Theobald saw Nat coming into the pub.  She looked nervous. This was good for her role. Someone buying illicit potion for the first time would be nervous. It was also an entirely appropriate emotion for a muggle-born entering this particular pub. Still fear was not an emotion he valued among members of the unit. He hoped she was only acting or merely uncomfortable with her surroundings.   Still he made a mental note to read her supervisor’s latest assessment of her.

 He ran a hand through his hair, which he had stained black for the occasion, before carrying a pair of double firewhiskeys back from the bar to the table he was sharing with Kurby.  More than a few empty glasses were already on the table.  That was necessary for their disguise. For some agents it could have caused problems. Theobald was made of sterner stuff however. He could handle his alcohol. He resumed their conversation about quidditch, a banal topic for sure, but one that was unlikely to draw any unwanted attention.  Theobald was not the greatest fan of the sport but he had a mild allegiance to the Wimborne Wasps from the earliest days of his childhood, and read the newspapers enough not to be clueless. 

 He affected a slightly slurred speech very convincingly,

 “Y-You should speak to Charlie too about the next Cannons’ match. Lovely fellow but easily riled. You would think being a lifelong Chudley fan he would be used to taking abuse but apparently not. Stupid bloke put up three galleons that the Cannons would beat the Wasps. Three! Never was going to happen. Easiest money I’ve made in my life.

 Even aside from the fact that they were playing the Cannons though he should have known better than to bet against the Wasps. Our team’s the best it has been in ten seasons. Just wait and see. This will be our year!“

 As he drawled on he caught a glimpse of Nat heading over towards their target.  Good.  So far the kid was doing well.

Dazmond, as was usual for her when conducting business at the Black Chimaera, had turned up early for her appointment and had stolen a table for herself in a manner that all the regulars knew meant leave me alone, I'm working.  It was a pointed contrast to how she'd work her entrance for a night of gaming and good beer; one had to know how to separate business from pleasure and, so far, this little back-alley pub had been the best of both worlds -- a place to bond with other no-good back-alley scum, and a place to securely do her particularly illicit brand of business. 

Turned inward in this way, though, her current enterprise was pouring over the papers as if she was looking for something in particular.  She was sober, had had a bite to eat and was now smoking a cigarette.  Many were packed into the pub for warmth this evening; it was to be the coldest January since 1997, when the war was raging, dementors roaming through the city streets -- probably a very bad omen, that -- but Dazmond knew only that she couldn't leave the house without her gloves.  Much more pressing to her at the moment than the cold was the fact that some sickness had come down on Ó Móráin Farms just as suddenly as the change of weather -- Liadan was one of Dazmond's top suppliers, and business was taking a curt, downward turn. 

Though, strangely, not so in the Wolf department....  She'd had more new Werewolf clientele within the last six months than in all the previous years combined it seemed.  The last two in the span of a week.  What was going on?

Dazmond folded the Prophet and moments later leaned upon the table in a stretch to greet her client with a firm hand shake and tepid smile, noticing at once a palm that was moist and clammy.  Gross. 

"Nat, is it?"  The woman nodded nervously and eyed the table while Dazmond, feeling impatient and stressed, waved her hand at the empty chair opposite and said, "come sit.  I'm Daz."  I'll be your dealer this evening.  Eyes dark and aura clouded, Dazmond was coming off a rough holiday season and a total lack of sleep with all her issues just the opposite of resolved.  She wasn't feeling like sucking up and so got right down to business.

"Two things first," she said, ashing her cigarette.  "Is it your first time on the juice, and are you looking for a monthly supply.  I give a discount for my regulars, five Gs for a month, and that's half-off if you're number challenged.  Good deal, discrete.  And I'm told it's the best on the market.  Otherwise a one-shot deal's 10 G.  What's your poison, Nat?"

 Theobald drawled on as he finished his firewhiskey,

 “What about the next match?  Are you willing to put your money were your mouth’s at?  Four Galleons say the Wasps win by over 200 points ? What so you say?  Fancy betting with the men rather than the boys this time? “

  He swayed slightly on his way up to the bar,

 “I need two of something with a real kick, something to help my friend over there to grow a pair.”

 At the bar he saw Nat looking shocked as she replied “5 galleons a month...” before looking down and nodding slowly and saying “alright...yes” .

  Theobald turned his eyes back to the barman so he did not see her looking up somewhat dejectedly as she said “Sorry, yes to both . It’s my first time and I need a monthly supply.”
 
  He heard the tone in her voice though. It was appropriate. 5 galleons a month was a hell of a lot of money. For those on high incomes it was a significant hit. For the poor it was the kind of sum that could drive them to crime. It was not however an outrageous price for this sort of transaction. It was after all very much a seller’s market. 

