WHO: Tristan Roper and Ulysses Burke. WHAT: "Meeting" with "an enemy". WHEN: BACKDATED to May 21, late evening. WHERE: A pub in Knockturn Alley. STATUS: Completed.
Following Ulysses Burke had been an interesting experience, if nothing else. It had taught Tristan that art of patience, as that man had been quite a bit of a bore -- way more than Tristan had actually realised. Still, she followed him around on a nightly basis, trying to piece together parts of his daily routine, as though it would provide any clue to the investigation on him.
Tristan, for her part, had been very keen on transfiguring her body so she didn't resemble her normal self. Gone was her dark auburn hair, instead replaced by yellow-white hair, and she had been at least half a foot shorter, slightly pudgier overall, her eyes a bright shade of blue, and her skin showed a few extra years of wear and tear. It had taken her quite a bit of time to get used to her new appearance the first time she had done it, but now she had been rather fond of her new look.
She had almost memorized all the fouls he had from the file she had seen from the Hitwizards: disbarred from practicing nearly ten years ago for being an alcoholic, possession and sale of illegal goods, which only raised suspicion on him.
This evening, however, Ulysses Burke had been at a pub in Knockturn Alley. Her wand had always been at her side, in case she needed it in the dark alley, but she figured the pub wouldn't be too bad. Thankfully, the pub had been full enough that taking the seat next to him wasn't exactly an oddity. She ignored him, the presumed perpetrator, her eyes focusing on getting the attention of the barkeep. Once her drink was ordered, she sighed heavily.
"Don't fall in love," she mumbled quietly to herself, hoping she was loud enough for Ulysses to have heard. "Because your boyfriend will fall in love with some young twit and you're left all alone in this world." A fake sob escaped from her mouth, as she raised a hand to rub at her eye. "I should have sent her that cursed bracelet when I had the chance."
In the weeks leading up to the broadcast, Ulysses had sworn to his daughter that he’d finally manage to kick his habits, that he’d pick himself up, that he’d be better. But -- like every other time he’d sworn the same thing in the last decade, he was slipping. He’d lost his mentee, he’d been arrested (again) for minor possession, and now he’d discovered that apparently been bugging his house (though he had yet to find any sign of any listening device -- it was very strange).
Some people were more cut out for Death Eating than others, and Ulysses never had been one to be able to do it sober. He knew better than to pretend that he was here for ‘just one drink’. He ordered bourbon and stared into it plaintively; this was what he was: a horrible parent, a murderer, a pathetic drunk.
Apparently, the woman beside him was also having a bad night. He couldn’t help but to overhear. He had daughters. He was used to this sort of thing. He hoped none of them would marry anyone as disappointing as their poor, long-suffering mother had. “Love, there’s no man worth crying over.” Ulysses said, downing half his drink in one fell swoop.
A loud, audible gasp escaped from Tristan's lips, as though she were genuinely surprised that someone else had heard her. She glanced at Ulysses, finally having the chance to see his face up close. She memorised as many details about his face as she possibly could, including the scars and wrinkles, but she knew that it would take her a few minutes to take mental notes about it. She still looked shocked enough, but she wiped at her eye once again, so she could be clean of any fake tears that had drenched her face.
"Perhaps not," she finally answered him, trying to catch her breath. "But he was the love of my life." Tristan had to come up with an elaborate story. She ought to have chosen something else instead of being heartbroken, but it had already left her mouth, so she had to stick with it. "And it's quite hard to be excited about anything else, except perhaps the thought of her face on my wall after I've skinned her alive." She wrinkled her nose in disgust, as her drink appeared, forcing her to take a loud gulp.
Ulysses wrinkled his nose, unsure of what possessed people to get so irrationally emotional over people who were obviously not worth the effort. Romance was such a needlessly silly thing. “Well, that escalated quickly,” he said, raising his eyebrows at the ‘skin’ comment. “It’s none of my business, but you ought to just let her have him. Go to a match-maker instead. There’s a good one half a block down that way. I think they might have a discount for those who’ve been recently jilted.” He finished off his drink, clueless. Then he ordered another.
