A drink and distraction

From his window seat Matthew could now see that the snow outside was falling in sheets. How he would be able to apparate in the blizzard he had no clue. Thankfully the distance wasn't that great, Matthew lived not too far from Hogsmede, it was nowhere near walking distance, but the distance wasn't that great. Either way he had two options: head out now, brave the snowstorm or wait out the storm, perhaps leave later if it hadn't died down. Naturally, Matthew decided to take the second option. He'd only end up drinking as a distraction anyway, and what better place to drink in a bar that was... almost empty. That made a change, probably the snowstorm had put people off venturing to their local, or everyone was suddenly down at The Hogs Head. No. They were definitely not braving the storm for a butterbeer.

Raising his glass of Quentin Black Scotch to his lips Matthew took a sip. Before him there was already two empty glasses, one had been from a client. Malcolm Thornycross. Earlier in the day the Three Broomsticks had been bustling with customers getting into the pre-Christmas drinking swing. It had been a perfect camouflage for Matthew's dealing of dragon egg shells. That was Matthew's way of life: dealing. Of course most of his dealing were perfectly legal, he sold dragon dung to a store in Knockturn Alley and to Hogwarts itself, then there were the hides sold to various clothing stores. However, dragon eggs and their counterpart were class A non-tradeable substance and if anybody had spotted what he was doing then no doubt the Ministry would get involved and fine him, throw him in Azkaban possibly.

The first punishment he didn't care about, Matthew was already in debt to the Ministry since his first service in Azkaban. It wasn't that he couldn't afford it, he simply had no interest in paying them. What could they do? Threaten him an extra fine? It wasn't as if they could access his vault in Gringotts. However, Azkaban wasn't a place where he wished to return. It was something he didn't want to even think about, the memory of it was too torturous.

Matthew returned his glass to the table, empty. His sharp eyes scanned the pub. Nope, there were no attractive women in here to distract him from today, which mean't that he would in fact need to have another drink. Pushing himself up he headed towards the bar, 'Same again.' He said, placing down the necessary six galleons on the bar in exchange for his scotch.

Claire had had a very long day.

To be fair, most of her days ended up being much longer than what a normal day felt life. It came with the job. The woman had her day-job, the job she had "transferred" from America to do. It was child's play, really. Her real job required 18-hour shifts, only halting when she slept. Every moment of her day was collecting data and analyzing behavior so she could prepare reports for her Minister and his team back home. It was exhausted, especially considered the mental strain it put on her. When anything could be potentially useful, it was hard to sort through what was necessary and what was rubbish.

It also sucked because she had finally begun to connect with some of her employees. She had thought there was no sign of life when she had first taken on her squadron, but she was beginning to be surprised. Paskal Montague was clever, very clever, if quiet, and had recently admitted the reason behind his silence being that he was a werewolf. Claire giving him a vote of confidence regardless of his condition had made him incredibly loyal and she was considering him her right hand man. Cecile Donague was one of two females on the team, and she was also incredibly resourceful. Lyle Nottingham lacked field experience but had a mind like an encyclopedia. And Gabriel Layton was, thus far, pretty useless, but the effort and ethic he put into everything was inspiring.

And every night, Claire had to report on them.

It was beginning to bug her, having to live this life where she could not actually connect with people fully, because at any moment, she could label them an enemy of the American Ministry. They knew there were threats from within the British Ministry, as well as thieves, and it was beginning to exhaust Claire having to look at everyone through the lenses of suspicion.

She walked towards the Three Broomsticks, hoping to get her mind off of such matters. She immediately went for the bar, unwinding her scarf. "A Bronx cocktail, please," she called to the bartender.

Grasping his glass of scotch Matthew turned and took a step in the direction back to his window seat. That was until he heard the voice of a female: 'A Bronx cocktail, please.' Turning around his eyes caught sight of the addition to the bar. Well, she certainly improved the quality of company Matthew had been surrounded by.

The lady wasn't the most attractive of women Matthew had seen, and he'd done more than just seen a lot of them. Yet, there was something about her that was interesting. Her hair was blonde to dirty blonde and fell in anyway it seemed to feel like. She was tall for a women but still shorter than him: the perfect height and her eyes... Matthew needed to see her eyes, perhaps she would be the distraction he needed.

'Let me get that for you.' Matthew stated, coming up besides her and placing his glass of Scotch onto the bar. 'Matthew, Matthew Stone.' He said, extending a hand for her to take. A scar across his thumb was visible from a slash he'd received a few weeks back although his hands were softer than usual. After a day or not handling dragons and merely sitting around in a pub it was surprising what difference it could make.

The bartender glared at her a moment, as though irritated that she had the audacity to ask him to do his job. She held her gaze, never one to be off put by grumps and cranky citizens. She was sure being a bartender definitely gave the man his own reasons to be so irritable, but it was not going to mean she would excuse him from making her drink. She just held her gaze, and when the man realized she could out-grump him if she really wanted, he let out a sigh and turned around, beginning preparations on her drink.

She sat atop one of the stools at the bar and brushed her hair back, getting it all out of her face. A phrase caught her ears and she turned, looking at the man who had addressed her. "Thanks, but I have a tab." She had not thought herself at all in the mood for any sort of company, especially the sort of company that came from a man in a bar who wanted to buy her a drink.

