England had changed quite a bit, Ignan thought, as he studied the end of his second drink, propped at the end of the bar in London's Leaky Cauldron. The alcohol didn't numb the fresh thoughts of the previous month, but it might help him sleep that night without some of those bloodthirsty dreams.

Travelling the world for decades, becoming an old man without wanting to, Ignan had seen many things, and done all manner of deeds. Only, he'd never got caught for them until late August. Three wizards dead at his wand, only they weren't the criminals he was led to believe, but peaceful, unwitting wizards. The power and the exploration had made him giddy on his feet, along with the romantic liaison that had entirely swayed his head in the final moments.

He didn't realise he was sat staring into the bottom of the glass, lost in his thoughts until someone dropped a plate in the kitchen. The pub was altogether a little quiet for an evening, the current state of the British Ministry and the second rise of Voldemort was keeping everyone away to their families on an evening, unless they too were dulling their nerves.

Looking down the bar, he saw a wizard with a similar look haunting his features. With a little alcohol already in his belly, it wasn't so hard to extract himself from the end, towards the stranger, and order them both another drink.
"Another for me, and whatever he's having." Ignan told the barman, his accent still a bit unusual as he tuned back into speaking English for the first time in many months.

Glasses clinked and dishes clacked as passed between the darkened and melancholy swig of wizards decorating the tables, chairs, and stools of the Leaky Cauldron. With his withering red hair and wrinkling face, Torquil Foley sat unmoved in one of the barstools, his stare weighing down on a silver pocket watch laying in his palms. He eyed the roman numerals engraved around a little window peering into the golden machinations of the tiny machine for the umpteenth time. And in the little window, two pairs of tiny hands varying in sizes pointed out the hours and minutes, while another one clicked away the seconds.

With every click that tapped against his hand, he recalled the most recent events in his long life.

The corruption of the Daily Prophet, and its sudden lack of any evidence and detour towards the lies and slander of muggles—it was no place for a researcher.

His colleagues, and acquaintances, some he’d like to call friends, either dragged out of their homes and done away with by Death Eaters or stricken and deprived of unpure family.

Torquil thumbed the window of the watch. Him, his wife, and children were not mudblood—but his heritage could be questioned, since he could not readily name his father, who was only known as a pureblood playboy to the generation of Torquil’s grandparents. The only word that saved him was either that of Cael’s, a part of his family he was already robbed of, or that of his wife’s—but he was sure her fondness of him was only sustained through Cael. His and his family’s safety were not assured, especially considering the pas events.

Then he popped open the watch, the rim of the piece lined with words instead of numbers, the five hands started to split into their own directions, the tiny gears began to travel with the hands, and broken and fragile decorated dials began rotating and twisting across the face. The first three hands, were that of his children, domino-ing each other from the word School, to the engravings Mortal Peril, and then to St. Mungo’s—which adequately described the series of events involving polyjuice potion, his two youngest children boarding the Hogwarts Express (instead of his two oldest), an angry middle son, and an explosion of unskilled spells and misused potions. Torquil stuttered out a sigh as he watched the final two hands, that belonged to the oldest sons, pointed to School, as the menagerie of clockwork parts behind them wheeled and ticked into place, piecing into place the outlines of “UP to NO GOOD” against the black background of device.

He was lucky, was all he could think of, that somehow his family was still alive despite his childrens’ rowdy and uncontrollable behavior. He was an utter failure as a disciplinary, a father some might even say, that no matter what he did he couldn’t mold his children into consistent obedience. Even his wife, Delilah went on a rant about sending a contagious curse to all the Death Eaters, and then retreating back to Jamaica. But there, they faced money problems and the problem of supporting their family, here they faced similar problems, but Torquil could solve those problems here—he really could—or should. If he could Britain was the only place he could solve it.

Perhaps more beer—but as Torquil reached for his glass all he saw was his dim reflection in the glass mug, and he had no means or money to fill that glass again. He couldn’t even drink his problems away, like the poor man could, he might as well retreat into the night and wait for what becomes of him and tries to swallow him up.

Then the glass was replaced with a filled one and Torquil feared for his earnings, “Oh I don’t wan—“
The grungy bartender jammed a thumb down the bar, “From the bloke mopin’ over there,” he croaked.

Torquil turned and saw another dim reflection of himself, in spirit and not in glass. He then clasped the watch in his hand and pulled the drink towards him, feeling comfort in being saved from his hopeless thoughts.

“Kind of you,” Torquil chimed towards the man, and then took a gulp of the drink, “It’s good to share a drink… and, I suppose misery, in these times.” He opened his hand and peered at the closed pocket watch in his hand, once again ticking away at the hours, minutes, and seconds.

The drinks both found their ways to their owners, and despite the surprised remark from his counterpart, remains. The identity of its sender revealed with a twitch of the head.

