It was unlikely.

A word shed been using a lot, lately, to describe things that seemed to be happening to her that shed never anticipated, and that she never could have anticipated. It took her off-guard, caught her by utter surprise and at the end of it, left her feeling a bit winded, or upset, or in some manner or another, moved, by something external. Always a bit disconcerting, as such, for the predictability of an unassuming existence had always been comforting, her solace, and what she pretty much thrived upon. Needless to say, it made this entire situation quite distressing. Unnerved and a bit apprehensive, she found herself sitting in, of all places, the Hogs Head, at the bar, next to Charles Montague and having a drink. How very quaint and strange, and it would have been unreal if shed not known, on some level or another, what this conversation was likely to be about, or at least to what vague end it was being detracted. Hed hardly called her over to exchange pleasantries, certainly.

Not that that was likely even in the normal course of things, really; that would have been a thousand times more disturbing than this, she thought, though that could just have been some odd part of her trying to be amusing when she was feeling decidedly unsettled.

And for good reason, really. Intuition was not something she relied on too often, mostly because it tended to contradict the predictable logic that underlined most of her life. Logic had certainly not dictated that she should follow him to the shady joint, or, thereafter, join him to have a drink. Or really, have a drink at all, for the effects of alcohol, in general, were probably not likely to help so much as they would hinder. It was adding, already, to her general sense that she shouldnt be doing this, even as the liquid burnt down her throat to somehow soothe her nerves, which werent behaving too well at this point. Although, of course, it was one thing to be nervous, and quite another to display such nervousness, especially to Montague; she was not, no matter what the circumstances, about to give him another view of what degree of hysterics she could achieve. Battles, or conversations, with the head boy needed to be fought carefully, or so she'd deemed it by now, the uncomfortable awareness of herself about him sort of inevitably inducing a caution.

For this was not, as was obvious, idle chit chat, the exchange of hellos and good-byes. In all honesty, she was not entirely sure what this was meant to be. A sort of a confrontation, perhaps, though what precisely about, she was utterly unsure of. There were, of course, the dots, lacking connectivity, though to what extent Montague could really provide answers, she doubted. Not merely because he wasnt particularly likely to offer help, as hed proven before, but also because well, she could have been utterly wrong, couldnt she? There could have been no connection whatsoever between his activities and Macnair lurking outside Professor Evercrests door and the mark, hovering over the Quidditch Pitch over Kate Wongs body, at Diagon Alley. His arrest could certainly just have been coincidence, couldnt it? Certainly it could. Although her mistrusted intuition screamed otherwise, and she had to fight down the urge to sneak a glance at his left arm, where, presumably, a mark like Macnairs would burn, dark and ugly, and yet somehow oddly appealing, against his skin. Oh, and if she was right, then sitting here and having a drink with him was not exactly the ideal solution to the matter, was it? Perhaps even a bit well, precarious. If anything, that went against the exercise of caution and thinking things through properly.

If anything, she should have gone to an authority figure of some sort. Though that she ought to have done a long time ago, but curiosity gnawed on her insides, a dark inquisition crying for relief of some sort, and this was the vaguest, most imprudent, blind shot in the dark.

The firewhiskey being pushed towards her cut through her doubts, and she quirked a suitably searching eyebrow at him, though he seemed to be endeavoring to maintain the somewhat irksome aloofness about himself, not offering her a look in return. Raising a hand to rest her elbow on the counter and frowning slightly as he offered the flat toast, she watched him down his drink, keeping her gaze on him steady until he did, finally, look at her.

It's on me.

It was amazing, though, how through much tension and unsettlement, the one thing that stood like stone, predictable as ever, was the head boy and his general attitude. Amazing, really, just inconceivable how with all the more important things weighing on them both right now, shed still have to deal, essentially, with Montague. Im good, she said, at his ever so generous offer, partly because it didnt really seem like the thing to do, accept a drink from him, of all people; and partly because one didnt realise just how strong a drink could be just by looking at it, or something of the sort, and her drink had been sort of strong. A bit disconcerting, that, given that this was probably the most improper of times to get drunk, really. But thank you, she added, expression still quite flat, though it was hard to keep a note of contempt out of her voice.

"Just spare me the attitude. I didn't come here to suffer your insolence."

He was really one to talk, wasnt he? Insolence, generally over-bearing obnoxiousness; oh really, it was a bit irritating to have to put up with this. But she bit down some of the more obnoxious remarks that cropped up at his words. He could have been the most detestable soul on earth, more intrusive and distasteful than Benjamin McShane and Billy Sawyer put together (oh, shed heard tales, and the latter had, despite his far more helpful tutoring at Potions than Montagues, had been quite distasteful, though he probably didnt realise it, and that, really, was besides the point), and she would have had to put up with him for the plain reason that at this point of time, he was the only person she could think of who could, however involuntarily, and unlikely, shed some light on this matter, which in itself was ambiguous. A little irritation was a small price to pay, if by some crazy play of events, this did lead to something that made even the slightest of sense.

Or just anything, really. Anything but the ambiguity that had persisted so long would have been relieving at this point. She bit her lip, about to say something, but he beat her to it, thankfully, his voice becoming a lot harder and colder than normal.

"Now tell me, Morgan. Why are you here?"


A authoritative tone, demanding an answer that he seemed to be sure was forthcoming. It was unnerving, somehow, even though it confirmed that perhaps the one who was up to something in this context wasnt her so much as it was him. Or perhaps it was a bit unnerving because of it. For the reaction seemed to confirm it, after all. It was a moment later that she answered him, shrugging rather deliberately. I was merely getting a drink, Montague, she pointed out, looking at him for another, longer moment before she could really bring herself to reply. For adding what she did next, in carefully chosen words, would make it somewhat irrevocable, wouldnt it? Even if the guarded words could have indicated anything, really, from a questionable liaison, to whatever the truth may have been, her voice betrayed a slight apprehension, a minute anticipation, of sorts. Your wariness speaks volumes of why you might be here, though. With which careful pronouncement she leaned back, looking at him steadily.

(Apologies for any wonkiness. Will read through this later, and fix it and what not, if need be.)