"I don't want someone else," Tristan hissed at him, now really getting into this new character she had made up. "I want, I want --," she paused, trying to think of the first male name that would pop up into her mind, though it was as though she couldn't think. She passed it off as sighing elaborately, and finally, a name came to her mind: "Damon." She didn't know one Damon in her life, yet there she was, with that name being the first one that popped into her head. "I should have known, though. He had been obsessed with her for years." And now, the entire storyline of The Vampire Diaries had popped up in her head, mostly thanks to her younger sister's obsession with that terrible program.
"Can't trust a single vampire," she gruffed, finishing the rest of her drink in one go.
Ulysses, fortunately, neither owned a television nor had any idea what The Vampire Diaries were. He took it all at face-value while sipping his bourbon. “They’re not generally known for being terribly trustworthy, no. I mean, they’re not all bad, but… you could do better than the undead, as far as matches go. Be glad you’ve dodged an unfortunate situation. You’ll forget all about it soon enough.”
Tristan let out a loud, unladylike chortle but eventually nodded, resigning to let her fake self agree to this man's wisdom. "You're right, I suppose," she drawled after a moment, glancing towards him, with curiosity. And then, without thinking about it, she extended her arm to him, in greeting. "My name is Elizabeth," she stated. "And you are?"
“Pleasure to meet you, Elizabeth - regardless of whether the circumstances are most unfortunate. I’m Ulysses.” he said, and shook her hand, formal despite the fact that they were meeting in a dingy Knockturn bar. “You’re not from the neighbourhood, are you?” he asked conversationally, more curious than suspicious. He’d spent his entire life in this neighbourhood, and generally people didn’t come here unless they were either looking for - or trying to get away from - something. Few people stumbled into Knockturn simply by accident.
"Erm, no," Tristan replied, trying to be as sheepish as possible. She was worried that he was catching onto things not quite adding up, so she smiled sweetly at him, as though that would definitely solidify the fact that she was merely an innocent bystander. "I live in Shoreditch," she nodded, clearing her throat. "I come around here every once in awhile," she waved around, as though that would be convincing enough. "The ales are a lot darker here, which sometimes I'm in the mood for."
“Entirely understandable,” Ulysses said with a conspiratorial grin, though he assumed this was just a euphemism for other things that came darker in Knockturn. “Did you know this place has goblin-made absinthe? It’s to die for, even if the hangover isn’t.”
"Oh?" Tristan quipped, genuinely interested in the statement. Now she definitely had to try that, though she came to realise that it may not have been the most brilliant idea to do so while by herself, without any support. She didn't know this area too well, she didn't know the people, and she certainly didn't want to try to get drunk in front of a Death Eater. Maintaining her interest, she quirked both of her brows, and smirked a bit. "Maybe when I feel a bit more brave I'll go on and try that. And depending on how strong it is, I'll send some to Elena instead of beheading her."
“Hm, probably for the best. Beheading seems like terribly messy business.” Ulysses said, and downed the rest of his bourbon. He wrinkled his nose, as though the thought of gruesome decapitation was distasteful to him; in reality, it was just another day’s work. He signalled the bartender, then ordered two drinks this time. He passed one of the aforementioned darker ales to ‘Elizabeth’ and raised his glass. It was nice not to drink alone.
“What shall we toast to?” he said, his smile deceptively cheery.
Years of Auror experience had taught Tristan to be wary of anything offered to her by strangers, though given the fact that it was given to her by the bartender and there was no way that Ulysses could have poisoned her drink, she followed suit and raised her glass, as well. She paused, however, at his question, and thought about it for a moment.
"To getting rid of the filth!" she exclaimed, enthusiastically, a Cheshire Cat-like grin taking over her face.
“To getting rid of the filth,” Ulysses repeated, mirroring her enthusiasm, fully unaware that they were not referring to the same thing.