leswarts | (no subject)

[In one of the booths is a familiar, leather-clad man. He seems to be keeping to the corner, a bottle of firewhisky and a shot glass in front of him, which he periodically pours into and downs.

He doesn't look too happy. Not at all. Obviously wants to be left alone...

...Which means that everyone everywhere should bug him.]

[On his way back from the one shop in town that sells a handful of Muggle 'novelties'—including cigarettes at absurdly hiked-up prices—Gagnon steps in at the Three Broomsticks. Pubs, bars, drinking establishments of any flavor have never been to his taste, even when he was back on the force in Paris. How spending time with others while chemically lobotomized was supposed to increase 'team spirit,' he did not know.

Still, plans start in bars, informants and gossips frequent them, they present a microcosm of the neighborhood around them—it's good to check up on them now and then.

His first survey from the door tells him it's business as usual in Hogsmeade—the same mix of students and residents, the usual cliques, nothing out of the ordinary.

Except for the groundskeeper drinking by himself in the corner.

...Well. There's no time like the present for acknowledging his enormous oversight in not confirming the archer knew about Krieger.

He makes his way back to Barton, upright and alert, out of place amid the casual pub-goers.]

Barton.

Edited 2013-01-31 03:20 (UTC)

[To say that Barton is chemically lobotomised when he drinks is a severe oversight. Sure, his dead-eye accuracy is lowered, but it's still something to consider.

And the fact that his blue eyes locked onto Gagnon the second he walks in the door is another thing. He still pays attention, slumped in his corner. Someone trained enough will see that it's a booth that offers a view of the entire pub, and Barton's position, while casual enough for a man drinking his cares away, is such where he can move at a moment's notice.

Not much is known about Clint Barton's past other than the fact he worked as a member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, was Prefect and Head Boy during his stint at Hogwarts, and achieved well in his OWLs and NEWTs. No-one questioned him that much.

The second he notices Gagnon approaching, he's snagging a clean glass from a passing waitress, and pouring the man a drink. It's shoved towards him as he says his name.]

Gagnon.

My oversight put both you and the students in danger. [He sits, putting one hand around the glass and pulling it closer to him.] You look sober enough. I meant to give you the sordid story at the castle, but—[he pulls what looks like a small blue beetle from his pocket, sets it on the table between them, and flicks its wing casings open. The bug's inner wings immediately begin to buzz, though it doesn't rise from the table. The noise around the table dampens, overlaid by a soft, seemingly distant canvas of white noise, like the sounds of insects, birds, and breeze in a field on a hot summer afternoon. The device is a silencer. No one outside of its field of influence will hear more than a murmur of their conversation now.]—here will do.

[Barton eyes the beetle, knowing exactly what it does. There are numerous tools to help put the likes of Squibs on equal footing with magic-users. One thing Barton appreciates. He looks back to the Caretaker.]

I could have used a Muffling Charm, save your device's charge. [He shrugs. It was done.] And I'd say we're about even. You and Professor Javert stopped me from hexing that son-of-a-bitch where he stood.

[He downs his glass of firewhisky, wincing slightly.]

Let's hear it, then.

Edited 2013-02-02 18:26 (UTC)

[Okay, telling this story actually does require alcohol, on second thought. He takes a drink, though he remains seated as upright as usual—he's less prone to looking constantly at attention than Javert, but that's not saying much.]

Krieger was already teaching at the school when I arrived here. About two years before your time. His subject was Care of Magical Creatures.

[And taking another drink. He can't believe the school was this negligent—or, sadly, he can.]

From what I've learned, rumors had been thick on the ground about Professor Krieger for years. Students' pets disappeared, creatures in his care went missing, the bodies of mutilated animals were found in the forest. Your predecessor, Forbes Martin, lodged complaints against him with the Headmaster. So did many of the professors worth the title. So did I.

[Those who pay attention may notice Barton gripping his glass a bit harder before he forces himself to relax.]

Why is he still free? Why isn't he locked up in Azkaban? And why the hell is Professor Madeldore letting him in the castle?

[Another drink. And another.]

This stinks of something deeper.

The smell of politics. The world's rankest stench. [He turns his glass around and around on the table, looking at it, before continuing. Criticizing governments doesn't come easily to him—though it's easier to do so now that he lives in a nation he doesn't consider his own.]

