The pot in front of Ferreole LeBeau appeared to be filled with the long-forgotten contents of a tar pit. Thick as mud, a lone, sad air bubble struggled to rise from the surface of the black sludge, agonizingly slow, before bursting with a tired wheeze, collapsing on itself back into the dark, ominously steaming slop. "Ahh," the sound was a guttural purr of approval from the skeletal man draped in shimmering robes of violet and silver, bedecked, as usual, in his streamer-dazzled absurdity of a hat. He seized a muck-filled cup with an expression of wild, manic glee, swallowing half of its contents in a single greedy swallow, settling in his chair like an overlarge cat—fat, content, lazy, and ready to claw you to shreds if you approached from the wrong angle.

It would never do to be predictable.

"Dat be de stuff, dat. Good Gobledook brew." Ferreole hummed his approval in a voice, as always, that was a booming mix of butter and gravel. "Much better'n de pixie piss jou tried t'pass off as coffee, jou." He snarled out the word 'coffee', shooting a venomous look towards the lone server working this early, who blanched but managed a brave smile, earning herself a decisive nod from the ornery old man.

Although one would expect, after that nod, that he was entirely engrossed in his beverage (such as it could be called) he was, in actuality, keeping a wary eye out for his more motherly of teachers. Fussy woman. Always on him about cholesterol and his heart and all that bother and nonsense, suggesting tea perhaps, as though piss-poor watery plant juice was any kind of decent way for a wizard to start the morning. He was a healer, wasn't he? Knew his own body, didn't he? "HAH!" He boomed, stamping his peg leg with an echoing crack that had the server jumping and eying him warily before deciding he was talking to himself. Which he was.  A bull of a snort burst from his flared nostrils before taking another mighty swallow from his mug. "Well?" He bellowed abruptly, waving the terrorized server over, who looked annoyed and faintly resigned. "Breakfast, den! Bring whatever it is dey have on de menu far it." He slapped the wizarding coins into her palm, with a substantially generous tip included that warmed her smile considerably.

And Ferreole, for his part, poured another cup.

There was still a crisp edge to the air when Tulojow's morning walk led her to the Three Broomsticks.  The morning sun hadn't quite crested the eastern ridge and it would be another hour or so before the summer warmth would finally chase the cool of night away. 

The summer had been a rather quiet and restful one.  With all the students home for the summer, there was no steady stream of splinched arms, perforated feet or slug belching to keep her busy.  This was, perhaps, what retirement (whatever that was) was supposed to look like.  They had a couple more weeks left before she'd return to the hospital cabin and young Dilly would be starting in at Hogwarts properly.  Tulojow had already sworn to herself that she wasn't going to play the over protective brooding hen.  After all, even if Tulojow was going to see her on the Hogwarts Express proper, they were both still going to end up at the same location at the end of the day. 

Still...

Still.  There would be winter break.  And, no doubt, within a few years Dilly would start fidgeting for freedom and space.  It didn't matter the girl had only had a proper home for a year.  That didn't stop the clock from continuing to tick on. 

The Three Broomsticks was usually rather quiet at this time of the morning.  Certainly, on the average morning, Tulojow was generally the only American making the rounds of the little pub.  With the ever-present slight limp in her gait, Tulojow made her way up to the counter and settled herself in a seat next to LeBeau.  She cast a dubious glance at the contents of the man's cup before nodding to the young server. 

"Morning, Vicki.  I'll just have the usual, my dear."  She recognized the man sitting next to her though there was no guarantee he'd recognize her by appearances.  She'd been about twenty-three when she'd started studying Healing at Salem back in 1958.  She'd moved to the UK to join the Auror office shortly after finishing her Healing certification and hadn't had many opportunities to return since.  She'd, undoubtedly, changed more in the fifty years that had passed than the man sitting next to her. 

But, he'd likely remember her by reputation and, perhaps, by name.  Her clear abandon when it came to authority existed long before she'd become the burr in the Auror office's backside.  She'd been disciplined for slipping away on at least a few occasions - though always for reasons that helped mitigate the consequences: to join in the protests against the Apartheid in South Africa and the Civil Rights movement in the South. 

And, now, the man had the joy of supervising the other magically-inclined Nagde. 

