I'll Have a Cork with That Hangover, Please

The Department of Fluffy Creatures was abuzz with activity, men and women alike sharing their jovial mood with each other like the rubbing free electrons in a solid conducting energy down its length. Ariel was seated back within the not-so-comfortable spinning chair that he’d been supplied with upon joining the Department. They’d taken pity on him – the only werewolf in the country willing to do a job that tracked down other werewolves. Ariel was public enemy number one in his father’s circles as a result of that and he still hadn’t done enough work to catch his half-sister or that useless husband of hers yet either. He was beginning to feel his age, too. Sure, twenty was nothing to gripe about but he felt so much older than that. His bones were tired; his muscles wasted and reluctant to do anything other than relax. He was ill, this he knew, but there was very little he could do about it. It wasn’t the Itch they all spoke about, it was a side-effect – a side-effect of being a werewolf; a side-effect of dying.

He heaved himself up out of his chair after an hour or so of listening to slurred speeches from his colleagues. They’d caught the leader of a rogue band of werewolves that had been stalking the Welsh border, preying on women and children in particular but settling for men if there was nothing else as they professed to prefer the smooth flesh rather than the coarse, calloused skin that was that of a man’s. He had known the pack well and had run with them a few times though he had not joined in with any of their actions. He needed a break and, most certainly, room to breathe. He headed to Diagon Alley, didn’t think to tell anyone where he was going. He’d go without the nights pay, he decided, and squander his day’s pay on Firewhisky and goodness only knows what else before returning to Ollie in the small hours, no doubt finding the man on the couch as a result of his girlfriend of eight months kicking him out of bed again. Ariel was dreading that but knew there was enough time before that for him to enjoy himself.

He entered the new establishment – Eli’s. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do there but was taken to the bar by a pretty enough little waitress and informed that the owner wasn’t in tonight, not that it made any difference to Ari. He seated himself at the bar and was given a drink, “on the house”, she said. Ariel had been a tad hesitant when she’d told him that but accepted it none the less and turned a little in his seat to have a look around. His eyes fell to a woman alone in the corner and he recognised her even with the shadows concealing her. Khaat Lupin. And she looked...drunk, actually. Ariel cocked an eyebrow at her but made no attempt to move just yet. He had heard the news and though he’d always had his suspicions he knew better than to voice them unlike Elldir. She was a particularly volatile witch too which was problematic. He wasn’t entirely sure, yet, whether he wanted to try his luck with her.

Amongst the more adventurous memories of Lena’s past lives, those of pubs were scarce and far between. For adrenaline addicts had little to gain from such places; the regular sorrowfuls and characteristic table-top waltzers were of little excitement, due to their repetitive natures. Lena much preferred the occasional splash of wine amongst the grass and the star-dusted evening sky. Such circumstances as those which had befallen Lena, however, had surpassed Lena’s requirement of daily thrill. Thus, in a rather uncharacteristic fashion, the stargazer had abandoned her notebooks and telescopes in trade for a particularly uninteresting serving of alcohol.

A women, Lena noted as she gently swayed the glasses’ contents against its transparent walls, admiring not the deep rouge of the drink, but the faintest tint of pink that stained the glass’ rim. –was the last to drink from this glass. She reclined her chair upon two legs and further crumpled the letter that she clutched in her left hand.

From Lena’s violent behavior towards the unfortunate slip of paper, her attention was stolen by a statement of notable more intrigue. ("Would you rather I set you on fire instead?") Her visibly lightening irises danced in the direction of the threat’s morbid conductor, the likes of whom occupied a table no further from Lena’s present position than two powerful strides. Khaat Lupin, Lena identified the familiar blonde as her pupils traced the woman’s back: all that could be seen of the politician from Lena’s location.

I hadn’t pegged – the hypocritical thought began, before Lena sternly stemmed its flow. Instead, she opted to stand from her seat, slide her previously lax feet more comfortably forward in her boots, and to draw her wand from within its respective pouch across her waste simultaneously. “Keep calm and,” she began as she stepped towards Khaat, allowing her lips to flick upward in their tradition smile rather than to allow her prior, sullen expression to remain. One. Two. Lena counted as she rid of the distance that remained between herself and the woman of interest before her. Two. Just like I thought. And into the chair adjacent to Khaat’s, Lena swept, her wand held aloft. “- carry a wand,” was her finished statement, and with the basic touch of the wizarding utensil, the end of Khaat’s cigarette flared brilliantly.

Feeling quite successful in her actions, Lena shifted in her new chair and returned her wand to its holster. “I would take this one seriously, dears,” Lena announced to those who giggled and shared trite gossip with one another from behind the cover of the bar, her eyes trained on Khaat’s face, spying the evidence of the woman’s intoxication, “She means business.”