[Outfit]

March's weather was improving greatly here in England. It was no longer terribly cold, the sun was starting to shine more often, and witches and wizards were beginning to slip out of the winter's hibernation. The Leaky Cauldron wasn't particularly busy, at least not by Henriette's standards. Each time the door opened, she contemplated the weather outside and whether or not it was a good idea for her to have worn a sweater. The pub was a bit chilly this afternoon, drab as always. Her green eyes searched the place from top to bottom; every nook and cranny in this ol' dust-bin needed to be tidied and redecorated. Light colors, specifically pastels, would work wonders for inviting people in and making them more at home.

Her full lips pulled into an amused smile at the thought of one of her more accomplished, previous clients whom had used Henri's apartment as a demonstration for her own interior decorating skills. Henriette had, of course, turned everything back to normal, but she was pleased that her intuition about the young man had been right all along. Now, he was working his way up in Paris, France and often sending her post-cards with pictures of his latest accomplishments, always offering to apply his talents to any place she deemed necessary. Although she did not own the Leaky Cauldron, she thought very seriously about writing him and telling him to demand the place be given a make-over. Remodeling wouldn't hurt, too.

The green eyes lowered to the half-full glass of red wine that was sitting on the table. Again, she checked over the table to make sure that the plates and silverware were clean, the napkins freshly pressed, and that her guest's glass remain empty in case he didn't share her taste for finery. Even over breakfast, the French woman couldn't dismiss a glass of champagne or a choice of wine if it was offered to her. Beneath the lowered lashes of sooty-dark grey, she saw the barman casting her nervous glances. Perhaps she had pressed him too hard earlier, but there was justification in her quarrel: Henriette always wanted lunches and dinners with her to be exquisitely perfect for her clients and business dealings. Even a Quidditch player needed to be treated once in a while and that was precisely what she planned on doing.

The lips twisted upwards into a smug smile as she took a good sip from her red wine. The taste was magic itself; she'd chosen the bottle herself--another reason she was currently under close scrutiny from the barman. Did he expect her to rant and rave at any moment over a spot? He should have. Well, not throw a temper tantrum, but she would certainly not let it escape his notice. Nor would she allow him near her client unless he bathed. The boy she'd picked off the street in Diagon Alley would work wonders as a servant until her needs were met and he hadn't argued against the shiny Galleon she'd handed him. He waited by the bar dressed in a nice garb she'd purchased for him in a shop and when she ran her eyes over him, he darted forward hurriedly.

"D'you need anythin', ma'am?"

That thick, British accent appealed to the young woman. She noticed the blushed cheeks and wondered if he was taken with her. Henriette smiled politely at him. If she hadn't been meeting a client, she would invite him to sit down. Perhaps after the lunch?

"No, Ralford, not yet." Her own voice was thick with her native French accent. A quick once-over of his lithe form in the outfit brought a mental approval to her mind. "That outfit suits you, oui? Is it comfortable?"

"Yes, ma'am! The sleeves are long enough and the pants, too! I can't thank you enough for it."

"You can keep it." She signaled him closer and he leaned over for her to withdraw a pocket watch she'd caught him with. When asked, the boy gave an honest answer: he had stolen it only two days prior. "It's almost time for him to be here. You go on and stand. I'll signal you when I need you. Once this is over, I'll buy you some lunch and you can go home."

Ralford was not yet eleven and he was about to tell her he had no home to go to when she dismissed him by sipping from her glass. He nodded quietly, ducked his head, and returned to standing by the bar. He would greet people as they passed him, shuffle his hair out of the way, and wait for the beautiful woman to signal him. His duties were easy: serve the food, pour the drink, take their plates when they were done. If only he could earn more money, then he could get off the streets.