Catch The Snitch

The Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade
Friday, 11 November 2005
Ten o'clock pm
Ever since his encounter with the Boggart last week, Dorian had been plagued with nightmares. Not that it was any better when he was awake; whenever he closed his eyes, he pictured the scene again, the memories as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. If he didn't keep his mind busy (or numbed with alcohol), he could hear the Boggart's words echoing inside his head: "It's over, I want a divorce."

It was just a Boggart, he told himself over and over again. It wasn't real.

But those words were not entirely true and did little to comfort him. While the form that the Boggart had taken wasn't real, the fear it represented was likely to transpire any day now. But Dorian wasn't ready to have that conversation with his wife, and thus their marriage remained in limbo. In fact, Dorian didn't want to talk about it at all, and while he could really use a friend right now, had since been avoiding anyone who cared about him to avoid the topic altogether.

Unable to go to the Curious Chimaera where he would inevitably confide in Mal, Dorian had spent the last few nights in Hogsmeade. Dorian had chosen the Three Broomsticks tonight, and for the next several hours kept his mind occupied with endless games of darts, Firewhisky, and chain-smoking (he had since given up all pretense of trying to quit).

Not in the mood for company, Dorian played consecutive games of 501 by himself. Rather than use magic, he had taken to walking across the room to gather the darts off of the board and mark his score; he found the mindless, repetitive task to be oddly soothing in his anxiety-ridden state. Hours passed, and Dorian threw dart after dart, his maths and his coordination declining with every Firewhisky consumed, and barely noticed as the Three Broomsticks began to fill with customers.

With 130 on the scoreboard, Dorian had already thrown two double 20s, and all he needed was a Bullseye to check out. With his last dart in hand, Dorian aimed carefully, and as he made his final throw, he was distracted by the sound of his name being called. The dart landed just below the Bullseye, on the single 17, giving him a score of 33.

A bogey.

Sighing, Dorian turned to look for the source of the voice. Recognizing the newcomer to be a fellow school Auror, Dorian nodded briefly in greeting and walked across the room to erase his score from the board.

"Fancy a match? Some friendly competition?" the Auror asked in an aggravatingly cheerful tone.

"No. I'm done playing," Dorian replied shortly, draining his Firewhisky and setting the empty glass down on the bar counter. "Sorry," he added, and tried without success to force a smile. Picking up his cloak and ashtray, and without looking back to see what his colleague's reaction had been, Dorian left in search of another table.

As he walked through the ground floor of the pub, he realized just how crowded the Three Broomsticks had become over the last several hours. There weren't any available tables, and he craned his neck to look up at the loft upstairs. It looked promising, and he hurried up the wooden staircase, stumbling slightly in his intoxication.

Finding an empty table towards the back of the loft, Dorian draped his cloak over the back of the chair and dropped the ashtray on the tabletop to save his spot, and returned downstairs to order another drink.

With a soft pop, Nigel materialised in front of the Three Broomsticks Inn. His trip to Edinburgh had been shorter than expected; he had been there to deliver some doses of Wolfsbane potion to his parents, in light of his father’s lycanthropy and the upcoming full moon in a few days’ time. Normally he would have lingered at his parents’ place for a while longer, but his mother had come down with a cold the night before and wished to retire to bed early.

Thus he found himself at Hogmeade with no company and some time to burn. Though he rarely did so, he contemplated dropping by at the inn for a wee swally before heading back to Hogwarts, until a voice called out to him.

“Graeme!”

Nigel recognised its owner immediately. Only those whom he had known when he was working at the Ministry of Magic would address him by his middle name, and the loudness and inextinguishable cheeriness further narrowed down that list of people to a single individual. He turned around, and sure enough, his guess was spot on. “Lou! How’s it going?”

Sauntered over from the inn with a widening grin on his face was Louis, a newly-qualified Auror who was assigned to guard Hogwarts just a week ago. They had known each other for almost a decade, having worked together a couple of times when Nigel was still an Unspeakable and Louis a Hit Wizard. “Fancy meeting you here,” Louis said as he suddenly pulled Nigel into a surprise hug. “I rarely see you at Hogsmeade at night.”

“Ugh.” The ‘sneak attack’ caught Nigel off-guard, and he wriggled free from the Auror before chiding him jokingly. “Boundaries, Lou.”

“Bah, you’re no fun. Just like Dorian.”

“He’s here too?”

