Sometime in the afternoon, well after this thread.
Dublin, Ireland.

All of Dublin stretched out before them, a mass of blocky buildings and hazy colors; a spire poked up every so often above a green-tinted roof to form the familiar skyline.  Down below, tiny figures ambled through the alleyways and roads, staying out of the way of the fingernail-sized vehicles that rushed up and down the one-way streets.

The bar on the very top of the Guinness Storehouse was never quiet, and the first of the new year didn't prove to be any different.  A crowd made up mostly of university students and tourists milled about in the big, rounded armchairs, chattering exuberantly to each other or trying to nurse off hangovers from the night before.  No one present was paying attention to much of anything around them, which had suited them perfectly fine upon their arrival.  After the excitement of the morning, they had more than enough earned a quiet drink.

Or two.

Or three.

"Here we are, then," Jonas announced cheerfully, returning to the chairs that they had dragged over by one of the enormous glass windows that marked the edge of the enormous circular room.  He lowered himself carefully into the armchair, taking care not to bump his leg against the tiny round table that was already littered with empty pint glasses.  "Cheers to round three, eh?"

The stout was nearly perfect - just barely room temperature, rich and smooth as he drank it.  This particular benefit to magic had never really occurred to him while he was younger, but being able to travel nearly anywhere he wanted when someone asked if he wanted to get a few drinks after a life-or-death experience was definitely something that he didn't mind taking advantage of.    Jonas would have to remember to suggest a trip to another distant brewery the next time he was arranging a lunch meeting with the Eleors, although he was still convinced it would only take one or two more visits to yet another franchise of the exact same noodle chain before Adon finally broke.

"And yeah.  Gryffindor.  Class of '91."  He flashed the older man a crooked smile as he leaned back in the chair, relaxing as he looked over the cityscape.  "So I missed you by a bit there.  But it's all the same in the end, innit?" he asked cheerfully, concentrating as he attempted to balance his pint glass on the narrow arm of the chair.  Somehow, between the width of the chair arm and the center of gravity of the glass, it wasn't working.  "At least, it was for most of us; I reckon it never was for the purebloods.  All the worse for them to miss out on all this, though!  Firewhiskey doesn't hold a candle to good beer."

It had been a while since Torquil had gotten dastardly drunk, but a joy whenever he found the appropriate situation and friend to do it with, which is just what happened after the whole mummy fiasco.

As Jonas returned to the table the shorter red-haired man pushed out a few hearty laughs, “Just a few generations aren’t that much when you get older eh?” he said in jest.

“Ohoho!” Torquil hooted at the pureblood comment, “I’ve had a satisfactory life as a pureblood.” He took a long gulp of his drink and fizzled out a content sigh, “Though you’d be hard-pressed to satisfy us with anything—personally, I don’t think anything can hold a candle to what they whip up in the Caribbean.” The stocky man waved his hand around exaggeratedly and slapped his knee, “Like they set out to make sure you wake up with all the consciousness of train wreck,” he grumbled.

“Woke up one morning,” he said with a humiliating chuckle, “and found out I’d been tricked into bed!” His chuckles then rose into laughter, “Then there was a son, a duel, and a marriage the next week!” He propped his drink on his knee and leaned back looking at Jonas, and then wiped his eyes realizing that he’d laughed himself to tears. “Funny thing what a drink can do, eh?”

It took the mention of alcohol overindulgence causing forced marriages to cut through the private investigator's laughter.  Jonas attempted to clear his throat, which led him to spend the next ten seconds nearly choking before he could gather himself again.

"Hilarious," he managed, shielding a cough as he sat up a little straighter in the chair. 

He'd have to revise his mental image of the older man; considering that he'd met him in a Muggle museum and that Foley hadn't protested when he'd suggested a Muggle bar to go drinking, he'd assumed the photographer was a half-blood at worst.  But not all purebloods were as stick-up-somewhere-uncomfortable as Aileen Reid, he reminded himself.  There were a few that were tolerable.  Tait Aldridge had been.  Tamis Raynor wasn't always, but that had little to do with the woman's purity of family and more with how she occasionally got lucky and one-upped him.

Jonas cleared his throat again, finally convincing himself that he could breath without choking, and then flashed Torquil a crooked smiled.  "I'll have to take your word for it, mate," he agreed cheerfully.  "Be a lark to try it sometime though, yeah?  So you ended up with a kid and a wife out of it, did you?" he asked, regarding the older man with interest.  Pureblooded or not, so far Foley had proven to be proper entertaining.  "How'd that come about?  Still got 'em, or did you blather your way out of that one, too?"

