It felt almost odd to be somewhere as tied to happy memories as Quality Quidditch Supplies. Aberdeen shuffled in past the small crowd oo-ing and ah-ing over the latest broom models in the window, and allowed herself a brief, nostalgic gaze about the shop before making her way over to the broom polish. Her old Stargazer broomstick was in need of some attention; she hadn't had cause to use it in the last few months due to her-- well, 'indefinite sebatical' was probably the most polite way to put it-- so its care had been a bit neglected. But now that Aberdeen had a Plan (and Aberdeen always felt much better for having a Plan), she decided that she wanted to be as prepared as possible, and that meant a variety of travel options.

Plus, she had needed to get out of the house. Glad though Aberdeen and her husband were to be released from the hospital at last, it was becoming more and more heartbreaking to live in that empty place, where the only traces of Robin were his pet puffskein, the drawings and photos Akiva had managed to salvage, and the fragments of memories that were gradually beginning to return to Aberdeen and Luke.

On her way over to the polish, her gaze caught a small selection of child-sized brooms, and she remembered a silly little daydream she had once had of bringing Robin here when he was older, to pick out his first broom. Taken aback by the sudden resurgence of the memory, she quickly tore her gaze away from the kiddie brooms-- and it landed on something that distracted her completely.

That man over there-- he looked strikingly like one of the players for the Tutshill Tornadoes. James Forrester, that was his name. At a second glance, Aberdeen realised it was almost definitely him (or at any rate an astoundingly good doppleganger); she was a Magpies follower, herself, but before everything had started to wrong in her life she had, as an avid Quidditch enthusiast, made a point of familiarising herself with as many players on the major-league teams as possible. Forrester was a reserve player, if Aberdeen remembered correctly, but his playing style stuck out to her.

Aberdeen, when she had been an Auror, had also made it her business to know who frequented some of the somewhat shadier places in Knockturn Alley, and if memory served, Forrester wasn't a stranger to the circles who had gathered at the Black Chimaera. This in itself wasn't grounds for suspicion. But... It surely meant that he had at least met Cinaed Tawse. Not necessarily on friendly terms with him, but it was a connection. Maybe he had heard something, from way back, before Tawse had vanished, before he had had Robin abducted. It was a long shot, of course. Even on the off chance he did know anything, there was absolutely no guaranteed way to weedle any such information from him. But it was worth a try, Aberdeen decided.

If nothing else, well, she hadn't been properly putting her Auror skills to work for a good few months; she was still getting back into the swing of things. She could use all the practice she could get.

You did promise Trevelyan you wouldn't try anything on your own, though, she found herself remembering, but she shot that reservation down instantly.

Oh, please. I'm not going to get into trouble. I'm just a Quidditch fan, going to say hello to a player I admire. It's not as though he has any reason to know who I am. Robin's abduction may have been in the papers, but both Aberdeen's and Luke's photos had stayed out of it.

'Excuse me,' she said quietly, effecting a nervous countenance as she reached the man. 'You-- you must get this all the time, but-- are you James Forrester, by any chance? Of-- of the Tutshill Tornadoes?' She gave him a small, timid smile that she hoped was endearing rather than irritating.

Apparently, their practice snitches had finally bit the dust.  After being grabbed so many times, they had fluttered their last feather.  So, rather than send a member of the staff down to pick up a new one, they sent James.  Something about good publicity and all of that.  Though he had actually to yet run into anyone, James was not about to look an excuse to skive off practice for a bit – not for too long obviously, but a short break would make him look better than his peers for a short while.  And who didn’t want that?

Consequently, James was looking at several practice snitches.  Though they had yet to move him up to the position he wanted, he assumed that he had thus far made a good enough impression on the coach and GM that they at least trusted his opinion.  He was doing some simple catch and releasing with the golden ball, and did not even notice the lady until she was spoke up.  A fan?  Usually Cuddyer gets all the girls – but heck why not milk it a little James thought.  Besides, he knew that he was slowly gaining more fame.  Though his profile was still not as high as he would like, it was climbing.