He has the English government's protection. [He takes another drink, more a gulp, and grimaces at the burn.]

To get back into Hogwarts? No doubt. Only the Ministry could persuade Professor Madeldore to let him near the school.

[He slumps back in his booth, rubbing his eyes.]

I get the feeling he's connected to the animals showing up mutilated in the Forest, too. Even the Centaurs are worried. They say nothing living there naturally can do that. You said he was Care of Magical Creatures.

[Another drink]

That's my theory.

Five years! [He puts his glass down hard.] I should be dismissed. Keeping to the castle like an ogre and ignoring my natural allies. Arrogance. [Five years, and he never thought to make certain Barton had been informed about Krieger. Five years and no one else thought to inform the man!]

You've been reporting the bodies to the Headmaster?

Edited 2013-02-03 22:07 (UTC)

Easy, big guy. Don't make me cut you off. We all make mistakes.

[He looks into his glass, frowning.]

Not yet. The centaurs asked me to wait while they make sure it isn't a creature in the forest. I have the reports ready to go, though.

[You don't want to mess with the Centaurs, man.]

Don't humor their pride for too long. Human or animal, a beast in the woods is a danger to the students.

[He tips his glass toward Barton. Interested in topping it off?]

Oh, don't I know that. It took me a few years to get their trust, though, not going to ruin it.

[And another drink gets poured. Just... No more self-pity.]

Gonna have to keep my eyes open.

Difficult work. It's a lifetime's effort convincing even members of the same species to trust each other. I'll trust you know when to overstep.

[Self-pity's when he starts thinking too hard about working the rest of his life isolated at a school. It's not bad work—all work is good work, provided it's not dishonest—but it can feel like a slow and early slide into retirement. And 'retirement' is just a horrible word. Work is his life.]

Watch the grounds. The devil's meant to have an escort whenever he steps foot on school property, but creatures like that are long past obeying rules.

[So, Evan hasn't had an oppertunity to look around Hogsmeade properly. He's been here before with the Prophet, of course, but never really had the chance to look.

So, he's walking into the pub with bags of shopping, looking around for a table.]

So you haven't left yet.

[A deep voice, cold and full of haughty authority, speaks almost directly into Evan's ear. Apparently he attracted the notice of Professor Javert's infamous falcon eye, who first spotted the journalist weaving in and out of the Hogsmeade shops during today's chaperoned trip. Intrigued, he followed Evan into the Three Broomsticks, one of Javert's personal least favorite establishments, considering the brand of slime who ran the place. The tall beast of a man looks distinctly stiff and out of place amongst the ruffians and scallywags that draw to Patron Thénardier like flies to a carcass.

Well, in any event, now is the time to gently probe amongst the murmurs and distractions of a tavern where their own conversation would slip past unnoticed, apart from the crowd outdoors - good as any other time, at least.]

What is keeping you? Lacking a decent scoop?

[Jesuschristwillyoustopdoingthat?! This will be the second time Evan has nearly had a heart-attack because of you, Javert. You really need to work on that.]

Hardly. I'm the education correspondant, Professor. It helps if I stay where there's education to correspond for.

[Javert is nonplussed by Evan's evident shock. He is more concerned by what is almost an admission, and ventures to ask with a hard stare,]

Then you'll stay the entire term? Our welcome week is past. That was your story, I remember.

Edited 2013-02-02 03:54 (UTC)

[Swift recovery. Nope. Not letting you intimidate him too much, Javert.]

It was a story, professor. In fact, I have another one in the works already.

[Stare. The entire term, then, apparently. The press are an irritating lot. It is not that Javert has a damn thing to hide, but it is rather difficult to keep his eye on more important matters when he has to worry about a journalist poking around where he is unwanted.]

Indeed! [sighs Javert. He continues lightly,] Then your first was published. Well-received, I imagine. It should not surprise me so much that there is a market for these stories.

What is this next one called? [He glances meaningfully around the Three Broomsticks.] Professors Spotted at Rest in Local Hogsmeade Dive Bar! Scandal and Indecency Follow?

Edited 2013-02-03 05:09 (UTC)

Now that is a boring topic, professor. People are seen in bars all the time, it's not the 50's any more.

[Teasing? Maybe. Only maybe. Still Evan's polite smile hasn't wavered.]

