Calaveras
Sometime after 9pm

Tuesday night was not exactly “hopping” at Calavera’s. In the lowlight of the vintage speakeasy Dolly sat, towards the back table sipping gin and listening to quite possibly the most self important critic she had had the misfortune to be paired with thus far on her press tour. Idly she touched the jeweled flowers in her hair and scanned the room for anyone who might save her. This little get together was supposed to have wrapped up by now. She had a sinking suspicious this was the price she would pay for a good review. Sometimes she wished she didn’t know the politics so well and just excuse herself to the loo and sneak out the back door. She’d done that more than once during the realease of the first book. She hadn’t had much stomach for flirting with bores back then. Now, now she knew that there was a certain level of schmoozing involved in everything.

Pretending to be interested when someone else talked about themselves though, she just wasn’t every good at it - especially if they weren’t interesting. His name was Paul and he was from London. He had a cat [what man owned a cat and used it as an interesting fact about themselves?] he worked for some paper she couldn’t remember the name of - but had once called her fat and now tried to butter her up because they wanted juicy gossip bits and to figure out first who Devlin was supposed to be in her real life. She’d heard everything from a member of the muggle Royal family to Dennis Creevy and Harry Potter himself. Personally, while she did like scars, she’d always found Harry a self important prat who got to bend the rules however they suited him.

She had now fully tuned out and was musing over her last talk with Kurby as she toyed with one of the chains around her neck. Whatever “game” Paul had - it must have been played out because he mistook her fidgeting in boredom to mean that she was being coy and flirtatious. She did not realize this until she felt him slide around the table and place a hand on her inner thigh. And what happened next well…Dolly’s drink ended up all over his face for starters. He replied in kind with something about the roster of men that had been in her bed lately, and somewhere between the wh and the ore a solid right hook made contact with his eye.

If she were honest with herself, it was as much for boring her to tears as trying to cop a feel. She quickly stood and marched toward the door calling over her should for him to pay for his own damn drinks and his editor would be hearing from her and the St. James legal team. She was so absolutely indignant that she did not see she was headed straight in the chest of a another wizard - though subconsciously she was pleased that Paul was holding his eye and being lead out the other way by a burly looking bouncer. She let out an audible “Ouf!” and without casting her eyes upward nearly growled, “Of all the insensitive things! Can’t you see I am trying to make an exit here”?

There was an ambience surrounding Calveras that was undeniable, but as someone outwith its target client base, Alastar was only motivated to make an appearance through his association with Meredith Renfield, to gain an insight into how she was operating within London. There was never a great deal of intelligence available on the streets since everyone was too paranoid and too private, so if you really wanted in on something, you had to go fishing. From what he could tell, the guise of nightclub owner and events manager was proving successful for the young witch but for how long it would last was questionable. Without bordering on unfair criticism, the impression Alastar got was that Renfield was living under the pretence that status and success would grant her immunity from the law. She had cause to be this confident as she was a curious and attractive woman, even beneath that dreadful scarring, but if they were to encounter each other once more, perhaps Alastar would remind her of how he was snagged by the Ministry when he was not more than a few years younger than she. If she were to absorb some of Alastar’s paranoia when it came to Ministry spies, he may even tempt her into coming to an arrangement with him, even if only as a middleman.

Amidst thoughts of business and trade were those of the financial hardships that Alastar had suffered over these past months, selling the finest of organic plant life at a loss in the effort to stay fresh in the minds of his clients. In all honesty, Alastar had considered taking a job breaking thumbs just to release some of the frustration he felt but really, it wasn’t all bad. There was still the cramped little London flat Alastar kept to go home to; an undisturbed workshop which kept off the Ministry’s radar due to its location in muggle London. There were prospects, plenty of prospects, like the eventuality of falling into the right line of work, finding the right woman, building a home, raising some children and leaving behind one hell of a reputation. And to be frank, friend, I’d settle for that last part alone.