“He was playing darts by his lonesome back there, glum as a dried plum,” Louis rattled on as he indicated the Three Broomsticks Inn behind him. “I asked if I could join him, but he turned me down and walked off.”

The weird metaphor confused Nigel. “Glum as a dr—” he started, before changing his mind. Perhaps it was better if he didn’t probe further, lest it turned out to be another one of Lou’s bad jokes. “Wait, no, don’t tell me. Anyway, I should probably check on Dorian.”

“I think he needs some space, mate.”

“Naw,” Nigel replied with a reassuring smile to dispel his friend’s unease. “A listening ear’s always welcome.”

Louis shrugged, not entirely convinced. “Not mine, clearly. I guess I’ll head back to Hogwarts first. Cheerio.”

“Cheerio.”

As Louis departed, Nigel stepped into the inn. It was lively as usual, and after scanning the area for a few seconds, he finally spotted Dorian descending the stairs from the loft and heading towards the bar. Keeping his distance for the time being, he waited for Dorian to place his order before making his presence known by walking up to the bar beside the Auror and requesting for a drink of his own: a dram of Campbell’s Finest Old Whisky, neat.

“How’s it going?” he asked Dorian, keeping things casual and non-committal just in case his company was unwanted.

The wait for a drink was long, and without anything to occupy his mind, Dorian was beginning to grow restless. Tall and with broad shoulders, it wasn't difficult for him to break through the crowd and reach the bar, where, ignoring angry cries of "watch it!" and "wanker!", he grabbed an ashtray from the counter. Retreating to an open area near a wooden support beam, Dorian cradled the ashtray in the crook of his elbow as he lit a cigarette.

When it was his turn to order, there was still hardly enough room to approach the counter, and Dorian shouted "Firewhisky!" over the heads of passersby. There was a pause as the bartender gave Dorian a long, calculating once-over before nodding curtly and turning away. What was that about? Dorian wondered. Sure, he had already had a lot to drink tonight. But he was not nearly as pissed as the night before when the same bartender had served him without the added scrutiny.

Feeling unsteady on his feet, Dorian leaned against the wooden beam for support and smoked with his head down to keep the room from spinning. Eventually, customers cleared away from the bar with their drinks in hand, and Dorian quickly swooped in to take their place. He leaned against the counter but did not sit; he still had a table reserved upstairs and would only be there for as long as it took to pour whisky into a glass.

"We're out of Firewhisky," the bartender clucked at Dorian, as though it was his fault. Dorian frowned in response; while he had definitely contributed to its depletion, he could hardly be the only one drinking Firewhisky tonight. "Might have another bottle in the back."

There must have been a counter-spell placed upon the storeroom, for the bartender did not summon the Firewhisky, and nor did he seem to be in a hurry to collect the bottle manually. In fact, Dorian was getting the impression that the bartender was reluctant to serve him at all. If he thinks I need to be cut off, he should just say so instead of wasting my fucking time, Dorian thought, irritated as he listened to several more patrons place their orders.

Not able to remain upright for much longer, Dorian slumped onto a barstool, resting his elbows on the counter and his head in his hands. A voice next to him asked for Campbell's Finest Old Whisky, and feeling impatient, Dorian gestured that he'd take the same rather than wait any longer for the elusive Firewhisky.

"How's it going?" asked the same voice, and Dorian stiffened at the intrusion.

Fuck off, he thought. "All right," he answered instead, stubbing his cigarette out slightly aggressively and pushing the ashtray away. Though his tone was polite, Dorian did not reciprocate the pleasantries, nor did he look up to see who the voice belonged to. Lost in thought and without really seeing, Dorian stared straight ahead into the mirror behind the bar while he waited for his drink to be poured.

Dorian knew (and the bartender seemed to agree) that he had been overindulging as of late. He needed to take better care of himself; he had been hungover every day at work this week, and anxiety and chain smoking had suppressed his appetite so much that he barely ate. But as sick and miserable as he felt every morning when he woke up, he couldn't seem to stop himself from doing it again later that night.

I'll call it a night after this one, he promised himself, knowing that it was a lie. Where else did he have to go? Dorian didn't want to return to Hogwarts, not even now that he had moved out of that small office and into proper quarters. While his new room was larger and much more comfortable, it had somehow been worse for Dorian's morale. The office had always felt temporary. Now, it felt like his marriage was in permanent limbo.