If you must know, it's about someone's teaching technique. [And that's when a frown crosses his face.] It portrays a certain social demographic in a very bad light, unwarrented, and doesn't really uphold the school's reputation. From what I can tell, even the Students are unhappy.

[Take a guess, Javert. Which class is it?]

Edited 2013-02-05 16:12 (UTC)

[.... Oh.

Javert's small smirk immediately dissolves, his interest piqued. His stare hardens.

This isn't Education correspondence. This is investigative journalism. Now, Javert has no love at all for Manfred von Karma, but... what sort of effect could an exposé of this nature have on the school and the student body? Javert chooses to probe a little.]

Students are unhappy the moment a new assignment drifts their way. Taking up their precious free time. That information is worthless, [says Javert cautiously.] What is your aim? Nosing around in this vein?

One word, professor; Stereotyping.

[And it's a word that Evan despises. He strives to give the stark truth of the matter, and he has enough evidence. He has more than one stereotype to work against]

It's a topic that hits me pretty hard, especially since I've arrived, and Hogwarts is seen as an institution of Excellence in Education. To think that one member of the faculty endorses outdated stereotypes in their teaching is not matching the reputation. This is 2013, Professor, even the Muggles are learning to set their differences aside. [Slowly.]

Unless you look to the Middle East, or most of the African continent, or the third-world countries of South America, where there are racial, religious, political scuffles, [he retorts impassively.] Don't let's be ninnies. Muggles are no more reasonable than wizards.

[Javert slowly folds his arms across his chest, chin sinking with a pensive grimace into his coat collar. His eyes glimmer indiscernibly from beneath the brim of his hat.]

You owe the Headmaster an audience for this, [he bites curtly. Gone is all hint of amusement in his frigid tone.] You are hinting at something serious, I can read between the lines. It is indecent, to imply these things, your word against our tenured von Karma's. A formal request, pressing charges, even, but only with proof! Bringing it before Headmaster Madeldore properly; that is honest. Take your intentions to him, if this is what you mean.

Edited 2013-02-06 02:21 (UTC)

[Phil has no particular fondness for crowds, but he can't just hole up in the school--he'd go fuckin' nuts--and it's good to just watch people going about their business. Tracking their movements, tracking their speech. If he keeps this up long enough, he might even gain a decent sense of the life and rhythms of this shitass village. Might figure out whether there's anything, eh, interesting to get into.

Always best to be informed.

He'd slipped in a while ago and taken a table for himself. Observe at a distance now (unless some opportunity presents itself), maybe start hitting up patrons next time, buy a few beer and strike up a dialogue. It's one of the best ways to get to know a place, after all.

He's seen a couple of staff members enter, and there'd been a couple when he arrived, but Phil hasn't bothered to speak up. Not what he's here for. Not what he's in the mood for, especially after that debacle of a meeting. He just wants to listen, have a drink, and get the fuck away from those kids for a while.]

Edited 2013-02-01 04:49 (UTC)

[If Phil selected that conspicuously empty table with the intention of spending the evening alone, he will soon become sorely disappointed.

A tall man, dressed from head to toe in sharp neatly-buttoned blacks, abruptly pulls an extra chair up to Phil's table and drops himself into the seat. This man sticks out from the crowd for several reasons. First, he carries himself like a military general among peasants, his back straight as a board, chin held proudly out of his collar. Second, he carries with him no drink, and there is not a hint of alcohol on his breath. Third, he is simply far too clean for the messy clientele that frequent the Three Broomsticks. And fourth...

Well. Considering that wolfish face of his, framed by a pair of impressive muttonchops? He certainly did not look like the type to throw a rip-roaring party. No; rather, he greets Phil with a sort of intense scrutiny that seems to combine a touch of imploring and casual curiosity with measured, jaded judgment. A paradoxical stare, to be certain.

It is the man Phil would recognize as Professor Javert, no other name known or given.

From his sleeve he pops open a pack of freshly-rolled cigarettes. His brows nudge up his forward, and he shoots a brief glance down. They are not the cheap prepackaged stuff. Javert selects his single indulgence carefully.

Go on, Phil. Help yourself.]

One week. [What? No "Hi, how are you?"] You finished the week, and you still look whole. That is promising for you.

Edited 2013-02-01 05:07 (UTC)

[Jesus fucking Christ, this is just fantastic. What's this guy even doing at a pub? What the hell's he doing among real-life people?