Putting on a charming smile, he said, “I am he – and what can I do for you?” James asked the lady.  Though he was slightly disappointed she wasn’t more attractive or younger, James was not picky about who was supporting him.  She looked like an average thirty year old, and so James assumed that she wanted him to autograph something for her child (or quidditch fanatic relative) and mention something about eating all of their vegetables.  Or something along those lines.

Coming to the conclusion that speculating about her motives would be pointless right now, he wondered why this woman approached him.  He figured he would find out soon enough, but this woman did not seem like the typical quidditch fan too him.  She was not wearing any team colours or clothing, and she seemed dressed to blend in moreso than anything else.  James assumed his first guess was the correct one, but waited for the lady to at least introduce herself before making too many snap judgements.

Running through his internal register of any of the pureblooded families, James did not recognize her from any of the high society circles he sometimes flew in, but did not discount it right away.  As James thought about it, he thought that made more sense.  Though he did not keep statistics on it, he would assume that there were few pureblooded players than players in the overall league, though he probably would have at least recognized those women.  Guessing it did not matter one way or the other, James politely waited her reply. 

'Oh it is you, oh fantastic!' Aberdeen clapped her hands together a little, assuming a more gleeful expression. She was, perhaps, a little too old to be playing the part of the excitable fangirl, but it seemed the simplest route to take. Besides, doubtless the professional Quidditch players were used to all sorts of followers. (Forrester possibly a little less so than the more regular players, but he must have had his share of 'being recognised' by now. Wasn't he gaining a bit more notoriety these days, after all?)

'I just have to say, I'm rather a fan. I mean, I don't quite follow the Tornadoes, per se, I'm actually more of a Magpies woman--' (Aberdeen liked to keep her lies as close to the truth as possible; it made them easier to maintain) 'but it's always such a treat to see you play. It's a crime you're still a reserve, I hope they come to their senses and make you a more permanent fixture soon.' The smile she gave him as she spoke was a broad, friendly one; she wanted to come across more as a cheery enthusiast than an adoring fan, since she knew she wasn't attractive enough by conventional standards to make the latter work in her favour.

'Now I-- I know this is a bit cheeky of me, and do feel free to tell me to get lost-- but might I possibly be able to trouble you for an autograph? It's just, my friend-- he is a Tornadoes fan-- I just don't think he'll believe I actually saw you, otherwise!' Go on, little fishie. Take the bait. Go onnnn... Aberdeen knew it was a bit of a risk, since some Quidditch players made it a policy not to sign their autograph outside of official events, but, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Besides, Forrester seemed obliging enough so far.

James knew quidditch fan came in all types, but this one seemed odd even to him.  A magpies fan who wants my autograph for her friend?, James thought – especially one that seemed to recognize him.  He sincerely doubted that she actually knew who he was with that statement, but she was stroking his ego a bit, and James was a sucker for flattery.  Not really seeing the harm it could do, all he replied was:

“Certainly.  Though might I have your name and your friends so I can make a little note about it,” with as much neutral diplomacy as possible.  For a minute, he thought his tone matched the one where his brother was politicking at some of the higher society functions.  Inwardly, James kicked himself.  Politics had no place in a quidditch store.  He thought about that previous statement for a moment, and realized that was not entirely true.  Politics had a way of worming itself into even the most obscure places.  But his train of thought needed to focus on the present, not the various ways people tried to backstab each other.

Wondering what this girl’s story really was, he figured it was either completely true, or that she was planning something.  But for the life of him, James could not figure out what.  He had never seen this girl before in his life – maybe he had slept with her sister and she was seeking revenge?  Once again, James kicked himself.  His imagination was wondering a bit, but her story sounded so fishy that he could not help but be suspicious. 

As he waited for the girl to respond, he wondered if this was a prank set up by the sporting section by the prophet or something.  The thought made a lot of sense to him – after all it did not take a professional to select practice snitches, but maybe this was some sort of weird PR gig?  James made a mental note to be on his best behavior in case someone had a set of omnoculars nearby. 

