There was something about the contradiction of a bad man in a good place that compelled Alastar to keep on returning to the Leaky Cauldron, although he didn’t honestly believe he was the bad man until someone pointed it out for him. When Potter had overcome the Dark Lord, and Alastar had been but a young man, Rosmerta had made the business mistake of banning him from her fine wizarding watering hole. The bar, that is. It had been a disagreement over which formation would have been most effective for the Irish national team, however as the evening went on, comments quickly became remarks and then barefaced insults, leading to a stitched eyebrow and a hell of a headache the next morning. And those were the days before Alastar was permitted to drink. It wasn’t clear whether the old banshee was still around but for certain, he had been drinking at the tavern for near a decade undetected so far. With the right style of moustache and a large overcoat, he was likely in no danger of losing his local.

One thing was for sure; the place was as drafty as an old bag’s knickers in a strong Devon wind. Alastar always neglected such practicalities as a heavy jacket or woollen jumper, opting instead for the same red leather jacket he had worn for years now, and a plain white t-shirt beneath. He was the only wizard in the joint wearing sunglasses whilst rain shot down violently against the roof above them. With a slightly intoxicated swagger, he advanced upon the bar, nodding for the attention of the goblin-like man serving butterbeers and whiskies. “A glass of your finest poison, m’good man,” he smiled stupidly, “and maybe throw in one of them cocktail umbrellas and the ice cubes shaped like pineapples, y’know the ones?” The bartender replied with a bemused groan, and by god was he on the hideous side of the all creatures great and small scale. A dark, rumpled brow bore down upon his beady eyes and hooked nose, which looked as though it had been broken a few times.

Whilst the man crept away to begrudgingly pour the order, Alastar swung round to glance upon the other drinkers and merrymakers. There were a few tables of grizzly men who seemed to be some kind of Halfling or elf; some Hogwarts students sprawled around on high stools; an elderly gentleman reading a book; a table of three pretty little blondes and the man he had been playing cards with, Jarvis. As the scoundrel had neglected to show to supply Alastar with some work, this round was on him, a fair apology. There was no sense of disappointment or lack of self-worth in the struggle for work but just the clawing to catch up with rent money. Robbing Gringotts had indeed crossed his mind but for the time being, he would try and find Lothario.

With a sweeping motion, Alastar collected two smoky whiskies and made the journey around the seating to his table with Jarvis. It wobbled uncertainly, with Jarvis making a ‘woah, woah!’ sound as the drinks spilled over a little onto the dirty wooden finish. Taking a pack from inside his jacket, Jarvis pulled out and set up a row of cards for some poker; they had the faces of notable figures such as Dumbledore and Harry Potter and would’ve likely fetched a few galleons if Jarvis had chosen to part with them. “I’ll have twenty for you on this one, mate.” Stated Jarvis, as he looked down at his hand. There would be not a galleon laid on the table for fear of attracting unwanted attention, but both players had a mental record of figures to be exchanged in private later.

“It’ll be your loss, Ackles.” Alastar peered down upon a hand that would’ve been as much use as a chocolate teapot, but held his own as he sipped the start of his drink. 

Reaching awkwardly into his pockets, Jarvis produced a small, wooden pipe and tucked it neatly between his lips. It suited him, beneath a thick black beard and his burly shoulders. He had never looked like a prince even back in the days they were at Hogwarts together, but nowadays he had no princess to impress anyway. It comforted Alastar to be in the company of another bachelor.

“You can’t smoke that in here man!” Protested Alastar, who swiftly removed the pipe from the man’s mouth. “There are kids in here!” At this, several of the Hogwarts seniors turned around with a look of annoyance at being branded children. “Jaisus Christ, you’ll have us out on our arse, Jarv.”

“Ach, calm yourself, Alastar. You’ll give yourself a coronary, man.” There was no malice on the face of Jarvis, although he had been looking forward to the sweet mixture of tobacco and whisky. “Besides… yer ma likes it.”