“Kind of you,” The stranger responded, then took a gulp of the drink, appearing thirsty. “It’s good to share a drink… and, I suppose misery, in these times.” The stranger opened his hand and peered at something within. Waiting for something? Perhaps.

His feet finding the floor, Ignan reduced the distance between them both. To raise one's voice in such a time would be ill mannered, despite their surroundings.
"Not at all." He told the stranger, placing down his drink on the bar, stealing a look at the glint of something in the man's palm, well hidden by his curled fingers.

"Do you mind?" He asked, so quietly, almost hoping he will not answer either way, as he gestures to the stool beside. There was a pause as both men contemplated their drink.
"Does every wizard in Britain carry its troubles on their shoulders?" Ignan asked, half turned to regard the rest of the quiet pub, not at all how it had been in his younger days, in his prime - for the few years he lived here. "No place to run from them here, not now." He mused, and sipped his drink, before glancing at the stranger, gauging his reaction for suitable return comment.

Too much suspicion in these times. He extended his hand,
"Ignan Storm."

As the man moved closer and gestured towards the chair, Torquil just gave a light nod and then studied his drink, unsure of how to continue to the conversation, or if it should be continued at all.

"Does every wizard in Britain carry its troubles on their shoulders?"

The short Irishman chopped out a snort with a bit amusement and scoff as he took another gulp of his drink and then opened his palm, letting the weight of the pocket watch sink into his hand.

"No place to run from them here, not now."

An extended hand an a greeting from the man, Ignan Storm, brought Torquil back to his senses. He unclasped his mug and took the outreached hand in a strong shake, "Torquil Foley," he said, sounding in agreement.

 He then gave Ignan Storm a final lookover and then churned out a response to his previous comment, "For those who didn’t sort their life out before," he looked back at the wizards in the pub and then drew his attention back to Ignan, "things changed. I’d imagine the weight they carried increased," he clenched his hand with the watch and then held it in a show of mimicking strength, "tenfold."

 He paused and then slyly continued with a raised pair of brows, "and the only suitable place to carry such a heavy load would be to strap it to the shoulders, unless you wish to fall or let it drop," and then he quickly looked at his clenched hand, making sure he still had a hold of his load, and that his watch was still in his hand.

"Torquil Foley," The English stranger replied.

"For those who didn’t sort their life out before," his eyes wandered to others in the pub, "things changed. I’d imagine the weight they carried increased, tenfold." He clenched his hand.

"And then some." Ignan echoed, his own eyes looking out on the hunched figures in the bar. Nobody really appeared to be having that much of a good time. Everything was subdued, cautious.

"and the only suitable place to carry such a heavy load would be to strap it to the shoulders, unless you wish to fall or let it drop,"

"Metaphorical of you." Ignan replied, thinking that the object that Foley clenched in his hand must be of great value to him, but could still not quite see what it was. "Which means you need to drink some more, and cast that heavy load off for an evening!" He told his new companion firmly.

"Its what these people feed off, the instilled fear and nerves of the population, waiting for them to turn on each other and finish the job of destroying the country without lifting a finger any more than they had to to get into power." Ignan noticed the uncomfortable looks on several nearby faces as they looked his way. If only they knew he'd done as worse as the people they feared, yet sat amongst them as an ally now. The barman put down a glass a little hard, and Ignan frowned.

"Perhaps I feel it easy to speak about because I have no roots here. It must be harder for you, with family in Britain to support?" He made a guess that Foley was not a long life bachelor, something about him, the rough edge of him slightly smoothed by a woman. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something made him believe such.

Once the other man directed him to drink more, Torquil greedily gulped down a good bulk of the beverage, grateful for his new companion, but then questioned what he might have done once the man opened his mouth again.

"Its what these people feed off, the instilled fear and nerves of the population, waiting for them to turn on each other and finish the job of destroying the country without lifting a finger any more than they had to to get into power."

Torquil paused for a moment contemplating why Ignan Storm might say this, but instead of dwelling on it too much longer the Irishman soaked his throat and drowned his senses with more of his drink. The man must have been one to speak his mind, and Torquil should not be surprised, since he had grown up with these kinds of people. And many times, they were right. And this time was no different, as Torquil whole-heartedly agreed with the man. If something hadn’t turned around soon, or stopped the The Miserable dictator, he was sure the Death Eaters would have the wizarding world clutched in a deadly grip.

Torquil set his drink down, eyebrows raised in curiosity at Ignan as he was sorely given his next drink.

“Perhaps I feel it easy to speak about because I have no roots here. It must be harder for you, with family in Britain to support?”

He first pondered a moment as to how Ignan could guess he had a family, then cocked his head to the side and nodded, thinking he probably looked the part of a father, and that most people guessed this fact about him when he was dwelling on thoughts of his family.