Aberdeen raised her eyebrows just a little at the question, but went with it amicably enough. She hadn't been expecting Forrester to take an interest in her or her ficticious friend's names, but it wasn't an unreasonable request. 'My friend's name is Darren,' she told Forrester as she started rummaging in her shoulder bag for a notebook and quill, latching onto the first male name that came to mind. 'And you can call me Abby.' (Much less distinctive than Aberdeen or Deen; she wanted to avoid being memorable where possible.)

Turning the notebook that she usually wrote her shopping lists in to an empty page, she held it and the quill out to the reserve player with a grateful smile. 'Really good of you, Mr. Forrester. Darren really will be surprised, you know. He actually saw you out and about himself once! That's why I don't think he'd believe me,' she added with a slight chuckle to her voice. 'I mean, this side of the Leaky Cauldron being as busy as it is, what are the odds, right? He didn't work up the nerve to go over and say hello, mind. I think he wasn't even sure if it was you. Some pub or other in Knockturn, I think it was,' she added with the air of someone wondering if they were remembering correctly.

Aberdeen was automatically on her guard (moreso than usual) when it came to Knockturn Alley and those who frequented it; it was a bias she had developed over her years of being an Auror. The shady potion deals, the cursed antiques, the stolen goods being flogged-- more often than not the trail led to, or through, that street. She knew this didn't mean everyone who spent time in Knockturn was suspect, but still, there was a feeling she got about the place that was difficult to shake. But in this persona she was careful to maintain complete neutrality. She spoke of Knockturn Alley exactly as she would speak of Diagon Alley; just another place to go shopping or grab a drink. The last thing she wanted right now was for Forrester to take 'My friend thought he saw you in Knockturn' as an accusation of some sort. And really, for the time being, it wasn't.

James smiled politely, and wondered why she seemed almost surprised by his question.  She recovered quickly enough though, so James scribbled a little note down.  Taking the quill and writing surface offered, James quickly scribbled down a small note.

Darren – saw your friend Abby.  Hope to see you at the game. 
-James Forrester

So the note was not going to win him any prizes for insight, but it was a request for an autograph, not a novel.  He figured that would do well enough.  James probably would have left at that point had she not made another comment.  Apparently he had been seen in Knockturn Alley.  For the life of him though, James could not figure out why this Darren hadn’t approached him.  About the only time he did not want to be recognized was when he got almost dragged into a mage duel with a librarian of all people.  Shrugging it off, he simply said,

“Next time just tell him to come up and say hi – I do not bite.” James amiably added on - not really thinking about it one way or the other.  James could detect something was going on there, but he was content to let sleeping dogs lie.  If she wanted something else, James assumed she would ask for it.  As it was though, James had grabbed a set of snitches and began to turn to the register.

Aberdeen had a moment of hesitation as Forrester started towards the register. This is where a normal fan would thank the celebrity, and gracefully back away. And Aberdeen was a fairly normal fan, really, when she wasn't covertly interrogating Quidditch players for information of seedy pubs they may or may nor frequent.

... I really need a hobby.

She'd simply have to pretend she'd missed the natural implied end to the conversation. Maybe if she played it distractable enough, as she had been doing so far, it wouldn't seem strange. Well, not too strange. Okay, well, at least not as strange as some Quidditch fans could be. I am slightly kooky and a bit nosy, but ultimately harmless, and totally not investigating the former proprietor of the Black Chimaera. It was a rather specific air to exude, but it was the one she was going for, nonetheless.

'Gosh, thanks,' she gushed, taking a few steps after him as though she'd wanted to catch up just to convey her gratitude, but then found that she couldn't stop talking. 'Heheh, yes, I'll tell him,' she babbled, still grinning as though this was the most excitement she'd had this week. 'Though, I don't suppose he'll see you in that pub again... The Black Griffon? Something like that. I mean, it closed down right? I mean, that's what I heard-- oh god, listen to me. I'm so sorry. Going on about some pub-- it probably wasn't even you he saw in there!' Aberdeen stepped back a little as though realising her proximity.

