The Devil's Trill [Aidan]

[Morrigan Devlin]

The final note lingered in the air long after the bow left the strings. For a moment, the tavern was unusually quiet. Not silent, The Last Port was never truly silent but quieter than normal. Conversations had softened while she'd played, tankards had paused halfway to lips, and even the old wizard in the corner who usually argued with himself about Quidditch statistics had shut his mouth long enough to listen. Morrigan lowered the violin slowly, emerald eyes sweeping across the room. A few of the regulars offered applause. Someone near the hearth whistled. Another demanded she play another song.

"Buy enough whiskey and maybe I will," she called back in her thick Irish brogue. The response earned a round of laughter. A crooked grin tugged at one corner of her mouth as she stepped down from the small platform tucked into the back of the tavern. The violin remained tucked beneath one arm while she made her way behind the bar, slipping easily back into the role most people knew her for. Proprietor. Referee. Occasional source of bad decisions and worse advice.

She set the instrument safely beneath the counter before reaching for a glass that needed drying. Not that it actually needed drying. She simply preferred having something to do with her hands. The tavern was comfortably busy tonight. Enough patrons to fill most of the tables without making the place feel crowded. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke, spiced stew, and Firewhisky. Familiar. Safe. At least as safe as anything ever felt these days. The feeling lasted all of three seconds.

Her eyes drifted toward the door as another patron entered. Immediately she regretted looking because she knew exactly who it was. Merlin help her, Aidan Blackwood. She couldn't even claim surprise anymore. He'd developed an irritating habit over the years. Every so often he'd simply appear. Sometimes for a drink. Sometimes for a meal. Sometimes just to sit and talk. Talk. As though that was normal. As though they were normal.

Once upon a time, sitting across from him had involved uncomfortable questions, awkward silences, and his infuriating ability to look at her like he could see every thought she was trying not to think. Back then he'd had the advantage of being her healer. There had been rules. Expectations. Now there weren't. Which somehow made everything worse. Because now when he asked how she was doing, he wasn't asking because it was his job. And she still hadn't figured out what to do with that.

Morrigan scowled faintly at the glass in her hand as though it had personally offended her. One of the regulars perched at the bar glanced between her and the entrance before snorting into his drink.

"Your boyfriend's here."

The look she shot him could have melted stone. "Say that again and I'll charge you double." The old wizard only laughed harder. Traitor. Morrigan muttered something deeply unflattering under her breath before setting the glass aside. She straightened, smoothed a hand down the front of her shirt, then immediately frowned because she had absolutely no reason to be doing that. None whatsoever.

She grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind her instead and busied herself pouring a drink for another customer, stubbornly refusing to glance toward his direction again. The fact that she knew exactly where Aidan was without looking was entirely beside the point.

[Aidan Blackwood]

Aidan stepped into The Last Port, looking around and taking in its rather rustic charm before spotting that head of red hair at the bar. From what he'd heard coming up to the bar, she had been up there playing. He wished he'd have gotten here a bit sooner to see it himself, but.

He walked over to the bar as she very much pretended he wasn't in the room, bringing a smirk to his face. "Red, I didn't think we'd parted on such bad terms you would want to pretend I don't exist," he teased her. He'd come in a few times since he'd learned about it, especially when he'd come up here to check on Tatiana, not to do the same necessarily to Morrigan- she wasn't his patient anymore.

He just actually enjoyed coming to see her.

"I thought I was coming in following a bonnie performance, but you're scowling like someone just tried to skip their tab," he mused as he leaned onto the counter.

While he'd moved into a professional setting before meeting her, these kinds of places were still... comfortable for him. He'd spent plenty of time in bars such as these in his hit wizard days, so it was like slipping into an old coat.

"Could I perhaps get a whisky when you're ready to deign my existence? I've yet to decide whether the Irish make it better."

He did find it amusing that she reacted to him in such a way, but he made a point to not try to read her. He didn't want to keep treating her like a patient because he wanted to get to know her beyond that. It kept them on an uneven footing if he didn't turn his brain off when he interacted, and what better way to shut up that analytical part of his mind than to drown it in whisky?

[Morrigan Devlin]

Morrigan didn't look up immediately. She reached for the bottle of Irish whiskey on the shelf behind her instead, taking just enough time to make it seem as though his request had been filed somewhere beneath polishing glasses, settling tabs, and pretending he wasn't standing three feet away wearing that annoyingly amused expression. "I was considering it," she replied dryly, finally sliding her gaze toward him. "Then I remembered if I ignored you long enough, you'd only start talking louder."

The corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. That was about as close to a smile as he was getting without earning it. She grabbed a clean tumbler, poured a generous measure of whiskey, and slid it across the polished oak with practiced precision. "There." One brow lifted. "And don't insult the Irish in my establishment unless you've come looking for a duel. We settled that argument centuries ago." Whether that was historically accurate or not hardly mattered. It sounded convincing enough.

Her hands found another glass almost automatically, the familiar ritual of drying it giving her something to focus on besides the man occupying the stool across from her. "You missed the performance," she said after a moment, her tone carrying just enough feigned indifference to betray that she'd noticed. "Which means you'll have to suffer through whatever old Fergus over there decides to sing once he's had another pint." As if summoned by name, the elderly wizard near the fireplace raised his mug in their direction.

"I heard that!" he barked.

"Aye," Morrigan called back without missing a beat. "It was meant to be heard." A chorus of chuckles rolled through the tavern before conversations resumed. Normal. Easy. Safe. She preferred it that way. Her attention drifted back to Aidan, lingering just long enough to notice the way the warmth of the room had brought a hint of color to his cheeks after coming in from outside. He looked... comfortable here. More comfortable than she'd expected the first time he'd wandered through her doors months ago. As though The Last Port had quietly become somewhere he chose to be rather than somewhere he simply happened to stop.

That realization sat oddly in her chest. "So..." she began, setting the towel over one shoulder. "What brings Scotland's favorite healer all the way out here this time?" The question left her mouth before she could stop it. Not Are you checking on me? Not Why do you keep coming back? Just… What brings you here? It was a dangerous question. Because if he answered, she'd have to decide whether she believed him.And because some small, inconvenient part of her found itself hoping the answer wasn't simply, I was passing through.

That realization alone was enough to make her reach beneath the bar, retrieve her own bottle, and pour herself a finger of whiskey. For medicinal purposes, obviously.

[Aidan Blackwood]

The longer she tried to ignore him, the more amused he was, but he did at least try not to show *that* much. He chuckled at her comment when she finally did look at him, "I don't know about louder, but I would certainly keep talking." When she slid him the drink, he caught the glass, "It would only be an insult if I stated it as a fact, not as a question that means I had more excuses to keep drinking to try and "prove" it."

"I heard the end of it on my way up, but alas, I didn't leave home early enough," He said as he took a drink of the whisky, savoring the burn of it down his throat. He glanced over towards Fergus when he responded to her comment and chuckled along with the rest of the patrons before she looked over at her.

"Favorite?" Aidan huffed a laugh, "I highly doubt that. I'm not here as a healer, though. I don't think I've ever come into Last Port with the proverbial coat on. No, I just had a day to breathe and thought I'd come say hello and enjoy your fine selection of spirits," He smirked, "I'd come more often, but I don't know if you'd tolerate me that much," he chuckled lightly.

He was sure there were plenty who wondered why he didn't just go to the Leaky Cauldron, since it was right there in Diagon Alley, but honestly, he'd never been a fan. Plus, it was too close to work and colored people's perceptions to a degree. He'd just denied himself alcohol altogether for a while. At least in public, drinking only while at home. But there was that whole saying about drinking alone.

"Honestly, this is about the only bar I find... amenable."

[Morrigan Devlin]

Morrigan snorted softly. "Oh, I know you'd keep talking." She leaned an elbow against the bar, regarding him over the rim of her own glass. "You've made an entire career out of asking questions people would rather avoid." The words came easily, almost automatically, but they lacked the bite they might once have carried. Once upon a time, that had annoyed the hell out of her. Now…

Now it mostly felt familiar. She took a slow sip of whiskey as he explained himself, listening with one ear while the other remained tuned to the tavern around them. A pair of young witches had started arguing over a game of wizard's chess near the window, Fergus was beginning what sounded suspiciously like his fourth rendition of an old drinking song, and somewhere in the kitchen a pan clattered loudly enough to suggest someone had dropped it. Everything was exactly as it ought to be.

Which made it all the easier to focus on the conversation she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to be having. "No?" she echoed when he insisted he'd never walked through her doors wearing his healer's coat. Her brow arched. "Funny." The word was quiet. "Could've fooled me."

Not accusatory. Just... honest. Because no matter how many years had passed since he'd handed her care over to another healer, some part of her still instinctively straightened whenever he asked a question. Still weighed every answer before speaking. Still expected him to notice the things she was trying so very hard to hide.

It was an old habit. The trouble with old habits was that they rarely asked permission before resurfacing. She huffed a quiet laugh into her glass before setting it down. "I tolerate you more than half the people in here." Her gaze drifted deliberately toward Fergus. "And that's only because he's been drinking here long enough that it'd be cruel to throw him out now."

"I heard that too!" the old wizard protested from across the room.