The guy's searching for something. He must be. Seems like he's always searching for something, or at least giving everyone a close examination. Phil's seen the look enough times since his arrival at the school. Like he'd gut you to pull out your story. And those eyes are fixed on Phil now.

Phil doesn't like the looks of this, but he keeps it cool--All right, so there's a slight start when Javert appears (for God's sake, just appears like he slipped out of some dark alleyway and what the hell is this guy, a cop?), but beyond that, Phil offers nothing. Not even tapping his fingers. Not yet, at least.

Shit, is he offering a cigarette? Phil can't quite tell whether it's an honest gesture or how it fits into the guy's game, but what the hell; he could use a decent cigarette. He takes one.] Thanks, man.

[There. Playing nice. Playing it cool.]

Kids're nothing. [A shrug. Not entirely true, but he isn't about to get into that with this guy.]

[Occasionally, Javert does join the social world, if for nothing else, than to idly poke his nose around and dig up some valuable information about people, objects, events. Imagine that, Phil! He plucks one out for himself and offers the lighter next.]

The kids are annoying, but they won't defeat you. You've got a mouth to match theirs, I understand. [He lights up and start his own cigarette. Puff puff puff. He shakes out the light and slides it onto the table, kicking his head back in a strange, stilted brand of casual. Like he were attempting to imitate casual motions and could not quite capture it. Nonetheless, his indifferent voice is rather relaxed by comparison.]

Yet your position doesn't hold a teacher long. You are the seventh in six years. Dreadful outlooks. [A pause. Javert takes a long, gratuitous drag, peering at Phil through a stream of sweet blue-gray smoke.] Now don't mistake me, I am only curious: What the hell convinced you to apply? Knowing this possibility for limited job security?

[Oh, har har, Javert, real cute. As if anyone gives a shit what a professor says or how.

The question to be considered is what Javert does and does not know. Nobody was supposed to have been told much, but who knows? A guy nosy as this could probably track down more than was good for him. He shouldn't be able to get far, but if he has any idea...

Just keep playing the game. Smoke, talk, and try to get a handle on his aim.]

I'm a man of the world, Javert; I like to try a little bit of everything. [And he doesn't plan on sticking around the school any longer than he needs to, anyway. It isn't anything Phil plans on sharing, and this isn't the worst place to lay low for a while.] Besides, somebody's gotta teach these kids some practical skills.

[He takes another drag on the cigarette, leans back.] This is a pretty damn good cigarette.

[Javert takes another brief puff. His smirk lasts just long enough for a notice, glimmering eyes capturing Philip's again.] You like my tastes. It is pure. Unfiltered, none of that trash. You don't know what they mix in those.

Didn't I tell you my habit is overindulgent, sometimes?

[Only those most intimately familiar with Javert would catch it: a twist at the corner of his mouth, a slight downturn in his smirk.

Evasion. Don't think you made it in the clear with that answer, Philip. Javert can smell evasion from kilometers away. That's an observation for Javert's mental filing cabinet -- and rest assured, he keeps an impressive catalogue for each suspect fellow he has the distinct pleasure of meeting and whatever flashes of their future actions that he manages to tease out in his daily hurricane of sights. His eyebrow drifts up curiously, and he lapses into a silence. To the onlooker, the subtle change in expression does not make him any easier to read.

Suddenly a cold smile cracks his granite face, producing a darkening, rather than brightening effect, like the mastiff smiling at the cat. Javert really is a terrifying man to behold, no matter how disarmingly casual his chatter. It's his presence, his sheer expression and manner; he conveys a haughtiness, a calm and proud control full of all the authority his years with the Aurors afforded him. To the men who sought to aid, such a demeanor is reassuring. To men with something to hide...

Less so.]

Ah, practical skills, there! Spoken sensibly and without superstitions. It is a start. Better than many wizards, with their idiot focus on hiding away from danger and transforming feathers into gold for a quick coin instead of teaching something useful. Like dark arts preparedness. Or simple disarming spells. Basic protection from attack. [He rolls the cigarette thoughtfully between pinched fingers, lids finally lowering to the table. It is a brief respite for Philip from Javert's unrelenting stare.] Awful many changed teachers over the years. It's chaos. Are your students lagging? Did you notice?