Now would be the time she would blush on cue, if she were capable of doing that, but as it happened, she didn't need to. A little flustered by feeling out of practice and worried she was going to give herself away, Aberdeen felt her face warm a little, meaning that her pallid cheeks was taking of a hint of pink. Good, she was an exciteable, but now embarrassed fan. If nothing else, it was be interesting to see if (and for that matter how) Forrester would attempt to be reassuring.

The thing about fans, is that….well you quickly began to realize why Ian would not go out without at least two of his teammates to flank him.  James did not expect to get one who fell off the griffin's perch at this point in his career, but if this was any indication of his status, he was doing something right.  Now if he could only figure out what it was and get on the starting roster, he would be set. 

He expected her to go on about one of his goals against the magpies or some other athletic feat of his, but she went on about a bar.  The Black Griffon.  Truthfully, James had been to many bars recently.  Though he *was* a regular at the Black Chimaera when  Cináed was the proprietor the Shepherd's Pie recipe had changed.   James saw no reason to eat at a place that did not serve water.  Since leaving the Chimaera however, James had not really found a place he liked.  Consequently, he had been visiting various bars trying to find a good replacement for Shepherd’s Pie.  James could easily assume that he had wound up in a hole in the wall somewhere with that name and not remember it (or care about it).  The Black Griffon was as likely a name for a bar as anything else in the wizarding world, so James paid it no mind.  Right now though, he had a slightly crazy woman to placate.

James then noticed her blush.  ’The simplest explanation is often the correct one’ James thought.  Still, this woman looked like she was a few years past school-girl crushes, but quidditch fans had never been known for being polite or normal.  Again, James wished she was anywhere from five to fifteen years younger, but beggars could not be choosers.  Otherwise he probably would have just given her a pair of tickets and asked her out after his next game.  Wishing that Ian could help him out of this situation, he tried to go with the ‘its not you its me and I need to get back to practice option’

“Abby – I’m flattered - really.  Unfortunately – my life is full up with quidditch right now and I do not have time for other pursuits.  Speaking of which – I need to get back to practice.  If you have one other request that can be done quickly, I will try to fulfill it - but I need to return to practice.  We have a game this Friday.,” James lied, hoping that sounded believable.  In truth, James had been through enough of the pureblooded social calendar that lying came easier to him than he realized, so it seemed as though he spoke with a fair amount of veracity.  That - and he actually did have a game on Friday. 

Aw, hell. Am I really that out of practice? ...Yeah, I am. It was all Aberdeen could do to keep from cringing at the signal she had inadvertantly sent to the Quidditch player. The false reassurance of him being 'flattered'-- she had actually come off as flirting, she realised to her chagrin. Her. Aberdeen did not flirt (one of the things that had made her courtship with Luke particularly interesting) and barely attempted it while undercover; she was self-aware enough to know that that sort of thing only really worked if you were better looking.

Any chance of even confirming whether Forrester was in fact a regular at Tawse's tavern had flown by this point, Aberdeen realised, which made prolonging their conversation pointless. So it was probably best to muster whatever grace she could in the given situation, and quit while she was... well, not ahead, but quit before she could make things any worse. She surreptitiously folded her hands behind her back, hoping Forrester hadn't had a chance to notice her wedding band (because, sheesh, how would that make her look?) and backed away a little farther.

'Oh!' she replied, giving a quietly nervous chuckle and continuing to not need to fake embarrassment. 'Of course, of course! How silly of me. So sorry to keep you-- and thank you so much for the autograph, I know that'll make my friend's day. I hope you have a good practice, and, uh, good luck for Friday. Not that you'll need it, I'm sure!' One last, awkward smile accompanied by a brief wave, and Aberdeen hurriedly made her way over to the broom polish. Not daring to glance back, and simply imagining what bewildered expression the Quidditch player might be wearing right now, she focused intently on the range of polishes on offer.

No more improvising, she told herself sternly. No matter how tempting. There's too much at stake. Aberdeen was no stranger to having the line between personal and professional life blurred. But things were different now. There was no 'profession' for her any more. There was just getting Robin back; that was everything. There was a Plan. In a couple of days, she'd meet with Trevelyan and the others. And they would go from there.