Sharing of Logic

Inside the Leaky Cauldron, Talon Marlowe sat by himself at one of the tables near the back entrance that led to Diagon Alley. Out of all the places that someone would want to be alone, The Leaky Cauldron was a bad choice, yet Talon didn't mind the almost packed room filled with drunkards and wizards galore. It was a nice change of atmosphere for him, he wasn't exactly liking any of the other students at Hogwarts at the moment and the teachers bothered him constantly about his grades. Sure they were important, but with all the things he missed out on, it would take him forever to try and catch up. Yet he diligently pressed on though through his book, 'Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts'. He wasn't sure if this book was completely accurate, but at least it would give him something if he ever needed to use a jinx or something.

From afar, Talon could hear drunkards getting loud, and it was starting to give him a headache. For a place like this, you could lose yourself but at the same time, make yourself look like a complete imbecile. One of the drunkards then began to sing a song, which annoyed him even further. "For Merlin's sake," he said under his breath and began to rub his eyes. Talon stood up and went towards the bar area, the bartender immediately looking towards him. "Hey kid, you're too young to have a drink here!" he quickly said. "Relax, I'm not wanting whiskey. I just want some water. Can you do that?" He sounded a little more sarcastic than he should of. The bartender rolled his eyes and slid himself a glass, turning on the tap and allowing water to flow into the cup. "Here you go, don't tell anyone this was vodka or anything." "Alright. Thanks again." With that, Talon went back to his seat.

Michael's footstools had had puppies again. He had them stuffed in an olive green canvas messenger bag he had slung on his shoulder. The miniature footstools were not housebroken yet either. He had managed to waterproof the bag, though, so he was safe. But the tiny barking of the dollhoused sized footstools that thought they were cocker spaniels did get Michae a few odd looks.

He had inherited the bewitched footstools from his goddaughter when he rented her cottage from her. Otto and Faline. Otto was a leather ottoman and Faine was a pink chintz French provincial thing. He had no idea what spell had gone sideways and had brought them to sentience, but now he had two footstools that barked, wagged their, well, their tails, met him at the door. And ate every black sock he could buy.

And had puppies. Thirteen of them this time, in all varieties of color and decor. How that happened, he had no clue. But he was looking for unwitting....no., that wasnt' the right wording. Scratch that. He was looking for loving, responsible homes for 13 dollhouse sized footstools that, at the moment, were barking. They wanted the little tiny kibble sized bites of black socks Michael had in his shirt pocket. When they were this tiny, he had to chop up the black socks to avoid having the puppies choke.

And his beloved friend thought it was great fun. He refused to tell Michael how in the devil one spayed or neutered a footstool. And so had come the 3rd litter of footstools.

He wanted a drink.

He went into the Leaky, and the bartender heard the barking messenger bag and rolled his eyes at Michael.

"Not again!" the bartender groaned. "I have one of those already. You're not giving me another."

"Just give me a firewhiskey, would you?" Michael asked dryly. The bartender filled a glass and put it on the counter, knowing to put the drink on Michael's account.

"Somebody's got a dog in here!" one of the drunks bellowed.

"Oh, shut it," Michael pushed his way to the back and found a table and put the bag on an empty chair before sitting down. He looked at the next table and saw a young man there. Michael gave him a smile. Then he decided he'd better feed the dogs. He drew the tiny pieces of sock out of his pocket and put them on the table. Wait. Maybe a sip of firewhiskey first. Yeah. That was the ticket.

Talon was immediately taken from his book when he heard someone walk into the Cauldron. He seemed to be an old gentleman, with a messenger bag beside him...that was barking? That was curious. Talon immediately closed his book and continued to look at the messenger bag as it barked, although it was barely audible as the drunks were having a party over near the entrance and the casual chatter from the other patrons. Talon, not wanting to be seen spying from afar, quickly opened up his book to where the page was bookmarked. Although now, he could hear the barking a little bit more, and it sickened him to think that someone had dogs in a small bag like that. It's only meant to hold a laptop or something, but it seemed as if it were holding...several puppies? Who was this guy? Talon sighed, and closed his book, knowing he needed to go ask. He loved animals, especially dogs, and to think if this guy was harboring several dogs in a cramped space like that, it would be inhumane against Talon.

Standing up, Talon walked over to the bar again, this time confronting the gentleman with the bag. "Pardon me, but I need to ask you a question," Talon said, his face curved into an obvious curious look "but is your bag...barking? Or is that just the guys over there, too drunk to be human?" Too much small talk. Now he wanted to whistle. Badly. The bartender came back again and said "Hey kid, what did I-" "I'm not here for a drink," Talon cut him off "Relax." The bartender rolled his eyes and tended to the other gentlemen away from them.

