It was kind of stupid, but the first thing he remembered when he came to Hogsmaede wasn't the fact he'd a bet with himself to outdrink Potter and Co. at whatever pub they chose to gather in this time; of all little things to nag away at his head, it had to have been the thought of getting a new set of robes.

Well, okay, maybe the current ones were looking a bit worse for wear, and Kabir's penchant for activity ensured they were always in dire need of thorough washing every other weekend. So here he was, just a few feet outside of the Gladrags' entrance, trying to save his soul from deep inner conflict that had his insides in a vice grip, unwilling to let go.

Butterbeer first, or Robes? His query to his outer consciousness(es).


Voice of Impulse (tm): Butterbeer.

Voice of Reason (tm): Robes.

Voice of Impulse (tm):Butterbeer.

Voice of Reason (tm): Robes.

Voice of Impulse (tm) : Butter -oh, what the heck. Robes, fine. Sheesh. Bloody stuck up snob.

Voice of Reason (tm): I refuse to comment.

Voice of Impulse (tm): Stuck up little shi...

A fight ensues.


Sighing, but with half a grin on his face, he decided to go to Gladrags first. The half a grin faded away faster than last night's dinner had faded from the serving platters. Just like before, his throat went horribly, horribly dry, and he realised he really, really, really needed a butterbeer. Or firewhiskey. Or water.

Anything, really, because otherwise the first words he'd utter wouldn't be words, they'd be the sounds of a frog croaking.

Blinking, he coughed, almost automatically, raised a hand, and gave a tentative wave, thankful at least that they were on the far end, and a little miffed that they'd noticed him enter despite being where they were.

Merlin, just what I needed.


The Voice of Impulse (tm): 'I told you so. I TOLD you so.'

Kabir: Shut. up.

The voice of impulse is thrown off a cliff, and Kabir watches it fall with some degree of grim satisfaction.