Edited 2013-02-02 03:51 (UTC)

["That trash," whatever, man. These are nice cigarettes and everything, but what the hell's the point of shelling out so much on one pack of cigarettes? Waste of money, and all in the name of some bullshit idea known as taste.

Son of a bitch. Phil's used to reading tough cases, but this guy's particularly difficult to feel out. Who the fuck thought he qualified as a human being? Phil'd like to have a few words with whoever it was. It's like trying to read stone, or something, only stone doesn't usually talk or fucking stare at you like some kind of creep.

Fucking cops. Fucking Aurors. It's the same with all of 'em, when you get down to it.

And oh, oh, that's nice. Javert's giving some sort of vague approval, or assent, or who the fuck cared whatever it was. Phil knows what the fuck he's doing, and fuck this guy if he thinks he can just stick his nose in and play grand jury.]

If you think that's chaos... [Probably, Javert's seen worse--anyone with a face like that must've seen something--but what the hell ever. He waves a dismissive hand.] I'm just saying the whole world's a mess, so yeah, I'm all for shit they can actually use.

[No need to get into what that is. Or speak much more than he has to, really.] The kids're picking it up all right. Not great, and a lot of 'em don't know how to focus, but they aren't terrible. I mean, I don't wanna go pitch myself in the lake or put a bullet in my brain, so I figure we're doing just fine. [The kids don't know a damn thing about the effects of Muggle drugs, either, but that isn't a point to raise right now.]

Edited 2013-02-02 05:17 (UTC)

Congratulations. I will tell the staff to pull your suicide watch, [shoots Javert back impassively, not a flutter in his eyelash. Is this supposed to be a joke?] Now you're in it for good. Until your resignation. Or the children discover their annoying rebellious streaks and rise up in arms against their teachers. Whatever comes first.

[And not dismissal, for when has Headmaster Madeldore truly taken it upon himself to fire any of his employees, no matter how questionable the behavior? Krieger is the exception to the rule, and thank Merlin above that he was; Javert would have given up his tenure track years ago if Madeldore was too merciful to turn out a child predator.

Suddenly, Javert examines Phil particularly hard. Perhaps it is a tic he notices. Perhaps it is a muscle spasm. Hell, considering it's Javert, it could be absolutely nothing discernible at all. His head tilts to one side.]

You are wound up like a toddler after a swig of soda. Are you anxious?

[For a few moments, Phil just stares. Did Javert really just say...?

Phil can't decide whether this guy's actually got some sort of a sense of humor or just doesn't know what the hell he's saying. And while he doesn't like the fact that Javert's brought up anxiety--what's he looking for? what's he trying to needle out of Phil? those prying eyes are watching close and Phil KNOWS the guy's on the hunt for something--he also knows it doesn't necessarily mean much. Shit, signs of anxiety aren't anything; it's a rare moment when Phil doesn't look a little on the nervous side.

Is Phil particularly worked up right now? Eh... Maybe a little unsettled, what with this interrogation and the fact that he can't pick up a read on Javert. But it isn't terrible. Phil's confidant that Javert won't pry any incriminating details from him, after all, and this confrontation or whatever it is probably had to happen sooner or later. Might as well get it out of the way.

Not that Phil's happy about it. But.]

Shit, you'd better get used to that. Most people'll tell you anxiety's my default mode of existence.

Whatever about? [Javert snorts. The man is a veritable contradiction. His ramrod-straight posture suggests a stiffness, a certain haughty and righteous discomfort that emerges when he delves into the thick of a society, where he is perfectly aware that he does not quite belong. Yet his manner of speech and diction, as even and calm and cold as it is, sounds utterly zen bordering on lackadaisical. The words fly from his mouth without any impression that he has a firm handle on his tongue.] New job jitters? No, you are at ease with the students. Not the future. At worst that currently entails a match of chess, five dungeon trolls, three more wretched staff meetings on-the-quarter, and fifty cigarette packs. Manageable.

[Phil's eyes flicker uneasily, taking an instinctive survey of potential exit routes. It's not that he's especially concerned; it's just this guy's manner. There's something very not right, something incongruous about him, and it feels wrong. Not the first time Phil's felt it, and not the first time he's had to sit through it, but he hadn't thought he'd run into it at this goddamn school.

Still, Phil wills himself to keep still and returns his eyes to Javert, takes another pull off the cigarette. Takes a drink.