If someone so much as sneezed in Calaveras, Meredith and her workers would be on them with a handkerchief and discovering why the person sneezed and if their nose was just itchy or they had the flu, picked up from where for how long and offer a instant remedy- for a suitable price of course. Information and opportunity as how Meredith thrived. But as any opportunist knew, restricting one's knowledge circle to one area or establishment was certainly not good for business. So it was very common to find Meredith haunting pubs and shops all up and down Diagon Alley. She had a particular fondness for the Leaky Cauldron, mostly because it sat on the threshold of muggle and wizarding London and the wide range of its patrons. The old, young, the good, the bad, and the ugly would all come to the Leaky Cauldron and some point or another. Meredith both admired and envied this about the pub.

Today she was out shopping, but for gossip and news rather than material goods. She was looking impeccable and business like as ever- white blouse and black pencil skirt with a suit jacket and the perfect pair of black heels. Her hair was tied up in a a loose bun, with a few little brown curls falling around her face. The only thing slightly off about her look were the little clever necklace and earrings she wore.

Meredith had ordered a glass of red elven and had sat for at least thirty minutes having the loveliest conversation with the bartender and the old man sitting next to her. When the old man left and the barman turned his attention to a gossiping group of elderly witches, Meredith's eyes roamed around, looking at the crowd for anything that struck her as interesting.

“You can’t smoke that in here man! There are kids in here!

Meredith turned to look at the two card playing men. Dark red lips curved upwards into a slight smirk. She left the bar, leaving a tip for the barkeep on the counter and walked over to the table.

"I wouldn't be too protective of the young ones," Meredith said, amused. "It would hardly surprise me if half of them tried a bit of tobacco before they turned legal."

Phil was dazed, to put it gently. And when he was sunk so deep, all heavy lidded eyes and languid limbs, there was nothing more he craved than people. Like a blind kitten nosing around for the warmth of its mama’s belly, so Philomenes nosed about all the way into Diagon Alley seeking out bubble of heat in the snow.

The Hogshead, the Black Chimaera – too cold in spirit for him this evening. Phil merely curled into the Leaky Cauldron, because he wouldn’t be bothered. Hopefully. The pub was a tatted quilt of good and bad, and one more dark patch wouldn’t stick out much.

Again, hopefully.

He seemed quite content to while away the hours huddled down in his little table by the fire, sifting through Istoria Magikos Archaia, the tome written Greek ancient as the Parthenon and bound before Diagon Alley existed, twirling his hair around his wand, and warming his sock feet under the table.

Well he was, until a familiar body slinked across the floor. Phil’s head swiveled up slow and hazy, like one of those charmed cobras following their master’s flute with wavering eyes. His smile spread smooth and slow, oil over water. Thoughtlessly, he closed his book and slipped his feet back into his boots.

There was an airy softness to him, on nights like this. He didn’t walk so much as he floated over to the card table, pale corona of hair delicately mussed by his wandwork and lit silvery by the low light. The fuzz clouding around his vision spoke perhaps of his charm going to work, or just of his dosage (courtesy of dear Miss Renfield). Or perhaps both.

“Miss Renfield? Ah, good evening. A pleasure to see you outside of business.” There was an airy, dreamy quality to that voice. His silvery saucer eyes traced the length of her scar as he spoke, not hemmed in shock like the last time – quiet, considering. Considering what, exactly, wasn’t certain.

His spindly fingers wormed through the gaps of his crocheted scarf. He dipped his head politely, before blowing a tendril of shimmery gold smoke from the corner of his mouth. Violets and ashes there, twinged the bite of a soporific herb. The scent alone could be enough to send a ripple of ease down someone’s spine.

“Charmed and vaguely threatened as always.”

That quirky gap showed with the barest sliver of teeth, when he smiled. Philomenes cocked his head to card game in progress, smile only widening as his eyes curtained by white lashes.

“Oh,” he said softly. “I see some lads looking to lose their money tonight. Friends of yours, Miss?”

Jarvis’ mocking was met with a gruff retort of, “Watch what you say about my ma. She’s armed and dangerous with a pair of knitting needles nowadays and she aint afraid to use them on yer gnads.” At this, the darker, hairier man, who appeared almost as though he possessed the blood of a half-giant, simply laughed with a dry whine and continued to shuffle cards with his wand. Ancient friendships like these afforded the odd barrage of insults and jibes without ending up in fisticuffs, and Merlin knew, Alastar and Jarvis had been bound together for countless years.