Torquil snorted at Jonas’ choking, and leaned forward a little to try and stop it up somewhere in his stomach, but it just snuck out in snickers.

“Hilarious”

The Irishman took a swig of his drink and waited for Jonas to gather himself up again. Once he responded, Torquil smiled slyly, “Them and four more little rascals,” he patted his drink back down on his knee, “Almost have them all out of the house too—just two left.” The Researcher tilted his drink around on his knee, swishing it in thought, “Great piece of work they are,” he said bemusedly, and then popped an over-excited smile back at Jonas, “You got any you’re working on?”

But he sat back and bubbled on, “Or you free and running about with Abby and her sister—buying your time? Probably get into loads of trouble with those pair.”

The red-haired man gave another cough, though this one was slightly more forced and much more controlled.  "Yeah, not an argument there," he replied ruefully, giving the other wizard a crooked grin as he raised his glass again.  "The girl's an alright kid, but the elder's a bit of work.  Worst sort of pureblood, she is.  Posh, ego the size of Buckingham, wouldn't be caught dead with the rest of us - no offense intended, mate," he added dryly, inclining his head to Torquil.  "You seem alright, but it'd take the patience of every person in Switzerland to put up with someone like her for more'n a goddamned morning."

Jonas took a swallow from the dark ale, using the opportunity to think for a moment.  The life-or-death urgency of not revealing the existence of his family had faded after Eleor's pre-Christmas incursion, and Foley, after all, seemed like an alright sort.

"Yeah, I was married," he said with a shrug.  "Two kids.  Still a little young, though.  And they can't be nearly as much of a handful as five," he remarked, flashing Torquil an appreciative smile.  "Got any at the school, still?  Nice to think it's still up and standing."

A choked chuckle popped out of Torquil’s throat, “She didn’t seem very keen on running back and assisting us—what with her sister having that little pyramid,” he sighed with a humble rasp, “You’d think an archeologist would try and fix it back up with that bit of a hint, yeah?” His red eyebrows hopped up on his forehead and he brushed a finger over his mustache.

The researcher unconsciously noted the past-tense form of the marital response, shaking his head and smiling at Jonas, man he was lucky, “Two left at school. The youngest Naomi and then Demont; 3rd year and 5th year.”

He pressed his lips together into a fine smile and slowly shook his head, “You’d be surprised what only two can get up to. Adric, the oldest, started fighting with Booker, all the time—mostly for sport. It evolved from there,” he snorted, “It wasn’t until the last two that they went from rough-housing to hexes though.” He took a drink and then raised a hand up and tilting it back and forth. After he finished his gulp he took a breath, “with a bit of potion experiments, mostly ended in explosions and…” He made a puzzled face, unsure of whether his kids were beasts or beings for a moment, “weird…”

He shook his head. He couldn’t finish it, there weren’t words with how weird those potions got in the hands of his children—inexperienced minors at the time. “Whatever they were trying to do, it never usually work, but the end result of bullying each other worked just the same.”

He leaned back in his chair snickering nervously, “I’m not sure what I’d do if Deli wanted a sixth one.”

The private investigator raised his eyebrows, filing this piece of information away as he took another long drink from his beer.  So Abby had had some sort of little pyramid.  Considering the apparent effect that the dagger had had on him, he could only imagine that another of Aileen's artifacts had been responsible for the disaster at the museum.  Brilliant that the Runes professor had decided to blame it all on him, yet again.  That realization deserved yet another long swallow of Guinness.

There was nothing he could do with the information now, though.  Eventually, it might be something he could use - either to pressure Aileen to finally find a cure for the bloody dagger, or to blackmail her into giving information on her elder brother.  Better to let it go for the moment, to keep that card in his pocket for later.  It was currency that might be helpful later on.

He flashed Torquil a friendly smile, keeping his posture relaxed as he leaned back in the chair.  "Say yes and curl into a ball once she's gone, yeah?" he offered lightly.  "I hear you, mate.  Our two was more'n enough; I can't imagine three, let alone five.  The eldest hasn't discovered potions yet, but she likes to pretend she's a zombie and chase her brother all about.  She'd get a kick out of today if I could tell her about it," he concluded, looking incredibly amused at the prospect.  "Probably start begging to get taken back to the museum in hopes that lightning'd strike us twice, like as not."