Ah, fuck it.]

What about? It ain't psychotherapy, man; it's just the way I'm constituted. In my world, you don't need a reason to be a little edgy. And if I do need some sort of reason, I think it's enough I've got you breathing down my neck and staring a hole through my head. Last I checked, I wasn't on trial for anything.

[Up flies an eyebrow.

Javert struck a nerve. Indubitably.

So this is the kind of man Phil is: A caged animal. Caged animals always have their secrets, their anxieties, their repressed base impulses. Either that, or he has experienced some severe traumas, possibly related to the war, in America, and he has not quite recovered. However, Javert has seen many a case of post-traumatic stress, and Phil does not quite fit the bill. No, no; this is the brand of wide-eyed, squirrelish paranoia most often exhibited by hunted men. Javert knows that archetype intimately.

Well. We all have something secret to keep, don't we? Phil's, judging by the irritability, is something sensitive, perhaps something under-the-table, something still lurking over his shoulder. The guarded answers tells Javert all he needs to know, and in a span of several intent seconds, he judges: it is only a matter of time before Phil will slip up and show his corruption, if that's what he hides. Or that whatever-he-hides-from pops its head into school affairs for a peek.

Javert visibly relaxes. Now that he is decided of Phil's sort, he knows exactly how to proceed with their professional relationship. He knows how to be watchful and patient. He can even be amiable in the meantime, observe whether his creeping suspicions are the intuits of a madman, or if they ring true. That's all it takes.]

Peace, [he says at last, though he does not sound particularly repentant.] I ask you simply because I am curious.

You are right that this is not a psychotherapy, and I don't have any interest in that. What do I need with your detailed psychiatric and therapeutic history? Horrifically dull things, psychiatric reports, all in psycho-jargon. You haven't given me a reason to pry that deep. You are a colleague. Not a prisoner.

You want another round of drink, don't you? Barkeep!

Edited 2013-02-04 05:53 (UTC)

['Only curiosity, my ass.' This isn't a man to waste time with innocent inquiries. Every fucking thing--Phil would be willing to bet that every fucking thing this guy does or says is geared toward some specific end. He knows what he wants, and Phil suspects that he himself knows what Javert knows that he wants.

Shit, that's getting convoluted.

In any case, Phil doesn't trust this sudden remission, and the accompanying generosity is probably another tactic (hell, Javert could even be trying to get him drunk, though it'd be a stupid ploy, and Phil doesn't really believe it's what's going on). The guy's really intense, psychotic, or maybe a mix of both. Not the kind of guy to relax around. Not really the kind of guy to have a drink with, either.

So there's a choice to make, now. A choice between playing nice and at least feigning to go along with Javert's game, or getting the fuck out before the man can throw any more inquiries his way. The first option doesn't much appeal; Phil doesn't feel particularly patient right now, and what the fuck're they going to talk about, anyway? If he chooses the second, Javert's liable to take it as a sign of guilt, throwing it onto the stockpile of whatever imaginary evidence he's collected.

...goddamnit. He'd better play it safe. Hell, maybe he'll take something useful from this, eh, prolonged encounter. Probably not, but in unpleasant situations, it's better to hold onto some sort of hope.]

Sounds fantastic, pal.

["A colleague." Right. As if this guy knows how to be a colleague with anyone. Not that Phil really knows, either. Or cares. Colleagues are stuffy, the kind of rod-up-their-ass bastards that've never ventured outside of their elite clubhouses. What the hell would he want to be a colleague for?]

So how about you? Now that you've poked around my business, you want to say something about yourself?

['Pal.' There's a word Javert does not often hear applied to himself. It's almost inappropriately comical.]

Myself! What about? Male, middle-aged academy professor seeks working professional relations? [Careful, there, might start sounding like a first date.]--Hold on a moment.

[Javert successfully flags down one of the bartenders of the joint and orders another round for Phil. For himself, he requests no more than water with a wedge of lemon. He does not habitually drink liquor; the clearer he can keep his mind, the better, no matter how rare it is with the nature of his gifts. Once the bartender shuffles off to fulfill the order, he resumes a skeptical stare at Phil.]