"You were meant to." A fresh ripple of laughter rolled through the tavern. Red smiled; a real one this time, brief though it was. It faded as she looked back toward Aidan. Amenable. There was that odd feeling again. The one that settled somewhere behind her ribs whenever he admitted he'd come here because he wanted to, not because he had business nearby or someone to check on. She didn't care for the sensation much. It was inconvenient. Dangerous, even.

People didn't keep coming back. Not without wanting something. Not without eventually leaving. "So..." she said, reaching for the whiskey bottle again more for something to occupy her hands than because she needed another drink. "You've decided my establishment is your bar of choice." She poured herself another finger before corking the bottle with practiced ease. "I suppose I should be offended." A beat passed.

"Most people only become regulars because they have poor judgment." Her green eyes lifted to meet his, a hint of mischief slipping through the carefully maintained walls she'd spent years building. "Though in your case..." she tilted her head thoughtfully. "...that would explain becoming friends with a mad Irishwoman." The joke landed lightly enough for the room.

Inside, however, the words lingered. She watched him over the rim of her glass, curious despite herself. Most people laughed because they believed it. She found herself wondering and not for the first time which kind of laugh she'd get from Aidan.

[Aidan Blackwood]

Aidan snorted. "To be fair, I had to answer them myself first," he said. "Can't be good at my job if I haven't had demons to face down myself." He shrugged. Though when she said he could've fooled her about not wearing his coat, he put his hand in mock offense, "And what is it I've done exactly to make you feel that way?" he asked.

Though he smirked when she said she tolerated him, chuckling along with the regulars as she picked at Fergus once more, shaking his head. He looked back at her and raised a brow when she said she should be offended cause he wasn't entirely sure how that made sense. Then he chuckled at her follow-up, "I think we both know neither of those is poor judgment. The latter is probably the smartest decision anyone could make." He smirked at that.

But rather than make it awkward and let that simmer, he took another drink. "How often do you play? I'll try to be a bit more expeditious next time if it means I can get to hear a whole performance." He looked up at her, being both cheeky and sincere.

[Morrigan Devlin]

A soft scoff escaped her before she could stop it. "You ask that like you don't already know." Morrigan rolled the whiskey bottle between her palms before setting it back beneath the counter. She busied herself wiping away a ring of condensation that didn't really need wiping, her eyes fixed stubbornly on the polished wood instead of the man sitting across from her. "You've done nothing." She paused, then amended with a small shrug. "That's rather the problem." Her fingers slowed.

"When someone spends years answering your questions because it's supposed to help put them back together..." She let out a quiet huff of amusement. "Turns out the habit sticks." She finally looked at him again. "I still catch myself wondering if you're asking because you're curious..." A beat. "...or because you've noticed something." The confession slipped out before she could catch it.

Merlin.

She immediately reached for her glass, taking a drink that was perhaps a touch larger than necessary. "Suppose that's my own problem, though." She wasn't looking for reassurance. She wasn't even sure she'd believe it if he offered. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on one's perspective; Aidan spared her from having to dwell on it by steering the conversation elsewhere. The question earned another genuine smile, smaller this time but easier than before.

"You mean to tell me you came all the way to Hogsmeade just to hear me scrape horsehair across strings?" She shook her head with a quiet laugh. "Your standards are lower than I'd imagined." Despite the teasing, she found herself considering the answer. "I don't exactly keep a schedule." She glanced toward the little platform tucked near the hearth where her violin still rested. "Depends on the crowd. Depends on the night." Depends on how loud her own head was. Some evenings the violin stayed in its case.

Other nights it was the only thing that quieted the ghosts long enough for her to breathe. She left that part unsaid. "If the regulars are behaving themselves..." she continued, nodding toward Fergus, who had since abandoned singing in favor of loudly explaining wizard's chess strategy to anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby, "...I'll usually play a set or two after the supper rush." Her gaze drifted back to Aidan. "You'll not hear the same songs twice, though."

There was something oddly vulnerable about admitting that. The violin was one of the few things she'd never learned to fake. Behind the bar she could play the loud, sarcastic publican everyone expected. With a whiskey in hand she could lean into the reputation of the eccentric Irishwoman who'd sooner hex you than hug you. The violin demanded honesty. It had always been rather inconvenient that way. "So," she said, folding her forearms atop the bar, "if you're planning on becoming one of my regulars, you've two choices."

A hint of mischief sparked in her green eyes. "You either arrive early enough to hear the music..." She tilted her head, the corner of her mouth quirking upward. "...or you'll have to start requesting songs and hope I'm feeling generous." It was a small thing. Barely an invitation at all. But for Morrigan Devlin, who had spent years convincing herself to keep everyone at arm's length, it was perhaps the closest thing to one she'd offered anyone in a very long time.