With the sound of the whisky glass being placed in front of him, Dorian snapped back into the present. Blinking his eyes into focus, he jumped with a start to see his own reflection staring back at him. Dorian stared back at the unfamiliar face, hardly believing what he saw. His unshaven face looked gaunt as though he had lost weight in a short amount of time, and his hair hung loose and unkempt around his face. He looked exhausted with darkened, hollowed eyes and his expression was so bleak that Dorian could barely recognize himself.

Looking away from the mirror in disgust, Dorian's gaze fell on the person next to him. For fuck's sake. First Louis, and now Nigel. He should have known to expect to run into familiar faces at a pub like the Three Broomsticks, with it being so close to Hogwarts. It had been easy enough to dismiss Louis; Dorian had only met him a week ago, but he felt far guiltier for rebuffing Nigel, whom he had known much longer and had worked adjacent to for four years. Dorian took a sip of whisky and swallowed with a wince; his throat felt raw from all of the cigarettes he had smoked tonight. "What about you?" he asked Nigel, much too belatedly. "Saw Louis earlier. He ruined my game. Got a bogey," he rambled, his speech slightly slurred. "Doesn't matter. I don't care." Dorian took another sip, set his glass down and lit up a cigarette, his table upstairs seemingly forgotten along with his cloak.

Nigel watched as the inebriated Auror attempted to place an order for another Firewhisky. The bartender didn’t seem too keen on serving Dorian, and instead brushed him off with a lame excuse. For a second Nigel was tempted to place the exact same order as Dorian, just to see what the bartender’s response would be, but he held his tongue and went with his usual choice of whisky instead.

Now that he was much closer to Dorian and could see his face more clearly (albeit only from the side), he stole a quick glance at him. Goodness… the Auror wasn’t just pished; he looked absolutely ghastly too – a very important (and obvious) detail that Louis had somehow neglected to mention – though Nigel suspected alcohol probably had little or no part to play in that.

Dorian gestured to the bartender that he’d have whatever Nigel ordered, after which the latter attempted to initiate a conversation as casually as he could. While Dorian stiffened visibly, he still deigned to respond to Nigel. “All right” was all he said, in spite of the incontrovertible evidence that clearly pointed towards the contrary. A blatant lie though it was, at least Nigel hadn’t been told to sod off. Not yet, anyway.

“Mhm.” Nigel nodded and acknowledged Dorian’s words without expressing any doubt or passing any kind of judgement. His response did nothing to carry the conversation forward, for he didn’t want to force Dorian to reveal more than he was comfortable with. Right then, their whiskies arrived, and for a few moments they exchanged no words. Nigel assumed that they’d be sitting in silence until they finished their drinks, when Dorian suddenly asked how he was doing. “Could be better,” he said simply as he took in the aroma of his whisky, before sipping and feeling it burn on the way down. He was putting it quite mildly, just like the understated amber liquid before them that was surprisingly strong for something so smooth and elegant. “I don’t usually drink whisky,” he admitted in a low voice, “but some days call for a stiff drink.”

A stiff drink, singular. Not that he couldn’t hold his liquor well – quite the opposite in fact – but he was prone to melancholy after having one glass too many. “Shall we adjourn to somewhere quieter, like the loft?” he proposed, using it as pretext to keep the two of them away from the bar counter, and also as a way to gauge how steady the Auror was on his feet.

Dorian had only been expecting small talk - that was about as much interaction he had with his colleagues lately - and Nigel's honest answer about how his day had been caught him off guard. Ever since his troubles at home came to a head six months ago, Dorian (already private to begin with) had withdrawn from all of his friends and acquaintances and it was rare that he got more than an "All right?" these days. Dorian wasn't sure if they had been respecting his space or if they had given up on him, but he knew that he would one day regret pushing his friends away. He also couldn't seem to bring himself to care enough to stop.

It wasn't until that Nigel claimed to need a stiff drink that Dorian realized that his answer hadn't been the "all right, thanks" that would usually close the conversation. The moment in which he should have responded had already come and gone and Dorian sighed but still not not speak. Instead, he smoked in silence, wondering if it wouldn't be better to just pretend he hadn't heard; he was not in a fit state - physically or mentally - to be a sympathetic ear to someone else's problems. Uncomfortable with that decision, Dorian rubbed absently at the back of his neck with his non-smoking hand. He turned to face Nigel - though whether it was to engage in conversation or to say goodbye, he had not yet decided - and immediately closed his eyes.