 In any event it was nearly time. He scratched the right side casually of his head in a pre-arranged signal to Kurby that the deal was about to go down before fishing out a few coins.

The woman's eyes nearly popped out of her head.  Great, thought Dazmond, first I've got a recall on all my orders of the past week and a serious deficiency of animal parts to work with, and now I've got a broke client.  She paused a tick with her jaw locked.

"If you're unable to pay we can work something out," she conceded, though she wasn't feeling as lenient and amicable as, say, when she'd met Lexus.  "I do barters if that helps, and once you're an established client I might be up for loans."  She took a moment to look at the girl and for a moment felt a twinge of pity.  It was just so likely that this young woman's life had just changed dramatically overnight -- the shock of being bit seemed fresh on her mind, let alone the idea of buying brew under the market, not registering, and having a 5G deductible every month just to stay a little less harmful and a little more discrete.  She might've never even been in Knockturn before, from the way she was shaking like a leaf.  Dazmond sighed a little and looked at her candidly.

"Look, I should apologize for my mood; I'm not usually like this with new clients.  It's just been a rough week with the recall and everything.  But, here's how it'll work for you as a first-timer, alright?"  She went into her bag and pulled out a large opaque bottle.  "You have to get your body used to this stuff incrementally.  First month it needs steady drinking; I mean some every day."  She slid the bottle over the tabletop toward the young woman.  "You need your intake to be continuous for a few months before you'll start to see a real change.  The first few will be rough, but they'll get a bit easier with time on my juice.  And if have questions about hunts or politics, I'm here for that as well, y'know, it's part of your galleons.  I'm a resourceful lady, and getting into hairy business is a special hobby of mine.  Just ask, yeah?  You have the payment?"

  Theobald listened intently, preparing to move the second Miss Wiedman handed over the bottle. Once they got that they would have enough evidence to see her convicted for trafficking if she did not play ball. It would be all the leverage they would need.

 Nat answered,

 “I...I have and thank you. I can pay. It will just be...hard."

 She looked down and reaching into her purse. With trembling hands she brought out four galleons first, followed by sixteen sickles. She then hunted around in her purse for a moment for another sickle. Failing to find it she turned beetroot as she counted out the 29 knuts which made up the rest of the 5 galleons.

 “Sorry...sorry about the change...I hadn’t thought it was going to be so much. It won’t happen again.”

Dazmond watched the woman dig through her purse, counting out the sickles and knuts a bit frantically, but with everything that was going on, she couldn't much bring herself to care.  The thought did cross her mind to cut the woman a break, but, it quickly became apparent that she did have the money -- even if it was all the money she had -- and Dazmond also realized that she was in a position of power here. 

She liked money.  Money was good.  The fortune she had brought back from Staffa was already long gone.  She'd spent it.  Dazmond could very easily reason that she'd been working her arse off, and with all of the recent hits that her business had taken, and would continue to take with the massive animal-based ingredients recall, she bloody well deserved to bleed this woman dry.  Nat needed her.  She was providing a service.  A dangerous, expensive service.

"That's okay," said Dazmond a little blankly, and she waited for the pile of sickles and knuts to swell on the table top.  Her foot pumped the air impatiently, her legs crossed and hands held between her thighs for warmth.  "As long as it's all there, we can overlook the problem of change.  Count it out the next time though; quicker these exchanges go, the better."

 Theobald watched as Nat paid the dealer and as she extended her hand to take the wolfsbane potion in exchange. The second she had it in her hand, he moved. Leading Kurby he walked over to the table. As Kurby took the stool beside Miss Wiedman, he sat down beside Nat, and placed his drink on the table with one hand while smoothly and inconspicuously pointing his wand at Dazmond underneath the table with the other. 
 
 He looked Miss Wiedman in the eye and spoke in a low voice so as not to be overheard but with a tone that was undeniably menacing.

 “Good evening Miss Wiedman.  I am Theobald Mainwaring and you...you are in significant trouble.”

 He took the wolfsbane potion from Nat and sniffed and tasted it. Seeming satisfied that it was what she claimed it to be he continued,

 “Supplying illegal wolfsbane potion is a serious offence at the best of times, certainly enough to get you carted off to Azkaban for a few years if the aurors should hear of it. These are not the best of times however. There have been attacks by a rogue werewolf. There have been killings. The person responsible for supplying wolfsbane to this werewolf is not only guilty of trading in illegal goods but an accessory to murder as well. Once we catch this werewolf and we will that supplier will get twenty years in Azkaban, twenty years, and I will make sure that their time there is as long and unpleasant as it can be. The word on the street is that that supplier is you Miss Wiedman.

