Watching Arthur's whiskey swirl into a tiny whirlpool in the other's glass, Hawke's grin disappeared behind his own as he took another sip.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000"> "That's funny,"</span>he smirked, inclining his cup toward the other,<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Because you don't strike me as dull or blank."</span>He certainly had the night of the attack, his stuttering almost grating to Hawke's nerves. But, of course, he now knew that had been a simple ruse.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000"> "And I certainly don't know all there is to know about you, Arthur," </span>he threw in the false name almost as an insult.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Which is why I asked you to dinner in the first place. I find you quite intriguing, actually,"</span>Said as he grinned over his rum before taking another small sip. Hawke was almost certain at this point that the other man was onto his game, that Arthur knew very well this was no true date. He was right about one thing, though. It was difficult to keep secrets from a man who could pick a mind apart as easily as getting dressed, Auror or not.<br/><br/>Then suddenly Arthur's drink had been abandoned as the other man seemed to go on rather knowledgeably about the Death Eater, Albiorix. Hawke raised an eyebrow, placing his own drink upon the table, thinking that Arthur certainly knew a lot about this case to have only been present at the crime scene to handle muggle obliviation.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Attention, huh? Well he's caught mine. And if he keeps this up it won't be long until he's in Azkaban. As for the Dark Mark, though . . . there's not a witch or wizard alive who doesn't associate it with Voldemort. But whatever Frederick did to earn Albiorix's wrath . . . I'm sure we'll find out soon enough."</span>Though at the moment all Hawke had to go on was that busted photo frame, and perhaps whatever files regarding the victim still remained at the Ministry.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"But whether or not his infraction warranted death was not for Albiorix to decide. We have a justice system for a reason."</span>A justice system that Hawke had seen fail many times, most recently Dornsby. He took a large gulp of his rum this time, the alcohol beginning to affect him slightly.<br/><br/>As Arthur began to discuss the attack, however, Hawke's rum sat abandoned on the table top as he leaned in slightly, brow knitted almost in disbelief that the bastard would be willing to discuss his own motives as if they were nothing . . . as if proud of what he'd done. Dozens of innocents dead. Dementors back in Britain. And rally Voldemort's forces? Images of metallic masks on a moonlit night, memories of his mother's screams. The rum had begun to weaken the walls he'd built within his own head. Agitation welling inside him as he contemplated Arthur trying to reunite the Death Eaters, Hawke's palm itched for his wand. A quick flick and it would descend from sleeve to palm. Perhaps, a binding curse was too humane for this one.<br/><br/>. . . but that was just his own emotions talking, leaking into his psyche where they didn't belong. This conversation couldn't be allowed to carry on for much longer. And it wouldn't.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"I've never been a fan of Firewhisky,"</span>he commented.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000"> "I much prefer scotch,"</span>he lifted his own drink yet again, leaning back in his chair as he made a solo toast to his 'date.' His free hand, which so happened to be his non-dominant and therefore less expected, rested innocently by his side.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000"> "Or rum," </span>he raised the mug to his lips, prepared to drain the last drops as green eyes glittered into hazel.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"I'm sure you've been told this before, but you have the most enchanting smile."</span>That, at least, hadn't been a lie. As his mouth was concealed by the remaining dredges of the dark liquor, several events happened in the blink of an eye. Hawke's wand slipped into his hand, still relaxed at his side, then a spell was uttered silently into his mug . . .<br/><br/>Unsure what sort of resistance he could expect from a necromancer, Hawke threw everything he had behind the attack as he forced his own mind past those hazel windows . . . more than eager to rend mercilessly through each and every memory until he knew exactly what had driven this man to kill so many.