The Hog's Head.

If generally a wretched hive of cast-outs and villainy - the dark side of Hogsmeade - Charles had far more intimate relationship with the aforementioned establishment than he would have preferred. Suffice it to say that, though lacking the class and luxuries required to suit his needs, the seedy joint had an atmosphere very much in tune with his recently developed disposition. In an environment where no one cared, asocial tendencies was always respected; unspoken code of conduct as it was to tolerate everyone as they were without too many questions. Refreshing, indeed, to find a place where one's private affairs was appropriately viewed as no one else's business. As such, the Hog's Head was in a unique position to provide what the competition could not; that was, some measure of privacy.

That alone was the reason to why such a questionable pub had somehow earned his patronage. That alone was why he had chosen it over his previous establishment of choice, as the jovial atmosphere of The Three Broomsticks no longer appealed to him - an unfortunate side-effect of his initiation, perhaps, as his detached and brooding demeanor had caused him to shun his regular habits. That alone was his reason for asking Lucius to meet him there, unwilling as he was to broadcast a rendezvous with the former head boy by conducting it about the more crowded parts of Hogsmeade. Not to say that a meeting with a close acquaintance should be enough to risk his cover - let alone cause meagre suspicion - though given the sensitive nature of what they were about to discuss it was no doubt preferable if they kept away from prying ears. Call it added insurance, if you will; or rather a plain necessity, especially so if one took into account their mutual alignment.

It wasn't a social call, so to speak..

As always, part of him shuddered at the memory of a previous visitation as he approached the designated building. The memory of the events preceeding his marking was not yet forgotten, so to speak, and unfortunate though it was he doubted the memory of that day would ever fully vanish. Every second in slowmotion, every minute an eternity; every single gesture - from his morning routine to Morgan's intense scrutiny to the conclusion of the marking - forever lingering as a fractured recollection of what adequately enough could be referred to as the first day of the rest of his life. In a way one could say he had mixed feelings on the matter; for regardless of whether the tattoo that was burnt into his flesh symbolized power or damnation, a yet uncharted aspect of his personality desired only to forget. It was not a matter of regret, as much as it was unwillingness to constantly have to deal with recurring images of the past; all of them so firmly imprinted on his cornea that they could as well as have happened only recently. Supposedly that was the will of the lord, and thus a consequence affected by nothing short of a memory charm. A brand of Voldemort's supremacy, the mental equivalence to the notorious dark mark; and thus a lingering trauma that no amount of mere contemplation could ever hope tackle.

Truth be told, he wasn't even sure if he wanted to..

Still, supposedly his current business could have some curative effect. Not to say that it would be a remedy for the aforementioned issue; though essentially his reasons for seeking Lucius' council was vaguely related matter that weighted heavily on his mind. Whether the subsequent settling of it, however it could be done, would be enough to grant him some measure of peace was throughout debatable, but even so. Though her knowledge was a mystery, Alannah Morgan had to be dealt with immediately. She was a considerable threat, so to speak, perhaps not to Death Eaters as a whole as much as to his continued servitude; as well as to that of another familiar figure involved in the organization, though presumably the latter was unaware of the threat she posed to his person. Morgan's continued breathing was supposedly proof enough of that, as he doubted Walden McNair had proper capacity for restraint and subtlety.. Though given the context, McNair's part was irrelevant. As was his own.

The only thing that mattered was that Morgan knew more than could be tolerated..

The flash of Deja Vu inspired by similarly freezing weather was palpable, and for but a second he felt the compulsive need to assure himself of that Morgan wasn't following him again. Eventually, however, he presumed it was - and thus discarded it as - a mere fit of further paranoia. Still, he was definitively on the alert as he entered the establishment, a subtle frown on his face as he took a moment to examine the assorted patrons. It wasn't long before he spotted his proverbial advisor, equally incongruous as he was with their filthy hell-hole of choice, though nevertheless he didn't permit his eyes to more than flicker over the latter before he headed off toward the counter. That side-route took no more than an extra minute, however; and once he had provided himself with a drink of his choice, he forsook the familiar bar-maid and headed over to pay his fellow pureblood a visit.

"Lucius," He regarded the latter as he took a seat, uninvited, though seemingly he wasn't one to dispense with the formalities entirely. As proven by his following statement, perhaps, a hint of his respect for the congenial former Slytherin as it was. Indeed, they were of a similar breed, and likeness of mind - as well as similar accomplishments, call it somewhat of a good-natured rivalry - bridged the gap of age that normally would have separated the two of them. "I'm pleased you could make it.. Would you care for a drink?,"