Both young and old wizarding folk of all walks of life came filing in and unstably out of the nightclub, some even with half-full or half-empty champagne glasses in their hands. There was an abundance of attractive women, whom for tonight Alastar didn’t care for, and swanky gentleman who looked born and raised of old money. Accents were a mishmash of countries and of course, the local dialect, as a circle of Hogwarts graduates enjoyed a celebratory smoke outside the joint. Alastar himself was known to indulge in the odd roll-up but thought better of himself tonight than to try and saunter past the doormen with the scent of eau de hooligan emitting from his leather jacket. 

As the Irishman stopped outside, adjusting a pair of completely inappropriate sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, another man his size came stumbling out violently. And Hell’s bells did he reek of booze. He had almost taken down several patrons hanging innocently outside as he angrily stormed in circles outside the door and cried back to the inside of the club with some obscenity. “Rough night?” asked Alastar, however the man growled and continued on his march in the opposite direction. People hated when you pointed out the obvious. Go figure.

Starting forward, the most  delightful thing happened as that little ray of sunshine, Dolly St. James body-checked Alastar unintentionally with her exit. However with fair balance and sizeable shoulders, she was unable to cause him to falter or lift him off his feet at least. The only disruption came a huff from a stuck up bit… witch at their side that had dropped her purse in the ripple of the collision. “Of all the insensitive things! Can’t you see I am trying to make an exit here”? Alastar caught the woman by the slight of her waist, dropping her down a level or two in a theatrical, mocking way to get a rise out of her. “Oh, my sincerest and most heart-felt apology, madam although…” There was a look upon the face of St. James which said she didn’t appreciate his gesture and bearing in mind that the bouncers had a keen eye on the scene, Alastar unhanded her and continued, “…although it seems like your date just left.”

As a small town lad, Alastar had never fully understood the lure of celebrity until he had come to London to live and Dolly St. James was a fine example of the distasteful aspects of stardom. Scanning the room it was evident that there were one or two faces from the Daily Prophet like flies on the wall, and so Alastar raised his voice a little while jesting, “I hadn’t realised you were in such a rush to invite him home there, but eh, I wouldn’t want to slow you down.” With this, Alastar stood to the side of the novelist, one arm outstretched towards the door to allow her by him. It was terribly, terribly brazen of him but a poor man had to find his kicks somewhere.

To understand Dolly one had to understand that her personality and thus her moods were fluid. She had reacted to Creeper-Paul the way she had, not because she was genuinely that indignant - but because she was bored out of her mind. If you weren’t going to give them what they were after give them an exit they’d never forget. She was well aware of the Prophet writers loitering. Spies - all of them! Rita probably snooped through Dolly’s trash to find her day planner notes. She’d have to remember to start burning that kind of information - yes she was that sure the universe revolved around her. She  put on one hell of a show, that was the fun of it - making people believe things that weren’t necessarily true. Sometimes she was still very much a bored spoiled rich girl toying with people like a cat with a mouse.

Sometimes life threw someone in her path that was a match for her quick temper and sharp tongue. Apparently, since she had all but told Dominik to stick his head in a dragon’s mouth, Merlin felt she needed a new challenge in her life. It happened sometimes, Kurby had been one of those challenges - which was rather amusing when one considered how absolutely whipped he was now. Tonight, however, the match came in the form of an arm around her waist and an accent played up for the paper-spies sipping their rum and snickering. The irritation that had lined her face just moments before faded away to a bemused smirk, tilting her head to inspect the new element to her evening.

Oh, Merlin, but he was a pretty one. Dolly had several weaknesses, the least of which was not a man who looked akin the perpetual bad boy aged like cheap scotch. She liked scars, she liked sneers, in a twisted way she liked a man who looked like he wouldn’t hesitate to get physical. Obviously Dolly was not a delicate flower - she could pretend to be of course, but she had just blackened the eye of a man for essentially being a oafish bore - and she wasn’t even drunk. When she started really tying it on? She didn’t just need someone to match her pace for pace and try to put her in her place she wanted it. She dated men like Hunter because… well she had to do something with her time in between spats with Dominik and Kurby.