 Luckily for you though you still have a choice.  While normally I would gladly give you to the aurors for trading in illegal goods I have bigger fish to fry. I want the names of your werewolf clients in order to catch this killer. Do this and this (he holds up the wolfsbane potion in his hand) will be forgotten, we will go about our business and you can go about yours and we need never see each other again. Do not and you will rot in Azkaban.

 One final thing you should know Miss Wiedman about your new client is his hatred of purebloods. He is a muggle-born who deliberately targets the old families for their ‘crimes’ against his kind.  Now frankly I don’t care much for bloodist attitudes but the proprietors and clientele of this establishment certainly do.  If you even think of calling on them for aid or double-cross us then they will hear of the circles you have been mixing in. The results will no doubt be unpleasant.“
 

As soon as the cool metal of all those galleons, knuts and sickles were in her greedy little paws, a bunch of confused activity bolstered up beside them.  Dazmond looked over abruptly, only to see Kurby Bagnold sitting right beside her, effectively trapping her into the booth.  Face instantly contorting in disgust, she was ready to start issuing obscenities when her awareness was brought to the burly walrus across from her, who was speaking to her in a low, authoritative voice that somehow said she was at wand-point. 

A set up!  She threw a poisonous glare at the man at her side.

Daz didn't have an option but to sit there and take whatever sort of long speech this was (after she dropped the monies in her bag and put her hands on the table).  She couldn't very well make a scene and let her whole client base know how she was routinely forced into playing informant with the Ministry, at their beck and call whenever they wanted.  She already felt disgusted, and outraged with just about every sentence that came out of Mainwaring's whiskery mouth.  But Dazmond kept her trap shut and didn't make to get away.  Wouldn't do any good, that.  Her jaw very tightly set, eyes glowing with a low but white-hot ember, Dazmond tried to take in what he was telling her.

Twenty years?  Twenty years for being an accessory to murder?  Is that what they were calling the act of giving rogue Werewolves their puppy medicine now?  That was outrageous.  As far as she was concerned, she was just preventing the Ministry from holding a monopoly on the Wolfsbane market, and allowing afflicted individuals the anonymity and freedom that was everyone's right.  Besides, she could do it better than them.  They should have hired her a long time ago for the brewing.  Except that she would never knock heads with their sort.  Not unless she was being blackmailed.

She shot a snarl at Kurby just for good measure.  Just in case he was enjoying himself a bit too much.  It wasn't that she hated him so much as she felt ill in his presence.  She could be around him in conversation, but not for long without giving him a nasty look or saying something mean.  He pushed her buttons.  He pushed everyone's buttons.  And, he was one of them.  Even so, he was more like an annoying relative than an enemy.  Their families were now loosely tied by her uncle's marriage, but Daz felt that the concept of brotherhood was a little lost on Kurby. 

The other bloke, his boss or whatever, she didn't know him but she knew who he was.  She didn't like him, either.  And tonight he was full of things she didn't want to hear.  Aurors.  Azkaban.  Accessory.  Murder.  Twenty years.  List of clients.  That one earned a real scowl.

Daz had snubbed out her half-smoked cigarette minutes before, but now she put the butt in her mouth and leaned forward a bit.  "Gimme a light," she murmured, not about to go for her wand or anything.  If there was one thing she'd been learning about her position with the Ministry, it was that these things could be much more easily handled by negotiation than by wandfire and hurled potions bottles.  Well, maybe there were two things, because she didn't think they really trusted her, either.

"There's gotta be another way about this," she said.  Her voice was low, but not a whisper.  She didn't want to attract attention any more than they did.  "Don't you think I know what you'd do with a list like that?  There's no way.  Just, let me figure out who it is, yeah?  I don't typically think I'm doing the world anything but a favor, giving them a saucer of milk that makes 'em less -- 'grrr'.  What do you mean 'accessory to murder'?  If what you're saying is true -- this pureblooded thing, yeah?  I'll help you.  But not like that."  She looked at him hard, a little wary of how he'd take an ultimatum in response to his ultimatum.  But she had to hold her ground as best she could, so she crossed her arms and leaned back into the bench.

 Theobald was not surprised that she did not want to give up her client list. Still that wasn’t the priority, for now anyway, the murderer was. He decided to up the ante in response to her demand,

“Several people lie dead, brutally slain by a werewolf clearly in control of his actions, one we have good reason to be believe that you supplied with wolfsbane.  Unless he and his followers are stopped, and stopped now, more deaths will follow.  Play it your way if you want. Give one name and get it right and no charges will be pressed against you but if you waste our time on a wild goose chase while he kills again then we’ll haul you in to the Ministry and I’ll see that obstructing the course of justice is added to your other misdemeanours.”