February 18, 1982 The Bouncing Bulb Bungalow 10:00 AM [ @floralxconfusion ]

He’d found himself wandering quite a bit; sitting still did not seem to be an option nowadays, not when the fear of God-- if God even existed-- had been instilled in him following his obvious failure in the Highlands. Everyone had judged him; everyone had basked in his failure-- it was about time the goddamn fire-starter slipped up and proved his worthlessness. Nikolai could just imagine what they were saying about him; surely Rodolphus had at least told Bellatrix, or Rabastan, or even Evan, who he would hate to lose. 

The only person who he hadn’t seen, who he knew would not judge him, was Holly. If he were a braver man, a smarter man, he might have marched straight into her shop and stood before her with pleas for forgiveness upon his face-- but he was none of those things. In his distant, mentally empty state, he had made laps before the shop, around the block, peeking at her through the window before losing his courage and skittering away once more. How was he to tell her what he’d done? How was he to look her in the eye and admit that this month in its entirety had been started and punctuated both by murder and violence. Sure, this last endeavor had ended with mercy-- disappointment to all but himself, and to Marlene-- but it seemed to pale in comparison with all else. 

Pressed rather obviously against the wall, hands pressed against the stone, he leaned into the window frame, searching for her through the warped glass. Nikolai’s eyes darted amongst the flora, searching for the familiar face which put him so at ease, gritting his jaw as nerves took hold of him once more. What was he bloody doing? He shouldn’t be lurking about-- either he needed to pluck up the courage to say something, or he needed to bugger off, so as not to bother her. But if he could at least catch a glimpse-- 

He found himself fleeing the window before he could think, skittering away like a frightened bird down the sidewalk. Lingering, with a muffled half-cry of frustration and indignation, he turned back to glance at the shop, once again hovering between going and staying. He needed her comfort-- she was kind, and un-judging, and safe, and he didn’t deserve her. But he needed her all the same. 

February 18, 1982 The Hog’s Head 7:30 PM [ OPEN ]

He had remained largely elusive since his brother’s return, and for good reason. His secrets were growing more and more difficult to ignore, more and more trying to evade; acting as if he didn’t care, as if he didn’t need to know was beginning to take a toll on him, for it was the one thing just within his grasp that he could not have. Rodolphus had always been quite adept at holding things from him; first a woman, and now a secret, which could unequivocally change everything. It would be his calling card, should he unearth this secret; he was damn tired of his allies questioning his motives when he had made no secret of his willingness to betray his own flesh and blood. 

Not that the bastard deserved his respect, his trust. That ship had sunk long ago. 

Rabastan’s primary company in the days following the Minister’s death had been a pint of ale and a familiar stool at the very farthest corner of the bar. The bartender had done his best to shoo Rabastan from the stool a number of times, but as the most recent had ended in a bowl of pretzels thrown at his head-- and subsequently shattered upon the wall behind him-- he had been allowed to stay. And this was where, at present, he sat, an umpteenth pint between calloused hands and a scowl upon his face. 

He remained lucid enough, however, to recognize a presence at his shoulder, at which he glared, a thin sheen of ale upon his upper lip. “You got somethin’ to say, or are you just gonna sit there and admire the back of my head until it gets boring? I use conditioner, if that’s what you’re wonderin’.”