I'll Have a Cork with That Hangover, Please

Khaat had had more than enough. Thaor was trying to destroy everyone and everything that she loved, all based on a foundation of lies. Enemies, she understood, but a turncoat? Someone into their so limited inner circle for decades? No. That was beyond her. And so far as she was concerned, he needed to die. She left her office, dressed in her black raw silk slacks, her heels, and a black camisole with a black lace blouse tied at her waist. Brian hated when she wore black but he wasn't here, now was he?

Much as that was her decision, she wasn't so good at carrying it out. Her father hadn't resolved to kill him. He was largely ignoring it all. She had decided to carry it out herself, if she could summon up the gonads to do it. She had gone to her father's potions lab at the farm, but the only thing she had managed to summon up the killing curse against were the bugs in his bugjars. And she had practiced, with her wand in one hand and a bottle of his best firewhiskey in the other. She'd wiped out about half his collection.

Killing insects though, was entirely different than killing a man. She just didn't have it in her to kill for more than self defense, much as she wanted to get there with it. Infuriated with herself, she'd left the farm and gone to Diagon Alley before she was entirely smashed.

She'd bought a bottle of some sort of interesting espresso flavored vodka. The booze stock at Eli's club was almost unlimited. She'd bought the bottle and taken it off to a booth in the corner in the dark and was drinking the vodka, not really giving it thought that chasing firewhiskey with vodka might make it all go to her head a bit sooner.

But the vodka was just damned good. Damned good.

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.

One of the servers seemed to be gossping about her being "Eli's mom," and that in itself didn't bother Khaat. That piece was rather flattering. Until they referred to her as a lush. And then proceeded to rag about how sad it was for Eli to have 'something like that for a mother." She merely shifted her eyes sideways to them, not moving, and listened. She was getting better and better at learning her father's stonefaced expression, which deepened the more annoyed she became. Just like Daddy. It had worked for him, and now she understood why.

She knew Eli always kept a pack of fairly decent cigarettes behind the bar. She didn't smoke but it did seem like a good time to start. She accio'd the pack from behind the counter.

"Hey!" one of the gossiping servers protested, seeing the cigarettes fly out from behind the bar and over to Khaat. "You can't set one of those on fire! Those belong to Mr. Eli!"

"Would you rather I set you on fire instead?" Khaat asked quietly and calmly, taking a cigarette out of the pack and realizing that her fine motor skills were being a bit compromised by something or another. She'd not had that happen before. She decided to refill her glass before attempting to light the cigarette, in case she accidently set the tablecloth on fire. She wasn't sure how the vodka would resolve that but it might make her feel better about burning up the Irish linen at any rate.

She accio'd a book of matches and found that all she managed to do was to break the heads of the paper matches off before they hit the strike bar decently. The wait staff seemed to be snickering at her. Well, well, wouldn't this provide Eli with an interesting report in the morning, she smiled a bit sarcastically to herself. And honestly, despite it being out of character for her somewhere in the neighborhood of 180 degrees, it wasn't anything that Eli hadn't done himself, and quite regularly. Oh, yeah. Except for the homocidal urge. that wasn't a regular part of his makeup either.

She made a mental note to ask him how the hell one lit a cigarette once the alcohol kicked in. She didn't smoke, anyway. Even if she did smoke, she was entirely too unfamiliar with being intoxicated to know how to do those things.

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.”

Khaat was grateful for the assist in lighting her very first cigarette. She took a puff and wrinkled her nose. It didn't cause the coughing fit that most had, but it certainly tasted something akin to licking a dirty sidewalk. God, Eli, she thought, Michael did buy you decent cigarettes at Christmas.

"Thank you,' she said, and then her lagging brain made the connection. " Lena. Imagine finding you here. Its been awhile. You know, I don't know who decided to make espresso flavored vodka, but whoever it was is just bloody brilliant. I'm just having a bit of a girl's night out. What brings you..." Her thoughts were distracted immediately by the scene beginning to play itself out behind Lena.

She watched a kitchen worker open the kitchen door as she accepted a payment from a man in a dark cloak. The man deposited a little stack of clinking galleons into her waiting palm. Khaat frowned slightly. It had a suspicious air about it. And then it registered with her when he opened his cloak.

"Oh for God's sake," Khaat sighed, annoyed. The man was a papaparazzi from one of the wizarding publications. She was used to it, but it seemed like they followed her everywhere. She wasn't in the mood tonight. She lifted her glass innocently enough, to toast the photographer and his camera, but flicked her finger just enough to blow his flashbulb before he had a chance to click the shutter. He glared at her angrily, but she merely shrugged. He began to filch in a leather shoulder bag, looking for a replacement bulb. "He really is going to make me break it, isn't he?" she asked, not really wanting to cause damage. "I was hoping to play nicely tonight."

Her husband was much less concerned with what anyone thought of him. She knew he'd have had the man's bag already and would be popping each bulb and exposing all the film, not caring what the press thought about him. She really did have to learn how to not care. Her alcohol soaked brain was struggling to come up with something embarressing for him but not harmful. And so far, all she was seeing was the deeper revenge she was seeking and the poor reporter did not deserve that sort of treatment.