What do you possibly want to know? Genuinely? [There is no ill intent in his tone. Instead, he is bland, conversational, perhaps mildly surprised at Phil's attempt for sociability with a man that has minimal social inclination or, hell, very little belonging in society at large.] Is it the behemoth in the room: some tarot, a little palmistry you want? Go on and ask it.

Edited 2013-02-04 15:49 (UTC)

[It's like trying to have a conversation with a socially awkward tree stump. Phil can't decide whether Javert's serious or fucking around, but he's beginning to think that maybe this isn't all an act. Which makes it not disarming, but at least a little less infuriating. Maybe.]

What would I want with any of that divinations bullshit?

Look, I'm not asking anything specific. Just... tell me a story. From the life of Javert. Like what you did before you came to this place, even something you did when you were a kid. I don't care. Something I can't tell just by looking at you.

[Act? Who says Javert is acting at all? He is a man who wears his soul on his sleeve. What you see is what you get.

Besides, the whole psychic-precognitive-sight-shit is half the issue. It is quite difficult to relate to other people on any decent level when he is always jumping ten feet ahead of them, without realizing he's doing so.

He blinks owlishly.]

Well, let me see, [he begins, eyes skewing toward the ceiling.] When I was young, I spent many springs and summers at a strict boarding camp. The other children didn't like a look about me, and I was left to myself. I did not mind this, even if it came off as a collective sortie. One day, I got an inkling, I had no proof and I was no beast-tamer, but I told the counselor to put the fire out before the stars twinkle because the wolves were coming and I could hear them. They called me a liar, "le loup who cried for wolves," and tucked me into some dark cabin as punishment. That night a freakish pack of wolves, drawn to the campfire and the smells of roasting meat, attacked five boys and two counselors, including the man I warned. I was promptly expelled from camp because I frightened them. "Emotionally disturbed" were the exact words. Possibly responsible for luring the wolves myself, I must've been raised by them. Of course! A perfectly entertaining theory for little brats. Raised by wolves for my first ten years.

[Somewhere during this extensive monologue, Javert lowered his eyes back to Philip.]

Two months later, I received my school letter and never returned. I later learned werewolves were involved. Nasty business!

Edited 2013-02-04 23:05 (UTC)

[The flood gates've opened up, and... All right, so at least the guy can string together more than a couple of sentences. And was apparently a child at some point It isn't the strangest story Phil's ever heard, and honestly, it suits Javert to a tee. It's a little bit off-putting, more than a little bit morbid, and--Phil can't deny the fact--it's intriguing.

And yeah, story like that says a whole fuckin' lot.]

So you weren't raised by wolves? Because that'd make for one hell of a bio.

[He takes a drink, considering.] Tough for a kid, though. If I'm hearing you right, it sounds like this divination bullshit isn't all bullshit for you. Or was your knowing about the wolves some sort of fluke? [Phil would be willing to believe either. While divination is by and large a completely useless field, there are wizards and witches--usually very strange wizards and witches--who somehow come by abilities to see more than should be possible.

Oh. Shit. If this guy is some sort of seer-- Phil looks to the side, scratches his face, has to remind himself to keep still. As if Javert isn't nosy enough without some sort of extra ability to read what Phil has so carefully hidden. Phil is a skilled Occlumens, but he's encountered seers who can read in different, apparently less defensible ways. Doesn't make a damned bit of sense, but there it is.

This could be trouble. This could be some deep fucking trouble. with any luck, Javert either isn't any sort of seer, or isn't the sort of seer that can pry like that. And if he is, Phil might just have to start finding a way to counter him. For now, just keep playing it cool. Don't give him anything that'll fuel the suspicion. Just be cool.]

[Javert's thin lips twist and curl into a tight, dark smirk. He shoots Phil a pointed look, takes a last, long drag of his cigarette and extinguishes the butt in an ashtray.

He certainly bears the kind of expression that one of those strange wizards with the Gift would carry: cold, hard, always gazing directly through rather than at the object of his attention to some unknown point visible only to himself. His stare is rather like a man capable of reading directly into the soul.]

I was ten. Who is to say? [A casual shrug, a subtle bend over the table.] Divination is a piss-poor excuse for a science. The future is bendable. There is no exactitude. Nothing practical in forcing a sometimes-art on talentless hacks. To give a boy a chisel and tell him to exceed Michaelangelo -- These things don't happen. Teach a man to punch, and expect him to slug like an old ox.... The same. I am not a champion of the field. Far from it. And I certainly do not waste mine or the students' time coaching them in the subtleties of crystal gazing for hours on end.