The Leaky Cauldron was always alive with the low hum of voices, clinking of glass and frequent periods of sharp, joyous laughter, but the two men at the centre table were by far emitting the most noise. The bartenders were deaf from years of enduring nights at the tavern. On the back of his neck, Alastar felt a slight breeze and naturally turned as an impressively clad young woman hung off the table. The eyes of both men lingered for a moment on the substantial scarring which tainted her face, wondering where and how it had been gotten. Alastar had the deep-rooted feeling that he had seen her before, either in and around wizarding London’s darker locations or perhaps he had heard of her. Someone with such a distinguishing feature was always seen.

"I wouldn't be too protective of the young ones" “It’s their ma’s duty to worry and I don’t think I’m the fatherly type.” Alastar whipped his head quickly back to Jarvis, “That is unless she goes through the Ministry first.” And both men let out those foul cackles congratulating themselves on decadent chauvinism.

As he settled back down, Alastar welcomed the young woman by gesturing loosely to a seat around the small table. “If you’re here to make a few shiny galleon out of a few overgrown men, you’d better take a seat, although…” His eyes focused once again on the spectacular outfit that graced the witch’s figure, “from the looks of it, I’d say you’ve got a fair few of your own and somewhere likely better to be.” Shame on Alastar for judging perfect strangers on their attire, but that was just how he was. If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it’s likely a duck. In his own quiet way, he was challenging the woman but being in no way unfair as his current behaviour was just a sampling of what was to be a full evening of debauchery.

”Miss Renfield? Ah, good evening. A pleasure to see you outside of business.” Remarkable. Alastar hadn’t encountered a soul with Veela blood since his days at Hogwarts and yet there he stood not more than a few feet away, a young man with the same affliction. Wait a minute. Business? It was confirmed that the witch must have had her fingers in some little pies in and around wizarding London. They may have had dealings, may have met before. It was a faceless profession much of the time.

“I see some lads looking to lose their money tonight.” The Veela had a voice as light and his radiant as his features and seemed to harden a touch beneath a Scottish accent. With every Hogwarts graduate living in London, it was a wonder anywhere north was still populated besides the muggles. “Well, fella, you say that like we two ruffians had any money to lose in the first instance, but any friend of this lady’s is a friend of mine.”  Alastar tapped his large, scarred hand on the top of the last chair available. “Jarv and I would be only too honoured to join in on this sweet, little reunion.”

The Leaky Cauldron was not as busy as it could be, but it was warm, and the food was better than some other places he could be. Michael lounged at a shadowy table between Muggle London and Wizarding Hogsmeade, and drank something sharp and golden from a glass. He was zoning out, set on some low-activity state that let him do so without being roused by an overly raucous laugh or a flash of Auror-like red. Or maybe it was the alcohol, burning low and sweet in his veins and singing him a lullaby. Whatever, he watched the room through heavy-lidded, inattentive eyes that flicked up occasionally when the center table let out a burst of noise or the door-draft swept by him with its freezing fingers.

He was light haired today, green-eyed and fair-faced but nothing like his wanted posters. Well, of course not. Michael might be crazy, but he wasn't reckless.

Usually.

Idly, his eyes flared a little to track the progress of a woman all dolled up in men's clothing, filling it up nicely and all the more appealing for the turn of her head which revealed a livid left side. Michael had had very little interest in pleasure of the bedroom sort since... well, since his stay in Azkaban. A constant lingering state of low-grade misery and pain, courtesy of the now-absent Dementers, didn't do much for the libido. But he could appreciate certain aesthetic things, ranging from the sprawl of a fresh corpse sleeping quietly in a frozen alley to the vivid plastic-wrapped symmetry of a shelf of candy, and he certainly could appreciate the irony of a disfiguring mark on a beautiful woman. It made her more beautiful, not less, or at least more interesting, two things which to Michael were nearly identical. The only difference was that he rated interesting higher.

But that wouldn't have been enough to make him stir from his chair if not for the next figure to trail lazily over to the same table as the woman, joining the two loudest men in the bar. That figure was... familiar. And maybe a little fuller, thanks to him. In one fluid movement, Michael was up and out of his chair, leaving behind him the muted crash and tinkling of what had once been his glass.

He oozed over just in time to hear Phil's comment about some lads looking to lose their money. Well, that was an opening line if Michael had ever heard one.