“It’s a mess,” Torquil blurted through a sigh, and then held up his watch for Ignan to see, “but it is mostly of our own doing.” He laid it on the bar between them and then looked up at the wall in front of him, “five hands, five kids,” He looked back at Ignan and gestured towards the face of the device. “My wife doesn’t even restrain her dreary opinions about these times.”

“It’s a mess,” Torquil replied and held up what he had clasped in his hand, revealing a pocket watch. “but it is mostly of our own doing.” He laid it on the bar between them, and Ignan peered a little closer. 

“Five hands, five kids,” Torquil explained, and Ignan saw the five hands arrange themselves.
“My wife doesn’t even restrain her dreary opinions about these times.”

"Do women ever?" Ignan asked rhetorically a beat later with a smirk. He drank another slug of his drink, and peered back down again at the watch.
"You don't follow her on your watch, just your children. Curious." He observed, and raised an eyebrow. Not being a father himself, he could only glean that the care for one's offspring could outweigh that of his wife. Actually, he could understand that, though five children suggested the marriage was anything but loveless.

"All at school? Or old enough at least?" Ignan asked referring to the watch with a hand, but not studying it so closely it appeared rude. "Hogwarts I presume?"

Torquil took a final swig of his drink, dampening his thoughts with the smell of alcohol. He was starting to be able to come to terms with his troubles, and then he realized that he was pouring his world onto this near-stranger and not giving him the chance to offer anything in return. Then again, did he even want to? The man seemed to show more curiosity than spite, so Torquil cradled the watch towards Ignan.

“Yes, Hogwarts” he answered confidently, and then popped open the face and let Ignan see the hands move to their appropriate locations, and tapped his finger next to the elegant and tiny ‘St. Mungo’s’ text where three of the hands resided, “They’re all usually in and out of there all summer,” he said with a confident air of humility.

“But Deli, my wife,” he tossed the humility in his voice aside, “I don’t need to watch her, best to leave her off of it.” He took unconsciously took a deep breath, “She’s wise, she knows how to handle herself… this is convenient, but it’s not necessary.” He thumbed the watch down onto the counter and stared at it hopelessly, “I don’t need to turn my constant worry to monitor my children would into one of habitual temptation.” Yes, this thing was merely a convenience, a tool, not another limb. In fact it was more like the plague which caused Torquil to massage his forhead in his hand, “It’s not a healthy habit.”

The red-haired man then took a glance back at his drink, hoping to see it filled only to let his gaze settle on perfectly transparent glass. It was ridiculous how much Torquil needed to drink before he was truly drowning in the unconscious rambling of a drunk, but Torquil didn’t mind that tonight he was aware of what he was doing, who he was talking to—well sort of knew who he was talking to. He had a feeling he was going on, anyway. And in a brief moment of thoughtful silent curiosity spurred forth a question from him, and he raised his face to Ignan, “I don’t suppose the burdens that brought you hear tonight are something as routine as mine?”

“But Deli, my wife, I don’t need to watch her, best to leave her off of it. She’s wise, she knows how to handle herself… this is convenient, but it’s not necessary.” He stared at the watch on the bar, and Ignan couldn't help but wonder if he felt he'd like to, even if he felt he didn't need to watch her - just for peace of mind.

“I don’t need to turn my constant worry to monitor my children would into one of habitual temptation.  It’s not a healthy habit.”

"Whereas drinking is?" Ignan asked with mischief, seeing Torquil's eyes on his empty glass.
"Another." He asked the barman who was in earshot, and signaled it meant both.

“I don’t suppose the burdens that brought you here tonight are something as routine as mine?”

"I run away from burdens, I do." Ignan replied swiftly. "Why carry them when there's the whole world to flee from them?" His grey eyes followed what the barman was doing with their drinks, eagerly awaiting their arrival.
"Well not for much longer, time to head home, take care of a few things." The drinks landed with a clunk, and Ignan handed over the coins.
"Lucky I can, escape them, I mean. Looks like all you want to do my fellow." He nudged the other glass towards Torquil.
"Good job this will do in the meantime, eh?" Ignan asked raising his glass.

They drank.

"If its not the drink, then what does a man do to distract himself from troubled times and children fighting? You seem to me a worldly man, not one to stay put for too long. Am I right?" Ignan asked, and in the back of his mind, he realised inevitably the question could come back to him, and I killed people for a living for a while didn't really roll off the tongue quite so easily, even though it was the truth of the last six or so months at least.

Torquil’s mustache twisted into a wry grin as Ignan caught his gaze on his glass, “Well,” he chuckled, “Old habit,” he simply answered in return as Ignan ordered another set of drinks.

"Lucky I can, escape them, I mean. Looks like all you want to do my fellow." He nudged the other glass towards Torquil.

