Brisk mornings and hundreds of devoted followers huddled together on arse-hardening stands, hands wrapped lovingly around hot, steaming pies and flasks of hot chocolate. A sea of coloured scarves wavering from side to side in pre-match conversation, the hedging of bets and optimistic faces of the better side. That was quidditch in all its glory, a game best shared between two men who were rough from hangovers and in need of a bantering session. Alastar and Jarvis were insufferable in the company of others but found such a rapport with each other that their friendship had outstretched its expected years. They had sauntered into Calaveras late in the afternoon for some hair of the dog which had snowballed from a couple of jars of ale to another night of debauchery.

Alastar swayed uncertainly as he weaved his way through the growing number of patrons and caught hold of the counter to steady himself momentarily before stacking up against the others at the crowded bar. He couldn’t stand club that had a queue at the bar, but what was worse was a swanky club with a queue at the bar. If he were an affluent man, he might even be irritated by it, but for now he would mingle and pretend to be important.

Calaveras was not by any means Alastar’s usual haunt, as he much preferred the company of surly Irishmen like himself and women who after the third drink were absent of their inhibitions. Really up until recently, Alastar’s little black book was filled with a rainbow of girls, no one of them he would call his type. At the very least, he gave no illusion of a gentleman or someone who would put his life on the backburner for the right woman, and really, with Alastar’s antics she would have packed up her bags and left a long time ago. There were no children that he knew of although there was the odd risqué evening when he would’ve expected a child maintenance letter nine months later. Thank Merlin, it just hadn’t happened. His ma, Brighid had a right old bellyache at him to get married and give her some grandchildren, which she needn’t have bothered wasting her words on. The man liked to think of himself as a lone creature, more of a fly-by-night bloke than a doting husband.

That’s precisely what attracted him to Dolly St. James. Well, amongst other slight attributes. She seemed to have to same ideology. Ideology. Maybe that wasn’t the right word. They had left together but Alastar knew of Dolly’s flamboyant reputation, and to believe a night of flattery gave any ownership of the prosperous novelist was foolish. Such thoughts were destructive for a man and for all onlookers may have took him to be another victim, Alastar chose not to entertain dangerous thoughts of Dolly very often.

Alastar had shed his jacket and was wandering aimlessly in a slim-fitting black shirt with a Harpies scarf draped around his neck. A tall, frothy ale had been gained at the bar and he eventually found his way back to an empty table, with every intention of making it his nightcap.

Dolores was on the prowl. She needed a fix and she needed it now. Attention from wandering eyes had been like a drug for Dolly for years. If she were as self aware as she pretended to be it might make her sick, the way she thrived off the stares, the longing, just a reminder that she could have anyone - anyone but the one she'd always wanted. So she made do. She slithered in the shadows, lithe body pressed against rock hard counter parters, pouring shot after shot down her throat. Seduce and destroy, it was her manta, her words to live by. Tease them and leave them wanting more, make them beg. There was some sort of power thrill in knowing that they'd fall and kiss her feet if she asked. She closed off the parts of herself that longed for more. She pretended, forming pseudo relationships - repeat offenders, as she thought of them. She didn't pretend to be a house wife and she had no illusions of them being her sweeping dark knight. After several rounds at Spellpunk, thriving off the thundering beats she returned "home".

She loved Calavera's, as much as she needed to dance the smoke and shadows of the speakeasy soothed her tattered nerves. The familiar smell of firewhiskey and gin, smoke and perfume filled her senses and made her drunker than she already was. Her eyes scanned for familiar faces, picking out Jess and Bianca easily she wiggled her fingers and blew a kiss to them. There was no Dominik, she was relieved. She needed space, which she thought her silence would tell him. He never had been good at taking hints. Kurby wouldn't be caught dead in Cal's, and Hunter wasn't the type to just sit in a booth and drink. There were no shadows from her past - and for a moment she felt a smidgen of disappointment. She wanted trouble tonight, she needed a warm body. She needed banter and distraction. She had not slithered into the scrap of fabric she was calling a dress just to go home alone!

And that was when she saw the back of his head, the familiar dirty blonde disheveled locks, the lazy slouch in his posture; she'd woken up to that back a handful of times since their first meeting. She was rather fond of that view, she could picture his shoulder blades, the bumps along his spine. Touching the string of diamonds at her neck, her red lips curved into a satisfied smile. The swagger returned to her hips as she crept up behind him. Leaning over his chair she slid an arm around his neck, pale hand resting against the black material of his shirt - the ruby eyes of the snake wound around her middle finger glittering in the low light. "How did you know I'd need a dance partner for tonight? You're divinely psychic sometimes Ali, absolutely divine," she cooed against his ear, giggling softly as her warm breath tickled his skin. He smelled like a pitch, smoke and booze. It worked on him, she liked it. Nuzzling his cheek she grinned though he wouldn't be able to see it, "Have you missed me so terribly you're haunting my favorite places now, ó Dálaigh?"

