Quite obviously, no one had ever taken the time out to introduce to Alannah the code of conduct about the matter of drinking, really. Her aversion to societal mingling, so to speak, had left her without the notion of what was proper and what was not; given their history, it just seemed somewhat strange that he was offering her a drink at all, accepting it would have been stranger still. Certainly, a part of her had to wonder why hed have done such a thing in the first place if it hadnt involved some sort of etiquette, but mostly, she could not see a practical reason for it. It made very little sense, really. Not to mention that, well, it was not responsible to be drinking under the given circumstances, for while the liquid certainly burnt down her throat in an oddly satisfying manner to soothe her overwrought nerves to unstring them somewhat, make it easier for the thoughts to flow, the words to slip out and what not, it wasnt exactly a wise idea. For inebriation was a high price to pay for temporary eloquence and a release from the stress which was, given the circumstances, probably a good thing; caution being better than whatever appalling opposite it had.

On the other hand, perhaps she was putting far too much emphasis on this one single meeting, which wasnt, in point of fact, likely to result in anything anyway, was it? The chances of Charles Montague really answering a question and helping were more than minute, especially with her. They had enough of a history for this entire general idea to come to a whole lot of nothing, which, in effect, was probably better than something coming of it, really. A redundant endeavour, a futile, useless, pointless sort of a quest which this was proving to be. Perhaps it would have helped if shed had a clear idea what she wanted out of it, but she was not exactly in a position to make claims of any sort; for all her curiosity, all the interest, she wasnt sure what she was going to do with any of it, a lack of knowledge and clarity that severely hindered anything concrete from becoming. Whatever that would be. A sudden tiredness settled on her as she considered this, though she did little to express this to Montague of course. It seemed to her that mostly everything she knew proceeded along a strangely linear, singular path, and came to an anti-climatic dead end. Nothing surprising about that at all, though perhaps somewhere over the summer shed learnt to hope that something more, whether better or worse, would come of whatever one did. Of course, given how those lessons had come to an end, as such, it made sense that what shed learnt of them come to precisely such a conclusion, right?

But of course. It made perfect sense. So much so that she found herself mildly amused by it; or rather how shed felt as though shed been taken by surprise. The flow was predictable, and she, Alannah Morgan, was caught up in it like every other fool on the planet. How very, very appropriate.

It was ironical, or perhaps it was just so very strangely depressing that it was all that one could do to be amused by it and the incredulous, scornful sort of silence that followed her explanation about having come here to get a drink. It would have been mildly annoying and offensive if it wasnt really true, though unfortunately (or perhaps not quite that unfortunately), she could not honestly say that it had been the most plausible and reasonable explanation for her presence here. The sad truth of it was that she didnt belong in such a place, and could not really pretend to do so. Perhaps if her skirt had been shorter, or her top two buttons undone. Or perhaps not even that; perhaps if the idea of several inches less of clothing upon her person had not appalled her quite so much (and perhaps if shed had a clearer idea of what it meant to be the sort of person who frequented this sort of joint), it would have made more sense. But she was here, straight-backed, dressed in her neat uniform and feeling ruffled because of some mild game the wind had played on her hair, and even she had to accept that she was incongruous with the settings of this shady bar. Not, of course, that she was about to admit it, but she had the decency to colour slightly at the unlikelihood of the statement.

"Really? And I suppose you mean to tell me that you come here often?"

Certainly, she responded, equably, giving him a flat sort of a look, even though it was clear that she wasnt really fooling him. My favourite place in the world.

"If you are truly here to drink, however, allow me to buy you one. I insist."

She began to shake her head, to insist in turn that shed had her fill, but then paused. Even a person as obtuse as her in the matter of what she would have called mingling could not miss the implication of denying a drink twice, even if it was from someone like Montague, in a place like the Hogs Head, especially when she was sure he was mocking her by the offer. In a sense it was fine, it was logical to conclude that she was quite out of place in a place like this, because, of course, she was; but on the other hand, it was a bit well, putting off, not that she seemed to be the diametric opposite of those around them that frequented the join; but that in a sense, it was like being underestimated, somewhat. Or something of the sort. Quite certainly, the derisive chuckle that followed was a bit aggravating, for where did anyone get off coming to the conclusion that theyd got her pinned down and understood, page for page, word for word. Especially when for all intents and purposes, they were for the most of it right. It was frustrating to be that predictable, even if she had always laboured towards that end. A frustrating sort of a contradiction, that. Which sort of made his repeated offer different from before, somehow. For that had been perfunctory, perhaps, and this was a bit challenging.

Or perhaps it was none of the above, really; maybe he was just following the normal code of conduct about it, and she was being unnecessarily paranoid. It didnt matter either way. In retrospect, this would seem infinitely foolish.

Alright, she acceded, with a relatively gracious nod, if a bit defiantly and somewhat awkwardly. Since you insist. Though she didnt pick up the drink and immediately bring it to her lips, running her fingers along the glass once more, and wondering, not for the first time in the evening, what it was that she thought she was up to.

"Does it, now? Last I checked, Morgan, my business are none of your concern. Though since you presume to know so much, why don't you tell me?"

The line between curiosity and nosiness was, admittedly, a bit thin.

Though, of course, an admission to that effect was far from forthcoming. With a small chuckle of her own, quite a bit less scornful than his had been mainly because she was more amused than scornful by this entire exchange. Its futility seemed to weigh on her, the general notion that this conversation, and her with her, were really getting nowhere overwhelming. And again, all that one really could do at such a point, was shrug slightly and chuckle a bit. Having delivered both, she looked at him.

It was an observation, she said, her tone quieter, mirroring his, though with a certain directness that she could not avoid. Perhaps she ought to have learnt by now, being in a house that seemed to beat about the bush with what could be called professional ease, really, but, maybe because of a certain disinclination to interact with too many people, or something innately inarticulate about her, she failed to do so. Oh, she had words, but it was difficult to frame them in that well-constructed manner that communicated without really communicating. As was evident, for she could not even explain what it was. Youre not here to spend quality time with me, certainly, you have no reason to; unless you think youre doing something you shouldnt be. Caution convicts, or something similar, she added, and raised her glass to her lips to swallow down her drink, so generously offered to her by the Head Boy. Though she could not suppress the cringe that followed, closing her eyes, which threatened to water, against how strong the drink was, though a moment later she opened them and looked back at him. So which is it, Montague? she asked, though the drink still burnt against her throat, raising what could be a congenial eyebrow at him. Amused, vaguely bordering on being puckish, although that, certainly, would have been a stretch of the imagination. A questionable liaison? Or some great and evil thing that begets such conviction?

They were casually dropped words, tinged with mockery, and for all intents, she was joking. Even if shooting in the dark was closer to the truth. Or maybe youre just bored, she added, with another shrug, in a light tone that departed somewhat from the flatter manner in which she generally conversed, adopting a vaguely melodious lilt. Almost as though she was teasing him really, though, in her defense, it was quite, quite unintentional. Im sure drowning the sorrows of being Head Boy in a questionable joint is a wonderful way to fight such monotony.