[He rolls his eyes.]

And if I saw nothing at all! It could be, rather, that I learned to speak the wolf language. The secret of it all traced back to my --Ah! There they are!

[At just that moment, the barkeep returns with two full glasses, a plain water with a lemon wedge for Javert and some stupidly strong alcoholic concoction for Phil. Javert slides the necessary galleons and sickles toward the man and sends him on his way.]

By the way, [adds Javert abruptly.] Keep your goods under charm and key. The ones in your office and classroom.

[Traced back to his what? Eh, whatever. Something to keep in mind, but Phil isn't going to push that one any further. He's still working at getting a feel for Javert, and that means prodding around a little more, not going too far down one path of conversation unless it seems fruitful. Right now, everything just feels a little unsafe and a whole lot uncertain.

At least there's more booze. Thank Christ for that.] Much appreciate. [He raises the glass to Javert before taking a drink. Not too fucking bad.]

I keep my rooms pretty well-protected. [Very well-protected, and partly to keep Javert--among others--from snooping around.] There any reason in particular you're bringing this up?

And why're you teaching Divination if you don't give a rat's ass? I mean, what do, the kids just sit around while you stare at 'em for an hour? [Not that Phil cares a whole lot; he's just a little bit curious, and it's another way of putting together a clearer picture of this guy.]

Edited 2013-02-06 23:57 (UTC)

Children have sticky fingers. [Javert shoots back wryly.] And you have shiny recreational toys they want. I warn you, lock and charm. Double-bag it.

[He sips the water and pushes it aside, his nostrils flaring with a low, derisive snort.]

Yes. You've caught me, [he murmurs.] Divination practice is a waste of time. So why not watch the clock tick for my full hour?

[Javert positively skewers Philip with a hard stare, raising his voice and his chin for an abrupt and terribly inadequate explanation,]

No, that is not what I teach. I don't encourage idleness. I would go mad.

Edited 2013-02-08 05:54 (UTC)

What, you mean the magazines? [Phil raises his eyebrows, unconcerned, even moderately amused, though he keeps a straight face.] I'm sure they've got plenty to go around. Sure their fingers are sticky, too. [Of course there was the weed, along with the rest of the drugs, the guns, and a well-hidden collection of papers and assorted objects that no one on the planet's allowed to see, but so what? And what the fuck does Javert know about it, anyway? Probably nothing beyond what he might suspect, and suspicions don't count for shit in a court of law.

The guy had better not have something more than suspicions, anyway. Just to be safe, it might be best to finesse the defense further still.

Jesus, though, that sudden stare, sudden defensiveness, whatever the hell it is when Javert starts talking about what he doesn't teach. All right, all right. Something's going on there, though Phil can't say what.

Phil blinks, but otherwise keeps his expression controlled. Doesn't even respond with, 'You aren't nuts already?'. He could've though. He very easily could have.] All right. So what do you teach?

Edited 2013-02-08 09:01 (UTC)

Practical application.

[Javert bats an eyebrow at Phil's insistence about magazines--got some Playwitch in your cupboard, Phil?--but says nothing else on the matter. He isn't fooled, but he has nothing else to bank on than his inklings. And besides, if Phil does not take heed, all of his unsavory habits will be blown open by the students sooner or later. Javert is sure of that.]

I am unconvinced that all magical folk possess the Eye, [he drawls.] Why waste time forcing the matter to the whole class? I warn them, rather. I give them the minimum, they learn the methods and discover the lack of precision themselves. Then they must learn to recognize a decent Seer from a hack. It is my opinion that occlumency and legilimency falls under my umbrella. Defense against mind-readers is a critical skill, I think. For advanced students.

Legilimency, however! [He sips his water, bending closer to his conversation partner over the table with a tricky, icy smirk.] You know how dangerous it is! That is an ugly mess. I will not teach it outside of private tutelage. And only for specific purpose.

[ At the bar is a dainty witch pale green, blonde curls poking out of her knitted winter cap. She's just arrived and settling into her chair.

Who uses a menu? Mary Morstan does. ] Something that will warm me up instantly... [ Mary muses out loud, tapping her chin. ]

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Watch me as I make canon up :|b

Re: Watch me as I make canon up :|b

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