The young man's curiosity amused Michael. He looked up and grinned. "It's not what you think. Have a seat. I'll show you. Its time they ate, anyway. Be careful when I get them out. They can fall off the tables pretty easily." He opened the bag and got out all thirteen teeny tiny footstools. Some were mahogany, some were oak , some were cherry...Some were covered in cowhide, some in brocade, some in tapestry...and they were all sorts of shapes. Except one. He was the runt of the litter. Black wood, and black leather upholstery. And much tinier than the rest. Each one was tiny enough to be held in the palm of someone's hand. But the little one--well, Michael had to keep an extra close eye on him. He was smaller yet.

The miniature footstools barked and ran about the tabletop with typical young puppy energy and clumsiness. And they grew instantly excited seeing the handful of pieces of black socks.

"You can feed them if you like," Michael said, picking up a piece of sock and feeding it to one of the puppies,, who gulped it down like it was the best thing it had ever eaten. "Black socks. Its all they eat." Then he looked at the kid's glass of water. "Do you want something better than that? A butterbeer or a soda or something?"

Talon watched as the man put the tiny objects on the tables, and they looked just like footstools...except for the fact they moved, barked, and ate...socks? He raised a brow and looked at the old man, obvious bewildered. "So I'm guessing it's safe to say you are a wizard?" he asked. That was a stupid question though, it was obvious this guy was a wizard. He began to examine the tiny footstools and noticed they were all different in their own way, but they ate...socks. "Okay..." he said, drawing out the sound of the first vowel "Never seen anything like this before." He took a seat next to the man as he watched the tiny furniture run about. "No thank you, I've never fed furniture socks before."

When the man asked if he wanted something else, Talon shrugged and said "Yeah, that'd be good actually. Butterbeer would be nice." Talon was glad he had some cash on him, but wasn't planning on spending anything on his day out. "So I'm not going to ignore the elephant in the room, why do you have furniture that can bark and eats socks?" One of the footstools almost fell off the table, which Talon quickly reacted to by placing his hand in front of the little footstool's path, having it gently bump into his hand.

"Tom! Butterbeer, please!" Michael ordered, snapping his fingers.

"Oi!" The bartender laughed. "You never drank a butterbeer in your life, Michael!"

"Not for me, you nit!" Michael shook his head, as Tom drew a butterbeer and delivered it. "On the tab, Tom."

"Of course it is," Tom said, putting the mug on the table. "Don't you let them pee on the table, you hear? I know they can't be housebroken yet."

"They're two inches long," MIchael scowled. "How much do you think they actually pee?"

"Not the point, Tremaine!" Tom said, going back to the bar. Michael looked back at the young man.

"In answer to your real question, yes, the footstools are enchanted. They believe they're cocker spaniels. When they grow up, if you refer to them as furniture, they do get quite insulted." He continued to feed the little footstool puppies pieces of black socks. "I have no idea why they eat socks. And they have to be black--unless you want to give them the occasional treat. They will eat the patches off an argyle sock, but not often. For some reason, its too rich for them to eat much of.

"As for why I have them? Two reasons. First, they came with my house, more or less. And second, my goddaughter thinks I need a pet in my life and her father thinks its funny to let me struggle with footstools that procreate. He has no intention of telliing me how to spay or neuter a footstool. So--my footstools end up having litters of puppies." He watched two of the little puppies arguing over a piece of sock, growling at each other, and each tugging on an end of the bite of sock.

"Hey," Michael said. "No squabbling. There's enough for everybody. Look." He picked up another piece of sock for them and, they both wanted the new piece, abandoning the old piece. "Oh, that figures. It tastes the same as the last piece, you know."

"I'm Michael. Michael Tremaine. So..while they eat my last new pair of socks," Michael said., looking at the young man "how about telling me who you are?"

Needless to say, Talon was interested in these charmed footstools. Like he had mentioned before, he had never seen anything quite like this. Transfiguration class had something similar where they turned a cat into a chair, but that's about as close as it got. When the bartender had set the drink in front of Talon, he had been so focused on the footstools that he hadn't noticed the drink sitting in front of him. "Oh, thank you. I'd be more than glad to pay," Talon said, showing some courtesy for the gentleman. Judging by the way the two first spoke, he pieced together that his name must've been Michael Tremaine and the bartender's name was Tom. Michael must've been a regular here if he had a tab and they also seemed to have a general friendship. Talon was always one to over analyze things.