Tulojow grinned with clear amusement as the server placed a glass of grapefruit juice and a mug of hot cocoa at her elbow.  "That's quite the way to wake up," she nodded to the pot.  "Figure it won't do much until the sun comes up?"

His mind didn't wander. Not precisely. It followed the same path it always did in the rare quiet moments that Ferreole could steal. Through faces he never forgot, small tragedies unrectified.
Larger tragedies, hands and words etched in the stone of his eidetic recall.

Tulojow may have sworn not to play brooding hen, but Ferreole had never taken such an oath. He clucked and hissed and roared and hovered and poked and prodded and had even been known to hex. And it was of those in his brood that he pondered most particularly this morning. Would they be homesick? Would they keep up in their studies? Would they be disappointed? Would they be safe?  Despite the appearance of nothing but impulsive behavior, entering his students into this tournament had not been a decision he had made lightly, and he worried for them.

"It be de only way t'wake up, bon ami. And I can't get de stuff in de states. Shame, dat."

Ferreole chuckled, warm and easily. "I know jour face, p'tit." He stroked the grizzled, steel grey beard on his chin and nodded, taking another sip and adding thoughtfully, "I believe I 'ave one o' you kin on dis trip." He chuckled again, pulling out similarities in his mind and wandering back down into those thoughts he never released to a pensieve. "Tulojow Nagde, came t'learn de 'ealing arts even t'ough you knew more'n de ot'er riffraff combined." He continued to stroke his beard, squinting slightly. "Chippewa tribal magic?He questioned, though it seemed he was mostly going through his own thoughts and talking out loud. "Never responded t'my letters," He hadn't sent any, and the twinkle in his eyes attested to this. "Too busy gallivantin' around the globe." The man gave a wounded sniff. Gallivanting, of course, that he heartily approved of. He was old. He'd seen and experienced a great deal of hatred that had no basis or place in the sort of world he dreamed of, and each victory, small and great, was as treasured and carefully stored as the faces that had passed through his school.

"Now I'm sure a beautiful young woman has better t'ings t'do den talk to an old man about her adventures. But if not," Ferreole chuckled and raised his mug full of bubbled mud in a toast, "I'd be much obliged t'ear you t'oughts, you."

Tulojow's mouth twitched in a slight grin as she glanced from the contents of the man's glass, to the man proper and finally to her own cup of cocoa.  She was pretty certain she'd manage just fine without whatever that was the man was drinking. 

"Is that supposed to be coffee, mon cher?" Tulojow asked.  "I've slurped my share of boiled coffee grounds thick enough to stand up a spoon, but I don't remember it ever being quite that ... reminiscent of many a dinosaur's last tar bath." 

The man's memory impressed Tulojow but it didn't surprise her.  She could distinctly remember the man's (frequently frustratingly) keen deduction abilities - she'd only been grateful she only spent her (relatively) maturer years of Healer training at Salem.  The man next to her had been spared from supervising Tulojow during her real formative years.  The Northwest Witches' Academy had really been the best place for Tulojow during her younger years.  The unorthodox 'hippie' feel of the summer camp-style school had helped Tulojow find her confidence and footing.  Leonard was much better suited to Salem - perhaps a testament to how much growing up on the reservation had changed in the past seventy years. 

"Leo Little Eagle," Tulojow confirmed with a grin.  "Or Migs - since I think the last time he went by Leo Little Eagle, he was still into Tonka trucks.  That's between us, though.  Hopefully, he'll keep out of trouble." 

"Initially.  And, of course, roads always lead to home," Tulojow confirmed.  Ojibwe traditions had been the origin and foundation of her spiritual and magical studies.  "But, I think I've gallivanted a bit too far and wide for letters to catch up with me."  Tulojow sighed sadly.  The reality was, she'd spent most of her life running from her past.  Strange how the past had a tendency to catch up with you as soon as you stopped running.  Tulojow sipped her cocoa, chuckling slightly around the warm, earthen ceramic.  "It has been at least a couple years since I've felt young," she admitted, tapping her ruined knee - a similarity she now shared with her former Professor. 

"But, within six months of Salem, I'd joined the Auror Corps here.  Finally forced to retire about ... going on three years now.  Spent most of that time on assignment all over - Tibet, the Outback - it was a whirlwind.  What about you?  Been at Salem all this time?"