11th August, 1888 — Minister's Post-Fog Reception
"The drinks are free, right?" Tybalt said, only half joking, as he cheerfully toasted the person at his side by the refreshment table, particularly refreshing after a long ceremony (that was, in truth, as dull as the Irvingly adventure had been thrilling). "Be a shame to start eating into my reward-money tonight!"
The expression on his face was equally as cheerful as his tone, pleased to have been given something for his troubles, even if his group had not been among those to precisely... solve anything. The six galleons were certainly something, and it was no sum to laugh at, or rather: Tybalt would have been laughing - it was a week's pay! - if the fog had not gone and put him out an apparent month's wage in the first place. As it was, his pockets were as light as ever. (Now that he had pockets again, and not fur.)
It was yet another sign to give up quidditch, it seemed, Tyb mused with a sigh. Perhaps he should be using the evening to schmooze his way into a Ministry job. Maybe he would... after one more celebratory drink.
The expression on his face was equally as cheerful as his tone, pleased to have been given something for his troubles, even if his group had not been among those to precisely... solve anything. The six galleons were certainly something, and it was no sum to laugh at, or rather: Tybalt would have been laughing - it was a week's pay! - if the fog had not gone and put him out an apparent month's wage in the first place. As it was, his pockets were as light as ever. (Now that he had pockets again, and not fur.)
It was yet another sign to give up quidditch, it seemed, Tyb mused with a sigh. Perhaps he should be using the evening to schmooze his way into a Ministry job. Maybe he would... after one more celebratory drink.
