Don Juan was blowing smoke from his cigarette out of a quarter-inch opening in a tall window when someone asked if he was hungry yet. He switched the cigarette to his other hand with a guilty look — he wasn't supposed to be smoking inside in this house, the host had asked him not to, but it was too cold to go out to the garden, particularly when he was only half-dressed — but it wasn't the host who had asked, so he resumed his lounging pose and tapped the cigarette against the windowsill. "Not hungry," he said, without considering whether it was true. Then, a beat later: "Wait, what time is it?"
He was supposed to meet a mysterious stranger at the Broomsticks in ten minutes. He swore, stubbed the cigarette out, and flicked the rest of it into the garden below the window. The epistolary inquisitor had been silent long enough that he had in all honesty forgotten about them, until they had abruptly started writing again to make arrangements to meet up. He'd had to go looking for the earlier correspondence to recall what they'd been asking him about. Nothing especially interesting, which had been the most curious bit of it. If someone was writing him anonymously and asking for salacious details of scandals untold, at least he would have understood the motivation. At any rate, he was curious enough to have agreed — and lucid enough not to miss the appointment, hopefully.
"Can I borrow this shirt?" he asked the room at large. The host still wasn't back; the person who had asked if he was hungry shrugged; the other two occupants of the room didn't seem to have heard. There was really no telling whose shirt this had been yesterday, but it was his now. Fortunately his jacket was still in the hallway closet, and he hadn't misplaced his shoes. He was almost presentable by the time he reached the floo.
The Broomsticks wasn't overly crowded. He glanced at the clock before he bothered looking around the room; three minutes late. Not terrible. He went to the bar and ordered a whiskey. While the bartender poured, he leaned against the bar, one hip cocked, and finally surveyed the rest of the patrons. The letter-writer had said he would recognize her, but no one stood out immediately. He waited for his drink with a vaguely bemused expression.
He was supposed to meet a mysterious stranger at the Broomsticks in ten minutes. He swore, stubbed the cigarette out, and flicked the rest of it into the garden below the window. The epistolary inquisitor had been silent long enough that he had in all honesty forgotten about them, until they had abruptly started writing again to make arrangements to meet up. He'd had to go looking for the earlier correspondence to recall what they'd been asking him about. Nothing especially interesting, which had been the most curious bit of it. If someone was writing him anonymously and asking for salacious details of scandals untold, at least he would have understood the motivation. At any rate, he was curious enough to have agreed — and lucid enough not to miss the appointment, hopefully.
"Can I borrow this shirt?" he asked the room at large. The host still wasn't back; the person who had asked if he was hungry shrugged; the other two occupants of the room didn't seem to have heard. There was really no telling whose shirt this had been yesterday, but it was his now. Fortunately his jacket was still in the hallway closet, and he hadn't misplaced his shoes. He was almost presentable by the time he reached the floo.
The Broomsticks wasn't overly crowded. He glanced at the clock before he bothered looking around the room; three minutes late. Not terrible. He went to the bar and ordered a whiskey. While the bartender poured, he leaned against the bar, one hip cocked, and finally surveyed the rest of the patrons. The letter-writer had said he would recognize her, but no one stood out immediately. He waited for his drink with a vaguely bemused expression.
![[Image: 0hYxCaj.png]](https://i.imgur.com/0hYxCaj.png)
MJ made this <3