"I'm looking to lose some money," he purred. "May I join?" Restless hands played with the back of the chair, tracing quick jagged paths along the wood grain as he bounced it back and forth on its back legs. Slide of fingers down polished wood in careful caress, his gaze couldn't seem to settle on any of them but did alight most frequently on Phil. "I'll make it a reunion of three." And he looked at Phil, and grinned, and said sweetly, "Eh, bachgen?"

No games here. This wasn't like drinking tea with Audrey in a cafe and flirting like a married stranger-wolf, no no no. He'd like Phil to remember him. But the boy had been awfully dim the first and last time they'd met, not catching the flow from light to dark in Michael's eyes or the disappearance of pointed teeth. Maybe he needed a whole-body transformation to get the point.

The roaming eyes and chauvinist comments didn't make Meredith so much as blink. She had began her career in a man's world and had quickly acclimatised to the attitudes of its citizens. As for her face...well, these days she demanded attention to it. On the many days she wore a fedora, it was always tilted to shadow over her 'good side.' The scars were her trademark, made her memorable which made her feel safe to walk down Knockturn Alley at three in the morning alone. If she couldn't be beautiful, she would damn well be unforgettable.

Meredith couldn't quite contain a slight smirk when the men asked her if she was interested in taking some galleons from them (not that she really tried that hard). Oh, she'd probably squeeze a few galleons from them eventually though it may not be in a game of cards. Poker, well any gambling really, was a great source of profit. You could establish connections, make trading deals and swap information. She learned how to play by necessity. Well that and it killed boredom in the coffee room way back the Old Man's office.

"Oh I always have the time for a good game or two," Meredith said, taking a seat at the table. "Other places can wait and my 'fair few' galleons should be considered as acceptable tender as your own...few. Assuming you'll be able to get your hands on them in the first place."

A little corner smile clued the men in on the light jest. They had a point- she certainly had a very different presentation than either man. Well, she'd had long conversations with worse, so she wasn't too bothered. She just liked being well put together. The devil in the details and all of that.

A familiar silky voice coming from behind gave Meredith pause. She turned her head and gave Phil, the world's most charming druggie, a nod and then a smile when he said he was both charmed and vaguely threatened. Well, this was a surprise. Frankly, she expected the man to be curled up in a stupor for the next month or so. She wondered vaguely about what his tolerance had built up to.

"You'll turn a poor girl's head with talk like that, Philomenes," Meredith said in an off-handed fashion, her eyes focusing more on the two other men. "As for these two, we were just getting acquainted. Why don't you take a seat, seeing how we've just so sweetly been invited?"

Her eyes flicked between the two men, both quite strongly built by the looks of it and a little more on the rough-side in appearance, though more so Jarv. Still, no one quite had the worse-for-the-wear look down like Philomenes and next to him, the pair might as well have been suiting up for a formal dinner.

Phil seemed just as eager to start join into a card game, something that amused Meredith for some reason. Well, she supposed the money he paid her for his 'medicine' had to come from somewhere, although she had never pegged him for a successful gambler.

However, a newcomer seemed willing to oblige the pale man. Meredith looked up at the fair-faced newcomer, cheerfully volunteering to drop a few galleons. Reunion of three? Meredith glanced briefly at Phil before back at the man. He knew the little junkie did he? And possibly Meredith herself? She didn't recognize him...interesting. Did he really know something Meredith didn't or was he just a smooth-talking bluffer? Either way, Meredith was intrigued to find out.

"By all means," she said, gesturing to the table. "Are you also acquainted with Mr. Jarv and Alastar here?"

“That’s the idea, you know. Turning you on your head.”
 
Philomenes was eyeing Miss Renfield in a way more befitting a Dali painting than a lady. That kind of bluntness could be anything from ‘offensive’ to ‘refreshing’, depending on who’s ears it got to poking around in. Right now? Right now, Phil could barely feel the toes in his socks or the teeth in his mouth. Getting on anyone’s nerves was no concern of his.

He was smiling in that detached sort of way that screamed ‘I’m not here right now, please leave message after the tone and I’ll try to return your call; only I won’t, seeing as I’m high off my gourd and won’t remember.’ Philomenes blinked up at Michael placid as a Hindu cow.

“Oh, don’t I know you? Mister? Beg your pardon? No, I’m afraid I don’t know anyone named Bachgen. Probably shearing sheep, where ever he is.” He fell back into a rickety chair like a feather, draping his lithe limbs all over its wood as if he planned to coil around it like ivy.

