2nd May, 1895 — Augurey Beak Cafe, London
Nick’s nights on the weekends, when there was not a suitable society event to attend, always unravelled in much the same way. Starting with a respectable one-drink-at-the-Ministry-club or dinner at the Leaky Cauldron on the way home, and then roping any passing colleague or acquaintance he could into going for another, and then drifting from establishment to establishment, the casino when he had money or cheap, dingy places like this when he had none.
His night would descend still further from here, to be sure – he had chosen the Augurey next because it was only a few streets away from an even dingier place, more an opium den than a pub at that point, a good place to land, to pass the time until sunrise or later, never mind if everyone abandoned him by then. (When he was drunk, he liked the company – when he was high, he didn’t notice.)
He hadn’t quite reached his limits of drunkenness yet – the night was young – so when Nick traipsed up to the bar for another drink, he still recognised the fellow beside him from a meeting months ago. Well. It was hard to forget a snow sculpture that bad (or the way he had gushed about it, like a bloody lunatic). What had the potioneer’s name been, again? Oh, like it mattered – “If it isn’t Michelangelo himself,” Nick said beside him, spirited, but in far more his usual tone. (Sarcastic.)
His night would descend still further from here, to be sure – he had chosen the Augurey next because it was only a few streets away from an even dingier place, more an opium den than a pub at that point, a good place to land, to pass the time until sunrise or later, never mind if everyone abandoned him by then. (When he was drunk, he liked the company – when he was high, he didn’t notice.)
He hadn’t quite reached his limits of drunkenness yet – the night was young – so when Nick traipsed up to the bar for another drink, he still recognised the fellow beside him from a meeting months ago. Well. It was hard to forget a snow sculpture that bad (or the way he had gushed about it, like a bloody lunatic). What had the potioneer’s name been, again? Oh, like it mattered – “If it isn’t Michelangelo himself,” Nick said beside him, spirited, but in far more his usual tone. (Sarcastic.)