Smiling at the thought, he took another drink of the stout, keeping his hand wrapped lightly around the cool glass.  While such an event might be common amongst the magical archaeology community, having the dead rise at the British Museum had likely been a first.  Which was hilarious in itself - it was as if his life had been transformed into a horrible B-movie, which Jonas certainly wasn't going to complain about.  Even getting attacked by mummies beat tailing some poor sot around for hours to see what he was doing with his free time.

But it did beg the question of how so many wizards happened to be present.  Especially a pureblood, Jonas thought, drumming his fingers lightly against the glass.  Foley obviously had some sort of interesting story to him, beyond just his five dueling children and his Caribbean wedding.

"So I don't mean to sound like a git by asking, but what was a bloke like you doing minching about such a mundane museum?" he inquired, giving the older man a curious look.  "I wouldn't usually expect your sort to seem so comfortable around the rest of us.  Not that I'm complaining, mind," he added amicably, flashing him a lopsided smile.  "It would've been a long trek out of there if I'd had to make it on me own.  Appreciate you lot hurrying the exit along."

Torquil chuckled at Jonas’ comment about his reaction to having more children, “Something like that,” he hooted through, “However, she’d call me out on it, before it was all said and done with.”

Oh dear, his children would want to see it again? He could hardly understand that logic, of course his children probably wouldn’t be adverse to a mummy attack, but they’d never admit it to him. “Best she sticks to learning about them than living through them, I think,” he chortled with amusement.

He looked at him with a lingering startle, “Oh,” he coughed clear his throat, “Researcher, for the Prophet,” he said officially adjusting his drunken self in the chair as best he could, before he decided to just sit back and relax—he wasn’t interviewing the man anyway.

The man’s finger tapped against his glass and nodded, “Been trying to get together something solid for the paper to use,” Then gestured a further explanation, “The whole werewolf business.”

 “Information gets muddled and thrown around so much with them I decided to see it from the muggle perspective,” he explained further, thinking that Jonas probably didn’t really understand what he was doing exactly. “It might be wildly incorrect or out of the ordinary, but even the most wild observations and details can hammer out some finer details to follow.”

There was subtle nod and Torquil raised his glass up for another drink, “Mummies, of course, were the farthest thing from my mind. But that’s just my luck,” he paused to take another drink, “I’ll be the one to bump into someone under a full moon in Diagon, and the next moment they’d snap into a werewolf.”

Jonas listened carefully to the other man's words; the announcement of Foley's profession had an abruptly sobering effect.  The institution of the Daily Prophet had lost any credibility it might have once had with him back during the war, when it had suddenly switched sides and begun spouting anti-Muggleborn propaganda.  Even a decade later, some of the things that it had published still stung.  Finding oneself as a persecuted minority was distinctly disconcerting.

As individuals, reporters were certainly useful, but it was one thing to arrange a discrete and professional encounter with one, as he'd done with Niobe Thursby, and quite another to run into one in a situation when he might very well be the one written about.  The private investigator kept his expression friendly, his posture relaxed as he regarded the researcher over the top of his pint glass.  No point in getting his hackles up before he knew the stakes.

"Common problem, that?" he asked cheerfully, bemusement coloring his words.  Aside from the illicit Canadian in his employ, he hadn't been aware that there was a 'werewolf business' to begin with.  Maybe Lexus's situation wasn't as unique as he'd thought.  "I didn't realize that werewolves were such a driving question.  I'm sorry you didn't get anything useful at the museum, though, mate.  Too bad it was a waste of an afternoon."

“Surely you know of SAWS? It’s a debatable topic, and if it’s a debatable topic the Prophet wants in on the debate,” he finished off his drink, gulped and waved his hand around, “Make people cheer, make people angry, mad or sad—not everything can make a story of course, and I did find something, but nothing for a story,” he shrugged, “just a trail.”

“Of course I’m sure I could give it to Skeeter and she would make a colorful article about their grooming habits,” he ended with an annoyed husk.

“They just want to keep up,” he clarified, “stories like the mummies do make them happy, puts a bit more change in my pocket too,” His brows furrowed and he patted the empty glass on his knee, thinking about the artifact, Abigail, what exactly she was doing with something like that, and what might happen if someone found out, “One of those stories the Ministry will start sniffing about no less.”

Once he realized the details for the article he would need to send to the Prophet Torquil’s mouth drew into a fine line at the inevitable topic, and gave a drunken nod, “And I’m sure that mummies are all they need to hear about.” While the researcher did enjoy a good story, he knew better than to blindly send forth details to a paper. Abigail was in shock, young, a little naïve, hardly aware that anything bad would happen. This was an accident, and could quickly turn into a bad one and the Irishman was sure he was even suppose to know about the artifact let alone the people who had it.