Talon took a couple sips from his butterbeer as he listened to Michael's explanation, yet he still watched the small footstools as they played around and ate the black socks. "You can spay a footstool?" Talon chuckled, feeling a little bit of disbelief "I'd like to see that happen." But still, if Talon had the choice, he would've gone for a small cat or a dog or something...not enchanted footstools. Yet his interest was piqued at this point, the small dog footstools being the most interesting thing he's seen in a while. "My name's Talon. Talon Marlowe" he formally greeted. "So Micheal, these footstools reproduce? How does that happen?" He wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

"Its just a butterbeer," Michael waved away the boy's offer. "Not a problem." He was about to speak and a drunk staggered to the table with a rolled up newspaper, ready to smash one of them with a hearty swat. Before the man could raise the paper, Michael was on his feet, his wand drawn and leveled at the drunk.

"You've had enough to drink, haven't you?" Michael asked rhetorically. Tom, the bartender, came over in a hurry and snatched the newspaper away from the drunk.

"Leave the pups alone," Tom said. The drunk mentioned something in a slur about the puppies being only 'magical vermin.' "I'll have no fighting in here. Its time you went home." The drunk paused, staring at the pups, trying to decide if he'd take another swat at them. Michael stood his ground between the drunk and the puppies, and he let Tom evict the drunk and two of his friends. The noise level decreased significantly with three less who were already well over the top.

"Thank you, Tom," Michael said, resuming his seat. "Sorry about that. Talon, you said? Nice to meet you. I have absolutely no idea how they manage reproducing. They were enchanted by a magical spell gone a bit sideways somehow. They came with my house when I rented it. I didn't think I would like them at first, but they really are amazing company. That and everything else that seems to have a life of its own in my house. I thought I was going to be living alone, but it seems my furniture is amazingly good company."

Talon smiled at Micheal's generosity and thanked him for the drink. He took another sip from his butter when he heard someone approach them. Turning around in his seat, he watched as Michael was in the face of the drunk and the drunk was in the face of Micheal. Talon stood up and moved behind Micheal, in the way of the pups, just in case. He wasn't going to let some drunk try and hurt the living footstools. Wait, were they living? Way too many questions today. Despite a tense situation, Talon stood firmly behind Micheal, watching Tom handle the three drunks and telling them to leave. He was almost sure he heard a couple people cheering in the background, and it made Talon smile a little that the noise level then decreased significantly. "Glad those guys are gone, maybe I can actually think," he chuckled, sitting back down in his chair. Grabbing his drink again, he listened to Michael explain more about the footstools, to which Talon nodded. "They seem just like regular puppies, just a little more magical...and comfy," he said, watching the pups eating one of the socks still. It seems they hadn't even noticed the standoff between Michael and the drunk.

"Personally, I'd want to get a little dragon or something," he said "but I believe they are illegal to have unless you have a permit." Dragons always fascinated Talon, and he'd always want to see one. Or even own one. Yet like he said, they were dangerous and apparently only trained people could own one, or even possibly fight one. "So Micheal," Talon said "you come here often?"

"They are like regular puppies, except for the sock thing. I've had to just buy socks by the gross now." He listened to Talon say he wanted a dragon.

"A dragon?" Michael frowned. "Nah. Every time the thing hiccups or sneezes or burps, it sets something on fire. You ought to do one of those summer camps Charlie Weasley runs in Romania. You can get truly up close to them there. And Charlie really does do his best to make sure that nobody gets eaten. He hasn't had a casualty in the summer camps in years. The dragons seem to be responding a bit better to some sort of new training business he's using, or so I heard. Why don't you start small? I know a woman who ended up with a great large batch of oddly rainbow colored pygmy puffs. The little blighters are running everywhere in her barn. Don't ask me how the ended up rainbow colored. She should sell them, but I think she doesn't believe anyone would want one. Personally, I think they'd sell a great deal better than she thinks.

"I keep telling my coat rack I"m going to rent him out to someone as a pet. But they wouldn't understand him. He's a serious kleptomaniac. He swipes my hat and coat the minute I run in the door and dashes off upstairs with them. I think he thinks he's getting away with something. He really is quite a good poker player, though." Michael just took it for granted that everything in his house had a mind of its own. He took it as commonplace as if it were that way for everyone.

"I do come here more than I used to," Michael admitted with a laugh. "I have a friend who particularly likes the pub grub here--more specifically, the fish and chips. He was supposed to meet me here, but clearly he isn't coming. That means he's gotten held up on business. That's fine by me. I like making new friends."

ooc: yes, michael does have a kleptomaniac coat rack named snidely.