy-faced wizard that was Leoman Gild seemed to come alive by enchantment and took on the graceful animation of a wizard who knew how to comport himself in the company of his peers.  Theodora had always liked that about him.  His appearance wasn't gaudy, what with any good looks or symetry to his face - all his charisma came from his impeccably composed confidence.

She smiled again and took the seat as offered, pleased that he'd been cognizent that she was a fugitive from the Ministry of Magic for a series of violent crimes and scathing letters.

"Wine will do," she said, and lifted her large heavy hood from her head and setting it on her shoulders.  Her dull blonde hair was tied up in a tight french twist at the back of her head.  Her thick-rimmed glasses stark against her own pale, unadorned features.

They mirrored one another with the marks of weariness one could only earn in that horrible edifice in the North Sea.

"Leoman, I come here with a business proposal.  Two of them, more precisely," she said and then crossed one knee over the other. 

"You and I share certain predelictions and this portends very well for mutual benefits.  You've no doubt heard of the restrictions the Wizengamot has placed on me and that I've been unilaterally flouting in regards to office supplies.  They've allowed me to retain this useless little twig," she said, referring to her wand, "but it's nearly impossible for me to come by a simple inkwell for all the channels I must endure to acquire it."

For as calm and composed as Theodora normally was, something about office supplies brought out the heart strings and all this talk of being banned from using them and the difficulty of coming by her favorite brands - it marred her face with traces of emotion.

"You-you'll," she stammered embarassingly, "You'll sell to me, won't you?" 

She cleared her throat and looked at Leoman Gild.  Perhaps the only person she'd admit to under excrutiating torture that he might be a close acquaintence.  A friend.