Something in the air changed, as though time might have stopped, if there wasn’t the faint tide of breathing in the background. She was a regular at Calavera’s, or was to call Dolly a regular really ethical? It felt like blasphemy in a place that was well and truly her realm. Heads were raised not in the typically passive fashion but in complete awe and wonder, each of them whispering to their companions as she sailed by. For the first fifteen minutes their entire conversation would balance upon Dolly’s dress; or who Dolly was with; what height her high heels were; when she would be leaving and whether she would speak to them that night. It perplexed Alastar as much as it didn’t surprise him one bit, but he held fast in his belief that he ought never to flatter her celebrity for fear of unleashing a side of her he might find to his distaste.

The sweet scent of her perfume alone was enough to capture his attention, but Alastar had hoped in his inebriated state that he may have been granted some immunity from her lure. The lighting dimmed as though the crew had clocked Dolly and were setting the whole hellish scene. Hellish, was it really? Those others in the room, who had turned back towards their drinks with that loud, awkward sipping, attempted to glance back around without the risk of offending. What they seen was a temptress, a contemporary siren unleashing all her charm on a common man who just so happened to be blessed with the features of a modern day Adonis.Did I say that out loud? In their own way, they were the image of something beautiful but convoluted. From the very day he had met her, Alastar knew a romantic relationship between them would be fractured from the insides.

Without flinching, the Irishman allowed Dolly to press against him and dropped his head to the side slightly to take her in. Her words were a low purring sound that tickled his inner ear above the staccato, a welcome change from the hubbub emitting from the others. As he raised a grin, his free hand whipped the scarf from his neck without unsettling the lavish hairstyle of Dolly, and he threw the thing backwards, over her neck. It was damp at the corners with ale, tattered and altogether unfitting of the woman, but he was too far gone now to care about whether or not the sentiment was appreciated or not.

“I wouldn’t say I was psychic, St. James.” He elaborated. “Psychic would mean I know what’s going through your head, and there’s no man that knows feck all about what goes on inside the mind of a woman, wouldn’tcha say?” His words were a tad slurred but offbeat, humorous and with a friendly tone. He did however, consider ordering a sobering coffee, if conversation spilled out of him too often.

The last time they were together. Honestly? He couldn’t say. It was an experience. One that he wouldn’t mind reliving time and time again and from the way she moved around him, one that wasn’t such a fantasy. With a smirk, he fell back towards her. “Oh come on, you know if I missed you that much I would’ve just opened up a Daily Prophet.” His face twisted with sarcasm. “As London’s pin up girl, you’re right, it must be hard to find you.” Although you, Dolly, you come and go with the tide.

Alastar was lost in a field of words that he wasn’t quite sure were suiting of his company, like it had ever mattered. “I would invite you to take a seat, but I think one of your fans might throw a rock at my head, Your Majesty.” It was true; in Calavera’s Dolly came and went as she pleased and you had little choice where she was involved. Alastar eyed the ground behind her, searching for a man in waiting. “All dolled up and no feller₁ to tag along?”

_{feller - fella - man}

Dolly felt the warm material settled around her neck, brining with it a strong saturation of his natural earthy smell, and causing her features to relax into a genuine smile for a moment as she kissed the spot just behind his ear, "Such a charming gentleman, I really ought to bundle up more against the cold," her voice was lyrical with laughter, as she righted herself. The scarf was mismatched to the glittering of her dress and the jewels that adorned the rest of her - but like his sunglasses she would keep it as long as he would allow. A collection of his things had started in her apartment - his sunglasses, a shirt or two (that she may or may not have slept in on nights no one came home with her). He was creeping into her life and unlike every other relationship she had ever ventured into she wasn't making much of a fight. She didn't seek him out - but she didn't try to turn him out to save face either.

She slid into his lap, arms draped around his neck as she crossed her legs and leaned against him, "The not knowing is half the fun, I think," she tapped the end of his nose as took a sip from his pint, "We like to keep you guessing," the din of the club faded behind her as she curled up in his lap. There was something about being with Alastar, the banter and the games, it felt fresh and new. She wasn't falling in love with him - Dolly St. James was above that, but the nights she spent with him; when it was all said and done, she slept like a lamb. She didn't kick him out of her bed, she didn't hover on her corner of the mattress awake and wondering when the devil he'd get his boots on an be gone so she could get some sleep. Maybe she was losing her touch...or just her mind, but when he stayed the night her dreams were peaceful and there was never a trace of a Wiedman to be found in her thoughts.

She glanced over her shoulder to the empty floor and gave a small shrug with a laugh, "I don't just tote men around like a handbag," she paused turning her blue eyes back on him, smirk twitching on her lips, "Well, most of the time. Some of them just match my shoes so perfectly I can't help myself". She extended a long leg to show off her strappy hells that glittered in the low light, "I just haven't found the right man to match these yet". Twisting her ankle from side to side she pretended to look thoughtful, lips pursed slightly as her eyes darted around the room, "I could go looking for one, but really your lap is very comfortable and there's a pint right here, hmm maybe these are my ó Dálaigh heels?" she nudged his cheek with her nose then, placing a string a kisses along his jaw, "Anytime I want to wear them I could just send you an owl and tote you around like my favorite little handbag? Hmm, you're really more of carry all though aren't you, not a trendy little clutch".