#katherine pyrites

The redhead knew people. Had collected them up in the time that she had been hustling as a journalist. People of... questionable motives. Like Mundungus Fletcher without the kind streak. It rarely took much, a couple of drinks or a greasy palm and Emmeline had them singing about the things they’d seen, the people they knew. It wasn’t something she was proud of, her moral compass waving jaggedly as the galleon found its way into fist or pocket. But there were times that it was essential.

The grapevine was a source of ill-repute, but it had so transpired that a friend of a friend of a cousin of a friend had told her that this woman, whoever she was, was the very best potioneer this side of the Channel. When Emmeline had sent her first owl, she had told the woman so, had outlined that she needed some expertise and the woman seemed quite happy to accommodate. Emmeline could only anticipate what this potion mistress wanted in return.

The table felt sticky under her elbows as her blue eyes scanned the newspaper. Yesterday’s. Her comment on the recent lynching of a muggleborn was squished into a corner on page ten. Ho-hum. The Hog’s Head was as dead as Emmeline had expected, especially considering it was the middle of the week, though that hardly seemed to matter in Aberforth’s realm. It was always quiet. The door swung open and over the broadsheet, Emmeline’s gaze caught sight of a small woman, face a blank canvas. She was familiar.

The redhead tipped her wide-brimmed hat from her eyes. “Katherine,” Emmeline said, as the pieces of a puzzle Emmeline hadn’t known she was making fell into place. That Katherine. From Hogwarts, Katherine. It was a tangential acquaintance, and Emmeline wasn’t even sure they had ever spoken. But something caused Emmeline to sit up a little straighter, eyes turn steely. She had expected this potion’s expert to be older. Wizened.

“Thank you for coming.” Emmeline said as the witch approached the small table she had occupied, pressed up against the wall. Folding the paper she gestured to the bottle already sitting on the table. Scotch, smokey and sweet. “Whiskey?”