Torquil wove his rough hand around the glass and smiled contently at it, “I would like to solve my problems before I resort to running.” Then he raised his glass with his companion and took a drink.

Torquil tapped his hand on the table for a minute, considering Ignan’s comment, and then started to work his way around the question, “Ah I move a lot. I’m everywhere—due to working, and it’s enjoyable,” he admitted, “but coming back to a family, a home—is the most important thing to me.”

He then starting to grasp at hope again, as he looked Ignan in the eyes, “Why run when there is a solution that can settle things.” He gave an exasperated sigh and his gaze drifted far away from him, “I face them, everyday. I won’t deny and distract myself of where I currently stand in life.” He snapped his gaze back to Ignan and where he currently was again, gave a hopeful smile and took a gulp of his new drink.

“I would like to solve my problems before I resort to running.” Torquil explained.

"You're getting old then." Ignan smirked, "No, its an admirable stance on life." He added in a respectful tone.

“Ah I move a lot. I’m everywhere—due to working, and it’s enjoyable,” he admitted, “but coming back to a family, a home—is the most important thing to me.” He looked Ignan in the eye. “Why run when there is a solution that can settle things. I face them, everyday. I won’t deny and distract myself of where I currently stand in life.”

"Then Sir, I toast you, because I am a coward in comparison." Ignan replied softly, and raised his drink to toast Foley, his eyes slipping momentarily past his drinking companion to the figures coming in behind him. Still very much of the habit to keep checking the safety of him and his party his mind mentally reached to his wand, still at fingertip's reach, and his eyes refocused on the distance, deciding how much more he could drink before he would be incapable of accurately defending himself. Perhaps this should be his last for a while.

Danger not present, at least, anything that was positively dangerous at least, so his focus returned to Foley.

"I am with you on the traveling, nothing more enjoyable, but unlike you, I've had no need to return to a family, no reason for grounding, which has been to my cowardly advantage." He raised his eyebrows and put down his drink on the worn bar. "It must be a blessing, and a worry to have them, but I very much doubt you'd ever have it another way, despite their tendencies to run into trouble." His eyes lifted to recall the odd punishments he'd seen inflicted on his Durmstrang fellows as a teenager decades back.

"Temporarily fusing fingers and confiscating wands can put pay to a lot of meddling you know. It was considered a fairly trivial measure to keep meddlesome minds in check amongst the younger years at school." He smiled to himself, still recalling the punishments his father would give out. "Mm, trivial indeed, losing a hand and having to regrow it, that was a far longer lasting reminder to stay in line..."

A coward? His defenses seemed to be in check, he had been surveying the scene constantly, and now his hand seemed to tense for for something, his wand, most likely--suspicious, but perhaps a natural development of instinct, considering the times. At least the man accepted his fears, but the Irish wizard truly wondered if the man ran around and was constantly moving simply because of fear.

• "I am with you on the traveling, nothing more enjoyable, but unlike you, I've had no need to return to a family, no reason for grounding, which has been to my cowardly advantage." He raised his eyebrows and put down his drink on the worn bar.

Torquil's rough fingers fidgeted on his glass, "Perhaps it is cowardice. but you sound like you've been thrown to the wind--lost." The ginger wizard had been through something, "just haven't found that certain something yet, to nail you back down to a path."  He knew that it took a while of him being lost to find it, well I couple of "its," a steady career would have been a preferable it Torquil longed for. Then his companion continued on.

• "It must be a blessing, and a worry to have them, but I very much doubt you'd ever have it another way, despite their tendencies to run into trouble."

Torquil smiled and shamefully chuckled into a sigh.

• "Temporarily fusing fingers and confiscating wands can put pay to a lot of meddling you know. It was considered a fairly trivial measure to keep meddlesome minds in check amongst the younger years at school."
  

"An extreme to 'idle hands.' We've done it," he regarded thoughtfully, "they just resort to potions or other magical meddlings. You never quite realize the extent of a child's nature until you believe them rendered less harmless and let them loose..." he motioned his head into a shake, "like a tempest."

• He smiled to himself, still recalling the punishments his father would give out. "Mm, trivial indeed, losing a hand and having to regrow it, that was a far longer lasting reminder to stay in line..."

And finally it occured to him, the faint accent, and the casual remark of such a level of discipline, "Durmstrang?" his rusty voice peeked.  Torquil pondered on if he should have managed to ship his children off to Durmstrang, and maybe that it would drill some calmness into them, "What sort of mental effect does that have on a child? The hand thing," he gestured. This thought primarily snapped to his daughter, who's temperament, at the current stage in her life, affected her very state of being, however confiscating a hand didn't seem like it wasn't an option.

"How long do they deal with?" He had never personally grown back a limb--broken them and shattered them in nearly every possible way, but never had to physically replace one. If he did he was sure Delilah would make it a long and excruciating process just to teach him a lesson.