#incessanttmriddle

Drink Me: My character taking shots with yours

The guy next to him kept daring him to take another shot, and Sirius never said no to a dare. Except for one time because he was fairly certain he would have lost an important body part. However, other than that, Sirius had a 0% ability to say no. 

“Tell me your last name again,” the man prompted before downing a shot of his own--or at least Sirius thought so.

Sirius only snorted. “I didn’t tell you my last name.” He didn’t tell anyone his last name unless he thought he could scare them with it or unless it served his purpose. For example, he was pretty sure his own stupidity could be blamed on inbreeding, his paranoia was certainly the product of growing up in a house where apparating slightly to the side of the stoop would splinch you just out of spite, and the reason he was so quick to hit people was surely because his mother had slapped him hard at least five times a day. 

Rolling his eyes, he took another shot that the man placed in front of him.

The guy next to him was attractive and somewhat familiar as though Sirius had seen him around once or twice. The wizarding world was small, though, and that could be said of many people. It didn’t set off any alarms in Sirius’ head. Surely, being as paranoid as he was, it would have if the guy had been anyone of importance? 

“You didn’t?”

“No. I hate my last name.”

“Well then what was your first name.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes at the man. He seemed exactly the type to already know who Sirius was. Stuffy. Pale. Blue eyes, black hair. The stuff pureblood wet dreams were made of. “Fine. Last name’s Black. I’m the ‘one who got away,’” Sirius added with false doe eyes before they both took another shot. “Why?”

“I like to know the name of the person I’m talking to.”

Sirius snorted again. “You’re full of it.”

“Of what, exactly.”

“Everything. Shit. Yourself. Up to the ceiling.” Sirius looked away from him. His glare was almost chilling. Definitely some stuffy aristrocratic pureblood Slytherin. “Well what’s your last name then?”

“Take another shot.” 

Sirius did. 

Eventually, either the man seemed to loosen up or Sirius had forgotten to care. Perhaps a little bit of both. Sirius had always been a sucker for black humor, and whether the man was joking or being serious about certain things that went through his head, Sirius laughed at most of it. He was too gone to have morals on the mind. Words were fine as long as they didn’t lead to action, and nothing threatening was happening just then, no matter what was being said. 

Besides, above all, Sirius had come to forget. Forget the bombs, forget the attacks, forget the viruses piggy-backing on Excrabilis and driving everyone mad and secrets right into the hands of enemies. Often incapable of thinking and speaking at the same time, Sirius babbled about anything he enjoyed pondering just so that he wouldn’t have to think. He talked about anything but the war: mechanics without bombs, computers without viruses, families without blood ties, inventions without death counts. 

The man talked back, but Sirius mostly ignored him. Sirius really couldn’t stand his voice--his drawl and the way every sentence was said somehow as a command. He couldn’t stand his look--the way he blinked a little less and his eyes were always scrutinizing. Sirius couldn’t stand him, but he was getting free drinks, and the face wasn’t so bad as long as Sirius ignored the expression and the words and the voice. 

Finally, in the middle of the longest speech the man had given so far--likely only a few sentences of condescending “convincing” pureblood angst and propaganda that sounded to Sirius like a ten-page dissertation in his state--Sirius grabbed the man’s face and planted a sloppy kiss. Something like the kiss of a two-year old not quite in control of their own coordination. 

“You should shut up more,” he told the man. “You are seriously fucked up.” Sirius didn’t mean drunk. A text came from James, asking him to meet at Remus’ house, and Sirius gave the man back some money before leaving with a quick wave. “Thanks for the drinks.”

The man was a cashier in Knockturn Alley, Sirius would remember later with suspicion. Sirius never went to look for him, satisfied enough in knowing how unlikely it had been that Sirius would have stood even two seconds of war talk. He knew his secrets were safe, but still he grew wary again--wary of black hair and blue eyes. Wary of anyone who even resembled the breed Sirius himself had come from. People like that; they all had charm. They were raised and beaten into it. 

Sirius stared at the message for a long time, wondering who it was. He had a feeling the number seemed familiar--someone he had coded for before?--but it didn’t ring any particular bills. Whoever it was, they wouldn’t be able to pay Sirius enough to hand over the Marauder’s baby, but Sirius was just curious enough and enough of an asshole to humor the person. 

Even if he didn’t know the number, that it was so helpfully signed cleared up exactly who it was from. Not very subtle, Riddle. One brow quirked faintly as he was faced with a quiet problem: what the text hinted at was very, very illegal, and would get his contact into quite a bit of trouble. However, he was his contact and had proven a useful source of information in the past. The law demanding he toss that away seemed like a waste.

A quiet warning, then. Better than arresting him outright.

What the hell is going on today?!

Kingsley picked his phone up off his desk, eyeing the unfamiliar number for a moment before he opened it. He’d probably forgotten to save someone’s number, but the text in front of him confused him. He knew it wasn’t Moody, but he had no idea who else would text him something like that. 

>Who is

> Until Thursday for

> This is the wrong 

Kingsley erased all the messages deciding on a different approach. 

What ringtone my muse has set for yours: Molly's phone has a recording she took while Arthur was tinkering with the piano. It may not be the best quality, but she figured out how to set it as her ringtone, because it never ceases to make her smile. Plus, it is certainly less startling than the electronic beat her phone used to blare.

What contact photo my muse has set for yours: Molly doesn’t have a photo set for Tom. She has his number from the new intern they used to cover for her while she was in the hospital. She was telling someone else she was hoping for some vintage pieces for the nursery. When the suggestion was made. Since she is irrationally annoyed by the young girl; it is saved under Antiques- Don’t Call

What my muse thinks of the way yours texts:  n/a

How quickly my muse responds to your texts: Molly chalks it up to pregnancy brain that she forgets to respond to texts sometimes. So she tries to reply as soon as they’re received. Were a reason to text ever occur.

How often our muses text: Never have.

 How often our muses call: Never.

Does my muse purposefully miss calls from yours: Due to her pregnancy induced annoyance with the intern Molly wouldn’t answer a call from the number on pure principal. 

As always, her heart jumped into her throat at the message.