There were two Nigels, and there were both weaving in and out of focus. They were difficult to look at, and feeling nauseated, Dorian lowered his head again and swallowed. As he stared down at the cigarette still burning between his fingers, he became aware of just how dry and foul-tasting his mouth was, and he stubbed it out in the ashtray, disgusted. To rinse his mouth out, Dorian took his second sip of the Campbell's Finest Old, rolling it around his tongue before swallowing. It went down smoothly, and he was glad that the bartender was (supposedly) out of the Firewhisky; while he normally enjoyed the extra burn, his throat was raw enough right now.

Nigel then asked if they should go up to the loft where it was quieter, and Dorian's forehead creased in concentration as he tried to keep up with the direction of the conversation. Why would they need to go somewhere quieter? He took a deep breath and then looked back at Nigel, relieved to see there was only one this time. "The loft… the loft…" Dorian muttered, looking up towards it and feeling as though he was forgetting about something. While he couldn’t remember what it was, it did look less crowded up there, and he nodded. In spite of his reservations, Dorian was curious what Nigel's bad day had been; it was a school day… was there something happening at Hogwarts that he didn’t know about?

"Yeah, all right," he said, picking up his glass of whisky but leaving the ashtray. He had enough of his wits to grab his cloak, and when his grasp came out empty-handed, Dorian realized what he had been forgetting. "Oh, right!" he said, "I have a table up in the loft." Leading the way, Dorian staggered on the stairs and the amber liquid sloshed dangerously around the rim of his glass but never spilt, leaving little doubt as to how often Dorian had done this before.

Glad to see that no one had swiped his table or cloak, Dorian collapsed into the chair and rewarded himself with another sip of whisky. "So," he said after he had a moment to rest from the monumental effort it took to make it up the stairs without breaking his neck, "what was so bad that it required a stiff drink?"

Dorian didn’t respond immediately to Nigel’s words. Perhaps the Auror was deeper in his cups – or sorrows, or perhaps even both – than Nigel had originally anticipated. For a while they sat in silence: Nigel took another sip of his whisky as Dorian took a drag on his cigarette. Not that the Scotsman minded it. He was there just in case Dorian needed someone to talk to.

(Absently he recalled how his best mate Jamie had described his style of emotional support, after the latter had recovered from a particularly bad breakup. “You’re like a timorous sales assistant,” Jamie had said, “perpetually hovering at the edge of my vision just in case you’re needed, pretending not to be intrusive when you bloody are, and only approaching when I explicitly ask for help.” Regardless of how strange Jamie had made it sound, it was more or less an accurate account of what Nigel had done to assure Jamie that he’d always be there for his best mate.)

Abruptly Dorian turned towards Nigel. The movement caught professor’s eye, and he did likewise and waited expectedly for Dorian to say or do something… only to find him battling a sudden wave of nausea that swept away any words he might have intended to say. It was at this point where Nigel began to question if Dorian was sober enough to think and walk straight, and he decided that the best way to find out was to come up with an excuse for Dorian to get up and go somewhere else. The loft, perhaps. He had seen Dorian coming down from the loft, and presumed that the Auror had a seat upstairs or something.

As Nigel suggested that they head upstairs, Dorian agreed and picked up his glass of whisky and instinctively reached for a cloak that wasn’t there. The misplaced article jolted Dorian’s memory, prompting him to state that he did have a table up in the loft before leading the way there. By some miracle – or perhaps due to years of practice – they made it to the still-empty table without incident, with Dorian losing neither his balance nor a single drop of whisky. (Nor his cloak, for that matter.) The Auror plopped himself onto a chair and sipped his whisky, while the professor took the nearest unoccupied seat for himself. Taking a sip of his own drink, Nigel was expecting the rest of the night to pass quietly when Dorian suddenly revived the conversation that he thought they had left behind at the bar.

Nigel hadn’t counted on Dorian wanting to talk, much less show interest in his worries. “Well…” he began as he searched for a succinct way to summarise his story without going into the specifics of the sensitive details. “Let’s just say I was reminded yet again of one of my biggest failures,” he stated simply, before elaborating a tiny bit further while avoiding any mention his father’s lycanthropy. “Somehow it’s always the people closest to you who get hurt because of your mistakes.” And with that, he left the rest of the depressing story untold, unsure of how much more Dorian was willing to listen to, and not drunk enough to lose his inhibitions and spill the rest of the tale.

The question that had sparked his curiosity moments ago had slipped away in a drunken haze, leaving Dorian puzzled by Nigel's answer. "Oh, right," he replied quickly, a poor attempt to disguise the fact that he was struggling to keep pace with the conversation. Taking a sip of whisky as a buffer to collect his thoughts, his expression shifted from vacant to perplexed, his forehead furling in concentration as he forced himself to focus.