But a second glance rendered the man a familiar face. And the name - ah, yes. Claire let out a smile and gripped the man's hand. "Yes, I actually know you, Mr Stone. I'm Claire Bishop. Captain of the Magical Law and Enforcement Patrol," she smiled, hoping that would mean something to the man.

Matthew had momentarily smiled in triumph as she took his hand, rather firmly. He liked a confident woman. Although his grip slackened in astonishment to what came out of the lady's mouth. Department of magical law enforcement captain. What were the chances he would hit on a nosy ministry executive.

'Oh really?' He asked, keeping it cool with the raise of his eyebrow. 'What do you know about me then, Miss Bishop?' Matthew asked. It was not only a good conversation piece, casual and relatively flirty (to an extent) but it'd let him know just how much he wanted to stay at the bar with this woman - or if he wanted to stay in the bar at all. The option to drink at home alone was still in sight.

There was a chance that Claire was aware he'd once had a bed booked in Azkaban, but hopefully his 'clean' record since then would sway her opinion of him. He could always play the Azkaban-changed-me card. A card he rarely played as the women he stumbled upon weren't usually the captain of the magical law enforcement squad. What were the chances of that.

Claire was not a nervous person. Her job required sending her men out onto the streets to deal with magical criminals, and she would never make her subordinates do something that she herself would not do. And the whole nature of the work she did for the American Ministry required nerves of steel. At any moment, someone could figure out what she was doing here and, if they were disturbed enough by it, cut her pretty little throat.

Claire made up for her boring, professional little life by remembering that at any moment, her very livelihood could be taken from her. The work she was doing might not have been noble, she had long discarded the idea that good was something that could be properly measured, but it was important in the very least. More important than her own life, but somehow, that put importance on her own life too.

To put it simply, she was not afraid of this man. Or any man that she could think of.

She raised an eyebrow as she regarded the man. Her drink was delivered and she smelled it - seemed good. She downed the shot, before setting the glass down. "Let me think - please don't think I've memorized the file of every petty criminal out there." Not yet anyway. "But if I recall, you owe the Ministry a tidy sum of money."

A smirk slid across his face as Matthew watched Claire take her shot. There was some attitude behind the way she took her drink, a bad-ass streak that the ex-Gryffindor admired. Being a dragon keeper himself was evidence he was an adrenaline junkie, but none of the women Matthew ever took home could match him. Maybe that's why he never settled down. Although after seeing his parents in an unhappy marriage, to put it nicely, it was understandable why he himself would avoid getting down on one knee and hoping for a 'yes.'

That disarmed him. The smirk left and his eyebrows furrowed for a moment. He'd forgotten about the debt, not that he cared, Matthew would never pay it back. Perhaps he should have chosen the option to go home and drown his sorrows. There was the Hogs Head but Matthew had standards when it came to his women, something the Hogs Head didn't have.

'Is that still on file?' Matthew asked, a laugh escaping him. 'I thought I'd cleared that up years ago?' Cleared up I wouldn't be paying. He silently though, keeping his steel-eyed gaze connected with Miss Bishops.

She kept her eyes on him a moment, curious to see his reaction to the news that she knew his identity and his crime. He looked disturbed to see that he had found himself in such a tough position - Claire could not sympathize. She had learned a lot in her years in the American Ministry (and now the British one) and among the odds and ends, she had learned how to be a successful criminal. Naturally, she had never practically applied the knowledge, but it made her a little critical of the criminals who let themselves get found out. It wasn't all that difficult really.

She finally looked away, remembering that her drink was now pitifully gone. She flagged down the bartender, who quickly obeyed, having a feeling that she would have a classy request, as she seemed to be a more professional caliber than the others at the bar - he guessed right. "I'll have a New York Cocktail. Could I get an orange wedge on that rather than the peel? Thank you." The bartender had no chance to answer her question. He just turned and obeyed.

She looked back to the man at present. "Nope, you're still pitifully overdue on your payment." She paused, letting him sweat it out a moment. "Fortunately for you, it does not become my jurisdiction until your final notice. A warrant for your arrest has not crossed my desk. You're safe, this time."

Matthew took another comfort sip of his scotch, letting out a sigh of relief as he returned his glass to it's stained seat on the bar. He wouldn't be having to duel his way out of the pub then, he supposed that was a plus. Then again a bit of excitement could have proved better than the company of a Ministry Official who he expected wouldn't be returning to his house after her next drink or two.

A sheepish grin escaped Matthew. He didn't want to linger on this topic, for one Azkaban wasn't a place he intended to go. Not that an arrest mean't Azkaban but if Matthew continued to refuse to pay, despite having the money to afford it, it could surely mean a trip to the temple of torture. The shadowy cell where he would relieve the beatings as a child, the screams of his Mother and Father raging at each other and the memory that had been wired into his brain throughout the entire day: his Mother's funeral.

This day ten years ago was her funeral. Matthew had visited the muggle church with his brother, who he barely spoke to now he was a wizard with a life in the magical world, and watched them lower her coffin into the ground. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The words mean't nothing but at the same time everything to Matthew. He didn't have time to linger on what the religious term may mean but those words the ones engraved into the front of his skull. It was those words that were the play button on his memory of the funeral and it was those words from which he needed a distraction.

'So what brings you up these neck of the woods?' Matthew asked, drawing a bar stool and taking a seat.