Amortentia Dolorosa

He'd come to talk to Aberforth, the only other man he'd ever known who knew goats like he knew goats. Sometimes, it was just easier to get away from the madhouse that was his proper home, and the Muggle-English infested streets around his London lodgings. Sometimes, he just wanted to have two pints in a bar that smelled like goats. It was like home, but quieter.

"I am not, old barkeep, eyeing your goat. I have goats of my own, back home." Rabastan took another swig of the first pint. "On the dim side, I also have eight ... nine cousins who treat the house like a sparring gym."

Aberforth grunted and smirked, the faint twinkle in his eye betraying his relation to his brother. "His name's Mort. You could have worse friends."

"I do have worse friends..." Rabastan muttered into his pint glass.

The man just wanted a drink. A nice,strong proper drink, in a place that was not crawling with people chattering happily about mundane things that were of no concern to him. 'Why' he thought to himself, was that so hard to find.

He walked into the bar, and all he wanted was a drink, but instead he got farm smell. Wrinkling his nose he walked to the bar.

"Bottle of scotch please." he said to the man tending the bar.

"Well, well, if it isn't bloody St. Syr! What's a man of taste doing in a pub like this?" Rabastan called out, looking up from his ale, in pleasant surprise. "And a whole bottle, to boot? Did the old master send you to chat up that half-cocked Eastern Territories bloke?"

He laughed easily and kicked out the stool next to him, in invitation.

"St. Syrian!" he said in a laugh, his french accent a bit more pronounced for a moment, "I do like the sound of that."

He nodded his thanks to the bar keep and walked over to Babs, placing the bottle onto the table and taking a seat.

"The Master didn't send me to do anything actually, I am here to celebrate in peace." he poured himself a glass and took a swig, "You are looking at the Ministry's newest Hit Wizard."

"Then what are we doing drinking this slop? A bottle of Chartreuse, on me, for the bastard who's become a more stolid figure of good and right, than I can ever hope to aspire to!" Rabastan lifted his glass in a toast.

"Very similar lines of work, you and I," he said, more quietly. "But the question is, as it always was, what ever do you do in your spare time, other than early evening boozing with other men who fail to be natively English?"

Cancel that!"he told the bartender. "You and I are more than comfortable drinking this." he said, gesturing to the scotch.

He tapped Rabastan's glass with his own and took a deep drink. " It's the best place to be." he said with a sly grin, "In the belly of the beast."

He sat for a moment staring into his glass. "I don't do much in my spare time actually. Read and the like, I live a pretty quiet life."

"The belly of the beast, indeed. But to so many of them, it is we who are the beasts. Sometimes, I don't mind it that way," he confessed, idly, knocking back the scotch and chasing it with a swig of ale.

"I'd actually wondered if you were a hunter, in your off hours. I know a herd or two up in Ulster that could use some thinning, and as much as I love the thrill of a solitary chase, sometimes it's more fun to have someone along, for the company." Rabastan shrugged. "But, if you're more at home with a book, it's no slight to me."

He sat staring at his glass for several minutes before responding.

"I believe that I have no subtleties for that sort of thing, at least, not yet. Perhaps, I shall offer to join you to sharpen my skills."

"You're welcome to come along, next I go. I'm afraid I'm going to Versailles, this weekend, but perhaps the one after, we can go after some easy game." Rabastan smiled, easily, but it was an unsettling show.

"But you passed the last round of exams! It's cause for some shenaniganery, it is."

He laughed and took another drink. "Well my friend, I am afraid I do not drink and fly. But a night of fun would be pleasant. Depending of course what kind of fun you're talking about. he finished with sly grin.

"I encourage shenaniganery in multitudinous and multivaried forms. It's your riot. I'm ..." Rabastan cocked his head and stared out across the bar. "... ninety percent certain I'm up for anything you're likely to suggest. You don't even have to make it practical, first. I'm good at practicalities for impractical indulgences."

He rested his elbow on the bar, hanging his pint in front of his face, as he swivelled the bar stool back and forth, between that elbow and the foot hooked around one of the legs. A lazily wicked grin darted across his face.

He continued to milk his drink pensively. "I am not sure that I can pick something to be honest, I spend all of my time reading you see, so shenanigans are't my forte."

"I'm certain I could find us some lasses to ruin. Or if you're in for a quieter evening, the new Margaret Astenbay is showing at Penny Pictures over in Glaston Head. I'm told it's got a lot of dancing. Or I suppose we could go dancing, but the fact that you're here belies the wit of that." Rabastan shrugged. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm not entirely a dull egg."

"A show might be nice actually...or dancing lasses." he said with a grin.

"So shall we have a show with them, or shall we just acquire some in the flesh?" Rabastan tapped his glass against his teeth. "Or shall we go dancing with them? Two of these are quick fixes, but the other might take a little doing, not that it can't be done."

"A show with girls dancing I think." he said finally, making a decision, "I am young, celebrating, and have money to burn. Drinking and watching half naked woman dance seems like just the type of thing I need."

"To Glaston Head, then! With the bottle!" Rabastan cheered, swinging his glass up, in triumph, and then emptying it down his throat. "Margaret Astenbay's got the best legs that don't belong to a Veela. For all that Auntie would have my head for saying it, s'truth, it is."

He dropped a fistful of knuts on the bar, and pushed them toward Aberforth. "My bar tab counts itself. That should be right."

"So, if you don't drink and fly, I think we should apparate. It's just a couple towns over."

He laughed, shaking his head and stood. Finishing his drink he placed his glass back onto the table and grabbed his jacket.

"Well," he said, making sure the lid was placed tightly over the bottle, "I'll have to side long with you, since I have no idea where it is."

Rabastan stretched his right arm out, amiably, as he stood. He drew his wand, left-handed, and smiled a wee bit more carnivorously than he'd intended. "Come along then, Syr. And stay close -- I don't want to splinch your fingers, because you were too far out."

He steeled himself to touch a man he wasn't going to kill. Some nights, it took more effort than others.

HE slipped his bottle into his jacket pocket, and moved to stand next to the man, placing his hand on his arm and standing almost a bit to close to him.

"Ready when you are."

With a sharp pop, they vanished from the tavern.

[Cont'd in Lady Swallow, or Damn That Witch Can Dance]