After a few minutes, the fog of intoxication lifted enough for Dorian to understand that Nigel's bad day stemmed from past regrets rather than anything school-related. Instead of replying, Dorian quietly sipped his whisky. He was in no place to give advice, but he wasn't comfortable with ignoring Nigel either, especially considering he was the one who had asked. But deep down, Dorian also knew he genuinely cared -- at least, he was certain he would care once he had sobered up.

As the level of whisky in his glass approached half-empty, Dorian's mind wandered towards the idea of getting a refill. Glancing up to check the status of the lineup at the bar, he was surprised by their sudden change in location. They were not still on the barstools, but upstairs at a table in the loft, and Dorian had no recollection of the journey up here. He would need to walk downstairs to get another drink, but was it worth the risk of falling down the stairs and breaking his neck? Dorian wondered if he even cared.

Deciding to preserve the remaining whisky for the time being, Dorian gently placed the glass back down on the table. Almost instinctively, he reached towards the ashtray, only to be reminded once again that there was no cigarette to find. Withdrawing his hand, Dorian tried to return his attention to the conversation with Nigel, but the absence of a cigarette between his fingers seemed to nag at him persistently. In an effort to keep his restless thoughts and fingers in check, Dorian folded his hands together on the table and tried to anchor himself in the present.

Minutes stretched on, and Dorian's mind continued to draw a blank on what to say to Nigel. Restlessness persisted, and soon he found himself absently twisting his wedding band. With a jerk, Dorian pulled his hands apart and reached for the ashtray once more, only to be confronted by its emptiness. A frustrated groan escaped his lips as he clenched his hands into fists at his side, determined to resist the temptation of the package of cigarettes burning a hole in his cloak pocket.

"Well," he said suddenly as if only mere moments had passed since Nigel's initial disclosure. He needed a distraction, and if he could banish a Boggart (that looked like Selah) while stoned, he reasoned he could certainly attempt to be a sympathetic ear to a colleague while under the influence of alcohol. "I'm here if you want to talk. I can't promise that I'll remember anything in the morning though," he added with a hint of humour, acknowledging his current state.

Dorian’s absent “oh, right” seemed to suggest that the Auror wasn’t really in the right state of mind for a deep conversation. Not that it bothered Nigel; the conversation was secondary to the company and he didn’t mind it at all, as long as he was able to help the Auror feel better. Furthermore, he was no stranger to being the only sober one at the table. It was due to a confluence of factors: he wasn’t a fan of most alcoholic drinks, and he didn’t want to subject himself to the debilitating effects of a hangover which he had experienced only a handful of times (which was, in his opinion, already a handful too many). But perhaps most importantly, he didn’t trust himself to not reveal any of his secrets if he were to have his inhibitions lowered after imbibing too many pints.

For the next few minutes, Nigel watched as Dorian contemplated the dwindling whisky in his glass and agonised over the lack of a cigarette between his fingers. It looked almost like a bad pantomime. As the silence dragged on, Nigel could not help but wonder if his presence was really what Dorian needed. If anything, it seemed that he was making Dorian feel awkward about not being able to focus on the conversation. Perhaps Louis had been right, and Dorian really just needed some space to himself.

As the Auror fiddled with his wedding band subconsciously, the professor could not help but wonder if Dorian was drinking himself silly because of marriage woes. Another sudden frustrated groan from Dorian interrupted Nigel’s idle musings, who debated whether it was a good time to escort the Auror back to the castle. But abruptly – and very belatedly – Dorian said that he could offer a listening ear if Nigel wanted to share his story.

The irony of the situation was not lost on the professor at all, who gave a chuckle as he shook his head in disbelief. Wasn’t he the one who was supposed to offer succour to Dorian? Since when had the tables turned? “All the better for me to speak my mind, isn’t it?” Nigel replied. His story would remain a secret if Dorian were to have no recollection of what they spoke about the next morning… but that could not be guaranteed, could it?

“Do you have something that you wished you had done differently?” he asked instead, completely avoiding any specific details of his own troubles while simultaneously going for the root of the problem. On that fateful day he had chosen to abide by the Unspeakable’s code of conduct, and what was his reward? A lifetime of regret and guilt. Nonetheless, he could not say with any confidence that the alternative would have been better. Short of turning back time (which in and of itself was usually a bad idea), there was no way he could have known.