[Aidan Blackwood]

Aidan made an "X" over his chest. "Unless you particularly want me asking questions with that intention, I'd rather not do that because I want to be able to be friends," he murmured. "I don't want to blur those lines, as that would be rather... shitty, to put it simply." When she shook her head at the idea of him coming to hear her play, he bit back the comment about her being rather hard on herself, but he had just said he wouldn't make those kinds of comments. Even if that was something normal people might point out, he thought of a different way to try to answer, "I think my standards are about right where they're supposed to be."

"And there's nothing wrong with not hearing the same one twice. It means there's always a surprise of what we'll get to hear," Aidan smirked, "And I can't guarantee when I'll arrive, so I guess I'm gonna have to depend on your mercy and generosity." He chuckled lightly, finishing his drink. He leaned against the counter, clearly comfortable. "I will try to get here early when I can, though."

He glanced around the room, taking in the variety of customers. "I'm not surprised there are plenty of people here who don't want to have to drink at the Broomsticks. Being surrounded by students when you're trying to decompress is a nightmare," he shook his head before turning back towards her. "Can I ask a question? I promise it's out of actual curiosity... I'm not trying to dig," he held up his hands for a moment before letting them fall back onto the bar, still leaning on it, "Why Hogsmeade?"

[Morrigan Devlin]

Friend. The word landed somewhere behind Morrigan's ribs with all the subtlety of a Bludger. Friend. Not patient. Not former patient. Not obligation. Friend. Well… That simply wouldn't do. Before she realized she was doing it, something old and ugly unfurled inside her chest. An instinct she'd perfected over years. If someone insisted on getting close, you found the cracks in their armor. You prodded them. Pressed a little harder each time.

If they stayed… Well. No one ever had before. She reached for the bottle without so much as asking, topping off Aidan's glass before doing the same for Fergus, who rewarded her with an enthusiastic grin and absolutely no intention of slowing his drinking. "You've got another hour before I cut you off," she warned him.

"You say that every week."

"And every week I mean it."

"Liar."

Morrigan snorted softly before drifting back toward Aidan, setting the bottle beneath the bar. "I'd be careful throwing words like friend around." Her tone was light, conversational even. "People start expecting things from friends." A pause. "Reliability." Another. "Trust." Her fingers drummed idly against the oak. "Showing up when things get... unpleasant."

Green eyes settled on him, studying him with far more interest than she'd probably intended. "You never know what sort of mess you'll end up walking into." It was impossible to tell whether she meant herself. She probably did. His next question, however, drew a quiet hum from her. "Why Hogsmeade?" She leaned back, folding her arms loosely. "Simple answer?" Red shrugged, her red locks shifting off her shoulder with the motion. "It isn't Diagon Alley."

The corner of her mouth tugged upward. "Too busy. Too many people trying to impress one another. Too many Ministry robes pretending they're not listening to everyone else's conversations." She glanced around The Last Port. Here there were tired faces. Workers. Widows. Old veterans. People with nowhere pressing to be. People who simply wanted a decent drink without someone asking what they did for a living. "It feels..." she searched for the word before settling on one with a nod. "...honest."

Her gaze drifted toward the enchanted ship models sailing lazily along their tiny seas behind the bar. "You learn interesting things in places like this." She picked up another empty glass abandoned by a departing customer, polishing it with slow, practiced movements. "People think the whiskey loosens their tongue." A faint smirk. "They're usually right." She looked back at him. "Sometimes an old duelist will tell you exactly how many curses he cast before retiring."

Another wipe across the rim of the glass."Sometimes an Auror lets slip how heavy the badge really feels." Her eyes never left his. "And sometimes..." Her smile grew almost imperceptibly. "...someone who's spent enough years making difficult decisions develops this particular habit." She tapped two fingers lightly against the side of her own glass. "Always sitting where they can see every entrance." A beat. "Never quite putting their back to a room."

She tilted her head. "Even years after they've supposedly left that life behind." Silence lingered between them for just a heartbeat. Then, as if she hadn't said anything remotely unusual, Morrigan reached beneath the bar for a fresh bottle of Firewhisky for another patron. "Occupational habits are funny things." The words were casual. Too casual. Because she wasn't just answering his question anymore. She was watching him.

Waiting. To see whether his smile faltered. Whether his shoulders tightened. Whether his eyes betrayed that fleeting look she'd seen on countless war veterans who realized someone had noticed the parts of themselves they'd worked hardest to bury. She had no intention of explaining how she'd arrived at those observations. After all… She was merely an allegedly insane Irish publican. People underestimated just how observant madwomen could be.