The solidly built stranger grasp her waist and in that flash it was over. She would not be making an exit any time soon. Of course that was the mental reality - she had to put up at least a bit of fuss in the physical realm. Thus she tossed her hair, glowered at him and huffed until he let her go. Then he spoke and the night hit another upswing and her sneer melted into a smirk. Wetting her bottom lip, mouth forming a small pout, “Yes. Obviously. I always take home men after I douse them in alcohol and slam them with a solid right hook,” she tried to look disinterested then as she extracted a cigarette from her purse, holding it delicately between her fingers as she tucked the clutch under her arm and shifted her eyes back to his face, “Give me a light and buy me a drink to make up for your awful interference”.  It wasn’t a question.

There was the overwhelming feeling of a hundred eyes falling upon the two at centre stage who were at present, exchanging wits with one another and attempting to hold their own, whilst every so often being brushed with the shoulders of passers-by. The novelist was known to Alastar by name only although he had heard of her antics around London through skimming the celebrity section in the Daily Prophet. There was too, word of mouth in which one could find masses of rich gossip both true and completely fabricated. The thing was, the Dolly he was seeing now wasn’t too different from what Alastar had estimated, as he practically had to bat off the banter as it was thrown his way. She was arrogant, undeniably charming and whether he could love her or loathe her was uncertain.

There were suits and extravagant frocks with the more casual moving in and out of groups talking to one another like they were having the time of their lives, and yet Alastar looked so terribly unfitting of the style milling around Calvares. The tatty but vibrant red leather jacket he wore was good for any day or night of the week but matching sunglasses seemed absurd. The whole getup wasn’t to draw attraction, or maybe it was, but who the hell cared really? Alastar was ridiculously distinguishable for the rapscallion he was but it just so happened that he tended to drift towards his own outrageous fashion. Standing there, like two perfect strangers, Dolly seemed to overshadow the Irishman with her divine sense of costume. She looked like a beatnik and a screen idol’s love child, but better. Back in Alastar’s small hometown, he wouldn’t have dare ventured into the pub with her for fear of losing her to a crowd of down and out fan boys.

“Yes. Obviously. I always take home men after I douse them in alcohol and slam them with a solid right hook.” Alastar stifled a laugh to maintain a cocky grin but really what she had said wouldn’t surprise him. The man before him had stumbled out of the club with whines about how she had unhinged his jaw with her scrawny woman fist. Without reluctance, Alastar struck a match against the rough of his thumb, lowering it to until it was in line with the dear one’s smoke. “I don’t know about the drink, superstar, but I won’t deny you my company. I am very important, y’know.” By this time the heat from the match became intense, but Alastar had to reconsider his importance really. “Somewhere anyway. Prob’ly in Irelan'. Aint hard to make yourself popular in a town with a population of five men and a goat.’”

Although he teased, Alastar glanced every so often beneath the protection of his crimson-coloured sunglasses for a seat before realising Dolly may well have her own private table in a place so chic. Raising his eyebrows, Alastar asked, “You don’t mind if I bring my dictaphone and scribe, right? I mean, I’m strapped for cash and Skeeter loves a front-pager.” Really, it was a jibe at the journalists who were so inconspicuous even the densest of people could point their tables out; Alastar was as resentful of the press as Dolly likely was. With a slightly quieter and more serious tone, he nodded in agreement and offered for the figure to lead the way to the bar. Moments like these showed that Alastar beneath the rough edges did have the capability to be the occasional gentleman. H’yeah right.

“I’ll have a drink with you but I can’t promise not to get you unbelievably drunk and try to get into your pants or steal your purse.” The man let out an amplified ‘phew’ and admitted, “I’m glad we got that part over with.”

The bar itself was littered with empty glasses and shots which had been poured, and Merlin knows, you wouldn’t want to lay your elbow down on it for the pool of alcohol that sat on its surface. Alastar was easily an ale but as for little Miss Precious, he really couldn’t tell. She may have been a cocktail girl, watered down but pretty as hell at an extortionate price. Or a dry martini, or maybe that was too old. In any case she was a writer which meant she would enjoy the odd tipple or two regardless. Alastar smiled as the smoke of her cigarette caused his eyes to flutter but still hid undisputedly behind the sunglasses.