“Sounds like some poor soul from the black country, dare I say. But you do remind me of someone; strange fellow got me candy a few days back – not your kind of candy, Miss Renfield, actual sugar-chocolate candy – and I said he was a vampire, but he said he wasn’t, not that I believe him any because you can’t believe a goddamn thing you hear these days.”

He paused, cig cocked in his three-fingered hand, and took a sip from a butterbeer on the table. Nevermind if it was his or not; Phil didn’t look like he knew who’s pants he was wearing right now.

“I wouldn’t even believe that if I were you, though. I could be a lie. He also had a horse. See? And that most certainly was a lie.”

Phil shrugged out of his coat, feeling at once all too warm. His shirt, some dingy green plaid affair that probably belonged to a half-giant, hung off his body limply and the sleeves swallowed much of his hands. He cuffed them up around his elbows, showing skim milk pale forearms and the speckled bruises of needle tracks peppering the crooks of his elbows.

“Oh, are we playing poker?” Philomenes blinked down at the cards, as if he’d just noticed them. “How sweet. I do remember, I recall most fondly even, that this one time I played with a fellow who had charmed the things to burst into flames at every bluff. The game didn’t last very long seeing as we ran out of cards.”

Those big pale hands of his flapped around as he spoke, wafting pretty smelling gold smoke in the faces of all present.

Jarvis was as mellow as a hippie in a camper van, continuing to send off clouds of rancid smoke as their new found company took to the table. There was nothing that could rouse the suspected quarter-giant from the comfort of his surroundings, although for Alastar, the same calm didn’t quite apply. Truth be told, he had become quite paranoid at the thought of branching out in such public places. Ministry pigs had eyes everywhere nowadays.

"I'll make it a reunion of three." It didn’t matter if you frequented The Leaky Cauldron every night of the week, you could still feel like a stranger. It was London, where you could get lost and no one would really care, not really, if you were ever found again. Still, Alastar and Jarv. Always had time for new friends, so chairs were pulled out and the table begun to resemble something of C. M. Coolidge’s, ’Dog’s Playing Poker’ series.

"Other places can wait and my 'fair few' galleons should be considered as acceptable tender as your own...few.” Alastar pretended to recoil, slightly drunkenly, in fear of Renfield. He did love a woman who actually possessed a spine. She didn’t seem to think twice about putting her sharp tongue to good use either. “Watch out, boys, we got a little viper at the table." He ran his hands across the edge of the cards, and ran them in between each other with his palms. "Plenty of action at the table but prepare to draw dead every time, ladies and gentleman. You are looking at two fast-handed brothers.”

There was something peculiar about the way the fair-haired skeleton of the bunch moved, even in the way he spoke, that caused Alastar to smile inwardly. The conversation flowed from him like fine wine at a wife-swapping party and he was altogether entertaining to say the least. At the light-hearted jabs thrown between the two men, Alastar laughed, falling forward a little and raising his brow. “Now, come come, gentleman. We can’t play a hand with the bitterness of two old biddies at the table. I demand that you kiss and make-up, especially since, if I hadn’t noticed the five o’clock shadow, Phil, I may have mistook you for a very alluring but flat-chested young lady.” The words of a well-oiled but friendly wizard, simply reaching out the young Veela-blood.

“I can’t promise you the same, charming display but I will deal the cards, sonny Jim.” He shifted upwards, quickly shuffling and tossing the flimsy cards to each player at the table. The Irishman may or may not have been a dab hand at the game, but all that mattered was masculine bravado and a disgusting amount of confidence.

The livid-faced woman spread her hands, welcoming him to the table and asking if he knew the other two small mountains. Michael's pale eyes flicked over them, reckless and searching; he knew neither of their faces, hadn't expected to, hadn't intended to, and only the movement of Meredith's hands had led his gaze there.

"Of course not," he said, without a trace of surprise, and finally seated himself. But even sitting down, he seemed poised to action, straining forward as if eager for the game to begin. Whether it was the card game or something else he wanted, however, remained to be seen. Phil didn't recognize him, and Michael turned on him a bright, placid smile.

"No, I’m afraid I don’t know anyone named Bachgen. Probably shearing sheep, where ever he is.”

