#c. cleo

Christmas came and went with record speed, which A.J. was more than grateful for. They loathed that time of year; even with the Diggory’s generosity, inviting A.J. to Ottery St. Catchpole, they couldn’t help but be reminded of their loneliness. Most days, it didn’t bother A.J., and they wore their solitude with pride. Christmas was entirely different, though. For those few, cursed days in December, they couldn’t help but wish their mother was still here. But not in pain, of course; rather, finally able to live a life without suffering. 

It didn’t do to dwell on wishes, though. They couldn’t give life to their mother, but A.J. could find company to keep. Which is why they found themself at Cleo’s door, knocking, with the excuse that they ought to inspect her hand again. Just to be sure it was healing properly. 

It’s not as though A.J. set out to ignore Cleo in particular, especially after the night he nearly bled out on the floor of her flat right above this shop. In fact, he avoided most people over the past month—nearly two months. But it seemed like enough, and A.J. could not bear the mundanity of going from St. Mungo’s back to his flat, over and over again. Besides, with a new job around the corner, it seemed like a decent time to get a new tattoo. One that suited his new, freshly bleached hair. The door creeped open, and A.J. slid into Tattwho, eyes dancing around the shop in search of one particular person. 

Without uttering even a word, A.J. walked into Tattwho and dropped a large bag of coins onto the counter. This wasn’t particularly uncommon, given they enjoyed inking much of their body, but it had been a couple of months since their last visit. Longer hours at St. Mungo’s resulted in less smuggling opportunities—and less of a disposable income to more-or-less deposit straight into Cleo Nguyen’s vault. 

A simple job, is what A.J.’s contact called it. Quick, easy, and would give them enough time to sleep at least a few hours before a shift at St. Mungo’s the next day—and A.J. certainly was in no place to turn away an opportunity for cash, not with the tuition for their residency piling up. They almost laughed at their contact’s words now, standing in front of Cleo’s door with blood pooling from the side of their stomach, only their hand and some cloth blocking it. Their legs wobbled, knees felt weak, but A.J. did not let worry cloud their judgement for they knew how to heal themself, they just needed a safe space. Somewhere free from prying eyes, like the Commons. 

A.J. expected to see the familiar riffraff of Cardiff when he entered the The Drunken Dragon after a long day at work. What surprised him, however, was his vision landing upon the sight of two witches talking at the bar—two witches he knew. Who apparently knew each other, too. A.J. shouldn’t have been surprised; the circle he found himself running in was undeniably small. As he neared the other side of the bar, with a brow arched, he ordered a drink.