“I’d have to meet the goat first,” her lips twitched with a nearly playful smile as she brought the cigarette to her lips and inhaled deeply. He was quick, that was good. Men who couldn’t hold their own in a conversation or an argument bored her to tears. In her line of work she met a lot of them - tolerated a lot of them, laughed at their inane jokes and fluttered her eyelashes. She pretended to be vastly interested all the while thinking of the dozens of way to mock them on the page if they should ever happen to be so lucky to be included in a novel. Dolly never denied she borrowed heavily from her own life - but you could tell a lot about a person depending upon which character they fancied was modeled after themselves. Perhaps Odette had found herself a new love interest - or a passing annoyance. It was never perfectly clear in the beginning how the relationship would be twisted to fit a story, mostly because Dolly was acting the story out as she went along. That was her one secret of course, that she had no idea how everything would ever end up all tied together at the end. She just let people think she was the puppet master.

Eyeing him as she exhaled [politely away from him but possibly into someone else’s face], her features furrowed in thought before she casually reached up and removed his sunglasses pinching the nose piece between two fingers. Tilting her head to the other side she inspected his now unobstructed features for an extendedly long moment before giving a not of her head “Much better”. Slipping the glasses on, she took his hand and turned back toward the booth she had just left - which was now mopped up and waiting for her again. You don’t mind if I bring my dictaphone and scribe, right? I mean, I’m strapped for cash and Skeeter loves a front-pager. Throwing a look over her shoulder her smile was, as some liked to say, hearts stopping, her blue eyes amused from behind colored lenses, a genuine sounding laugh in her voice, “Spies! All of you! I refuse to buy drinks for a spy”.

She turned and stopped short then, in a swift movement pressed against the stranger - lips a breath away as she tangled her fingers with his. “I will, however, let Paul the Prick buy you a drink for having a pretty face, and buy me a steady stream of Scotch to make up for his boorish behavior and manhandling me without first regaling me with lies and endless flattery,” the soft flesh of her lips brushed his briefly as she spoke then there was the void as she turned away to take her seat and purr a silken order to the waitress. That was Dolly, the essence of who she was - always so close you could feel her and then gone. It was an art form in and of itself, never mind the fine art of her form. Resting her chin in her hand she let the tinted glasses rest on the lower part of her nose, “You know, I used to have a theory about men and rose colored glasses…”

I’ll have a drink with you but I can’t promise not to get you unbelievably drunk and try to get into your pants or steal your purse

Leaning closer to him again, lowering her voice to whisper conspiratorially, “So long as we’re sharing personal warning labels - try not to fall too desperately in love with me all at once. My calendar is a little full at the moment - but as soon as I have an opening you’ll move up the waiting list,” she bit her bottom lip then, fighting a giggle as she added “who said you’d had to get me drunk? Besides the purse won’t do you much good. I never carry cash,” she paused inspecting the little clutch before exhaling slowly and extracting her cigarettes from it; then tossing it into his lap, “You might get a couple hundred for it at a pawnshop - thousand if I signed it”. Dolly was accustomed to a certain lifestyle - but material things held very little value you to her, interesting people though - they were worth their weight in gold, “Which I might be convinced to do in exchange for some information”.

Without protest, Alastar allowed the great invasion of his person and sneaking of his all-time favourite accessory as St. James smoothly collected the sunglasses from the slope of his nose. There was a certain charm about the woman that after those initial few minutes in her company, granted her passage to do whatever she may wish. Charisma lined her lips as she glossed over their conversation and yet, she had an almost Irish local girl charm about her as she jested him so. They were, from what he had gathered, from two different worlds that would never truly collide unless either was to forcibly make it happen and it was by sheer chance that they had stumbled into each other’s lives on this particular evening. Otherwise, they were no Bonnie and Clyde, nothing special, nothing to shake anyone up. Hell, even Harry Potter was fading from memory nowadays. Alastar, thank Merlin, had a very rational internal commentary to guide him.

Smoke danced above and around them without any visible objection from bystanders. Alastar had turned his attention upon the bar and was pursuing a drinks menu which would have been better written in Aramaic for all he could understand of it. Sadly, Alastar couldn’t claim that he was fluent in Gaelic, even if it sounded impressive, as he was never known for his great intellect but rather his satire and lewd behaviour. Given the right ingredients however, Alastar did demonstrate the odd streak of brilliance. As neither pseudo-Gaelic nor his mastery of potions was known to St. James, Yeah. Or really, anything at all. Alastar was powerless but to preserve his mystery and try and divert such topics for the next couple of drinks or so. Not that it would prove difficult to drive Dolly to talk about herself.