"Probably," he agreed gravely - and if Michael lashed out at everyone who made a Welsh joke, there'd be no Brits left at all - and, "Yes, I remember. So unpleasant. I'm not a vampire, however - well, only occasionally." He flicked the tip of a pointed incisor with his tongue. Unlike the baring of teeth in the sweetshop, this was still a smile, and now a vaguely apologetic one that culminated in raised eyebrows and wide, pretty blue eyes for the benefit of the rest of the group. But as innocent as he looked, those teeth hadn't been there moments ago. Well, they had, but when he'd first approached they'd been perfectly blunt.

Michael tilted his head at the cards on the table, smile fading at double-time. The fingers of one hand smoothed over the pitted surface, and he drawled, "Aren't we to begin?" The hand retreated under the table again, and Michael turned his head towards Phil attentively as the boy spoke.  His eyes glittered in the golden smoke, but he didn't wave it away.

His concentration was broken by Alastar, who startled him into a hoarse, crow-like laugh. "Bitterness? You jest, old son. No kissing, neither. I wouldn't want some other man's salt lick. Come now, deal the ca - ahh, good man." He leaned forward, intent on the cards Alastar was dealing.

That’s the idea, you know. Turning you on your head.

Meredith glanced at Phil with an expression somewhere between amusement and condescension. He was a tad bit on the special side, her Phil.  She knew some of her employees had their eyes on him, waiting for an excuse to pounce. Of course, Meredith was doing the same. The only thing she trusted about Phil was that his money was valid tender.

Meredith turned her head and her attention back to Alaster and Jarvis, the former of the two called her a little viper. She smirked. Well wasn't this just a table of smooth talkers that knew the way to a girl's good graces?

"Flatter," she said. "Though you hardly look much like like a fluffy bunny yourself."

She shot another quick glance at Phil, who was probably the closest the table had to harmless (she still wasn't sure about the fourth man, but she felt fairly secure in her assumption) but only because the part Veela looked too close to damn dazed too be dangerous. It was an illusion, of course. Meredith had no doubt Phil could cause just as many problems, if not more than a sober person. Junkies had less inhibitions, no matter what they were on. Like him talking about the fourth man's 'real' sweets compared to Meredith's not so real ones. Careful little boy, Meredith thought. He hadn't outright said it, but anyone with a smattering of intellect would know she dealt. She didn't so much mind that part as she was cautiously concerned about Phil becoming more explicit to his relationship with Meredith. Like with all her business partners and clients, Meredith devoted time to find ways to discredit or silence them should one ever go to the law or the Prophet. But just because she had an escape clause didn't mean she was eager to use it. An investigation could be very damaging for sales in all sectors.

Her mood lifted as the conversation turned to lighter matters and she did have to chuckle at both Alastar's demand for a kiss and makeup and comparing Phil to a flat chested girl.

"It's all the sweets," Meredith said softly, leaning into the table with a sly little side glance. "Poor thing seems to have taken a liking to my sugar skulls. Apparently, all that processed sugar's gone to the poor thing's head."

Well, the cat was already out of the bag, as it were. Might as well confirm her wares along with where they could be taken, if they caught the line of conversation. If not, well tn she was just being a tease and of course Calaveras did make the candy concoction that was it's namesake. Technically, legally, she admitted nothing.

Phil's other addictive habit wafting smoke all over the place was making Meredith want one of her own. Se reaching into her bag and pulled out a cigarette case, taking one out and lighting it with her wand. Hers were more standard in appearance then Phil's, but they were of excellent quality.

The other man, the unknown, made a comment about being an occasional vampire, complete with a demonstration as to where he was know. Interesting. Meredith studied him for a bit longer, her mind already working to place the man and get a name for that face. His candy man role for Phil she found humorous, but she was wondering what else he did.

"Occasional?" Meredith asked, raising an eyebrow. "Now there's a trick. Anything else you've got up your sleeve, Mr...?"

Whether or not this was a trick that could be bought was another matter. The man seemed to like to talk about himself and Meredith was thinking she might like to encourage such a behavior.

She inhaled deeply on her cigarette and then exhaled, watching Alastar's hand shuffle the deck and deal out to each player with practiced ease.

"Looks like you're pretty practiced in taking people's money," Meredith commented. "What's the ante?"