But his drinking buddy seemed to be acquainted with them, and possibly their problems. He leaned forward, sliding the empty drink on the table and looking at the other man solemnly, “Mr. Trevelyan, I’m sure you know a name or mention in the paper one day can became a missing person the next,” he then dropped back into his chair, his gaze fidgeting to the view around him before he grunted and sighed into a calm, “and if that is the case,  then perhaps we shall we agree that I am old blind man,” he turned his palms up helplessly and then patted them into a rest on his thighs, “who can hardly see without his glasses let alone remember the names given to me by a stranger?”

Jonas had indeed heard of saws before, but what Muggle construction tools had to do with werewolves, he hadn't the foggiest.  Still, he nodded along with the researcher, as there was no doubt in his mind that the Daily Prophet would want in on a debate, no matter what it was about.  Maybe people were trying to saw the heads off of werewolves, though he didn't see why they didn't just use hexes.  Wizards always seemed to prefer the option without much manual labor.  Putting so much effort into using a Muggle tool when a curse would work just as well seemed out of character.

Foley's observation that the Prophet would start sniffing around the mess at the Museum was a sobering thought.  Jonas couldn't entire explain why the idea of potentially ending up in the newspaper bothered him so much - well, he could, but only with language that would probably get him arrested - and the thought that the morning's events could be what did it was mind-gratingly irritating. 

It wasn't his bloody fault that Aileen Reid couldn't keep her messes under control.  If this blew any part of the investigation into her brother's activities, he wouldn't wait for Tamis to write his eulogy.  He'd see about doing it himself.

But Foley surprised him.  Far from the headline-grubbing reporter that Jonas had always pictured as the industry standard, the older man seemed to reason through to the likely conclusion, and then graciously offered a way out.

Jonas blinked, regarding the other man for a moment, and then offered him a quick smile.  "Reckon that would be appreciated," he agreed amicably, giving him a grateful nod.  "Rumors cause more trouble'n they're worth.  And I'd imagine that any favors could be repaid one day."

"Although," he put in thoughtfully, noting with a detached sort of interest that the little voice that normally told him when he was pushing his luck was much easier to ignore once he'd had a few pints, "I think you could get away with running Aileen Reid's name in the paper without any fallout.  That's R-E-I-D, Reid," he spelled out.  "She's the Professor of Ancient Runes at Hogwarts, but she told me she's having a hard time getting the other faculty to take her seriously; guess they don't really like blondes.  But I reckon some good publicity like this might be just the kick she needs!" he added cheerfully.  "Especially if you can spin it a bit so that she comes off like she knew what she was doing.  Probably not too far from the truth, eh?"

• "And I'd imagine that any favors could be repaid one day."

Torquil hadn't expected an offer, whether that was because of the platoons of empty glasses in front of him or the expectation of unconditional support was ingrained him, among purebloods, it was a genuine surprise. Without a strong community, the the short Irishman noticed how cold and ungratituitous the world would turn. Family and heritage often cast aside for self preservation, selfishness--of course one had to wonder if his kind had teetered into that territory as well. It was a splotchy gray area.

Foley's coated with stuttering warmth, "oh well--that'd be much appreciated, if you could manage it," but the possibility of getting into a fix with Trevelyan again did try and draw his mouth into a smile.

• "Although," he put in thoughtfully, noting with a detached sort of interest that the little voice that normally told him when he was pushing his luck was much easier to ignore once he'd had a few pints, "I think you could get away with running Aileen Reid's name in the paper without any fallout.  That's R-E-I-D, Reid...  Probably not too far from the truth, eh?"

"..Oh!" Torquil leaned into the table contently, "Both our youngest, Naomi and Demont, take her class," he boobbed his head in a nod, "Good teaching method, makes them think a bit more, rather than going through the motions--" his tone cut off and went into a more matter-of-factly grate, "Deli does try and give them an extra push."

Then he hurriedly concluded, "Her scholarly publications are most amiable too, wasn't aware the girl was talking about that sister."

He gently waved the topic off and sat back on his chair, satisfied with his comprehension of it all, "Went on a dig once though, great opportunity," he rambled on with a sing songy slur, and then fell into a rough gruff, "Weren't until they put my wits up 'gainst a sphinx that I realized what I was ther for," The older man rubbed his forehead, recalling the onslaught of riddles and enigmas, like he had to shift his whole mindset of thinking, "Might as well have been langlocked!" He voice clicked grumpily.