Warmth enveloped the man’s spare hand as fingers moved near his nonchalantly, as though it were natural of them. It wasn’t until Alastar felt the confident lead of Dolly that he felt himself stop, at least mentally, to confirm that the woman he had by the headlines detested, was wearing his prized sunglasses and leading him away like her very own prize. It may have been the way of Dolly St. James, novelist, regular darling and apple of her fan’s eyes, but it wasn’t Alastar’s natural way. Wait, what is my natural way? Fortunately for the great, big lug, he was adaptable to such change and even though he loved it in his own quiet way, showed no sign of glee or conquest.

“Well, how about you have Paul the Prick collect my tab at the Leaky Cauldron and you can keep those sunglasses?” There was a speck of seriousness in that offer since Alastar was known for pushing the kindness of other’s to the limit before making a swift exit for the next six months. Life was very much still a game in which Alastar was the knight and all others the pawns but every so often there was the sign that he may just be heading on the path to righteousness, or so it might have seemed.

A slight reaction came upon Alastar as she drew close upon him, which he tried and seemingly succeeded to ignore, for now. “You know, I used to have a theory about men and rose colored glasses…” Alastar smiled knowingly although in essence he knew nothing of Dolly St. James in the cold light of morning sense. Under the dim of the light and the steady flow of drinks and satisfying conversation, it was hard to tell whether everything were as it seemed. Still, he was intrigued and as yet, unable to argue. “Big wand?” The waitress looked uptight not for Dolly but for what onlookers may have to report if they had caught her speaking to either of the two. So, niceties had been kept to a minimum as she took Dolly’s order of a scotch and Alastar’s of the darkest ale they had. Cocking an eyebrow rather awkwardly, for Alastar’s blue eyes weren’t used to the glare of light, he started, “That’s the first time a woman has ordered a drink stronger than mine.” He smiled deliciously, “I’d’ve said a white Russian, on a wild night.”

“So long as we’re sharing personal warning labels - try not to fall too desperately in love with me all at once. “Oh damn, I’ll try.” Alastar didn’t smile thinking instead of the class imbalance that was taking place between the two, for Dolly was making more in royalties a week than Alastar would in two months. He held no bitterness, for his sexism hadn’t reached such drastic height for now, but it seemed so terribly ironic in a way. As it dented his nether regions, Alastar winced as silently as possible and placed the dainty purse upon the table again. “I didn’t really come here looking for autographs, Jamesy. You’re a dime a dozen in London. But I’d give you mine if you want it.” And there came that rhetorical grin. “I’m Alastar, and you must be that scrumptious piece of arse Dolly St. James. Why, I’d love to say I’ve heard so much about you but really, most of it, I’ve read.” The Daily Prophet would have surely died without the words, ‘Dolly’ and ‘St. James’.

There was no harm in overstepping one’s boundaries every so often but really Alastar was a phantom in Calvares and the odd blessing of attention that Dolly had bestowed upon him was rare. As someone who frequented the pubs of London often, Al had become comfortable with the routine of meeting interesting people in one place and recycling them. In ways that he wouldn’t admit, he was alone in London, with the only company as colleagues or business interests. There was Jarvis, an ancient friend with the humour of a fifteen year old boy, but although he was good for the banter, it was challenging for Alastar to set apart true friendship from convenient acquaintances. A rough hand collected the deep, frothy ale with was planted in front of the man, as Alastar clarified, “Information?” There was a dubious expression as he sipped on the head of his beer. “Well, that all depends upon what you want from me, Jamesy. I know plenty about you.” He choked a little, pointing with his equipped hand, “I didn’t sell you a dodgy love potion, did I? Only this one batch…” He stopped and laughed, “James, I’m nothing like you. For tonight, we’re good, though. For tonight, we’re good.” With this, Alastar took a deep gulp of his beer and coolly looked around at his surroundings with a gruff giggle.