Back in his office, Hawke melted into his stiff leather chair, letting himself breathe for just a few minutes. Alone, and able think more clearly, his mind reeled with questions and demands. The questions, regarding subjects from both the cases he'd acquired in the past couple of days. The demands, regarding his own stupidity in asking out the man who'd killed so many. He eyed the scotch on the corner of his desk, the bottle having spilled a few droplets onto the dark cherry wood. While he wanted a shot to calm his nerves, that might be the second worst idea he'd had today. Hawke would be completely alone in this fiasco of an excuse to keep tabs on a suspect . . . without backup. What if the bastard summoned more of those husks? Or more dementors?<i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">What, in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron?</span> </i>He didn't know much of Arthur's personality and abilities or motives, didn't know what to expect, but one thing was for certain. Arthur was a master of deceit, having convinced Hawke the night before that he was nothing more than a stuttering incompetent office worker who couldn't keep up with his wand. Now . . . he knew that couldn't be further from the truth. The man had seemed much more confident at the crime scene. What had drawn him there in the first place? In fact, if he wasn't Arthur McClagin at all, then why had he been snooping around the Muggle Liaison office? Had the man had his wand on him the whole time?<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000"><i>No. Surely he could stave off a dementor with his wand. And I checked.</i></span>This man made no sense. Perhaps Hawke needed to return to the scene of the dementor's attack.<br/><br/>But it would be so much easier just to put him in binds and crack his mind open like a self-incriminating book. Perhaps tonight he'd be able to make eye contact long enough to get into his charming little skull.<br/><br/>Except that Nastah Dornsby was dead . . . because of Hawke's invasive tactics. That was not something he'd easily forgive himself for.<br/><br/>Sitting up, the Auror placed the tip of his wand against his own temple.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Occlumens."</span>His words barely audible, Hawke set to work walling off the emotions, the guilt that accompanied thoughts of Dornsby's death. The process was similar to obliviation, except Hyperion knew the walls were there because he'd made them himself, could feel them numbing his past . . . his present. Some memories were best squirreled away where he wouldn't be bothered by them.<br/><br/>Eyeing the clock on the wall, Hawke cursed under his breath. It was almost six and he hadn't gotten a damned thing done on either case, too busy wading in his own sea of questions. No matter. At least now he was mentally prepared for this . . . whatever this was. He'd dress for a date. Act like it was a date. But he dared not call it a date. A hunt, moreso. And if he got lucky this evening, perhaps he'd bag himself a murderer, attain justice for those who'd lost their lives in the attack.<br/><br/>After a brisk walk to the atrium, Hawke materialized into a cozy, sparsely-furnished living room. The cottage was quite small, but plenty of space for a man who was rarely in his own home. The numerous windows let in just enough light to illuminate dusty tile floors that he hadn't bothered to spell clean in weeks. An accommodating brown sofa and matching armchair flanked a large stone fire-place, currently aglow with with flames charmed to remain lit at all hours. Hawke found the crackle of the fire comforting and, to be honest, found himself sleeping on the couch more often than his own bedroom. And while connected to the floo network, Hawke rarely welcomed any visitors, keeping to himself by choice these days. His home was quite impersonal, besides, the only clue that this was more than a rental condo being the small number of photos hung above the floo . . . pictures of two smiling blond boys, he and Theo, in their respective Hogwarts robes. Hawke's Gryffindor red, Theo's Hufflpuff gold. More importantly was the third figure, her arms wrapped around the brothers as if they were the best things in her world. Thea Hawke. The frame to the right held the same woman, her long golden curls reminiscent of Theo's own, draped over Aurors' robes as she waved at him from the picture. To the left, was an unmoving muggle snapshot of Hawke, Theo, and their mother at a muggle theme park . . . but clearly someone had been cut out of the photo. Well, actually Hawke had folded his father onto the back of the frame. Still there, haunting him as always, but unseen.<br/><br/>Every time he apparated into his living room, Hawke asked himself why he bothered keeping those there. They only served to darken his mood on even his better days. But again, he paid them no heed, passing them by in his journey to the bedroom.<br/><br/>Some time later found Hawke apparating into the streets of Diagon Alley, his crimson Aurors' robes now gone in favor of navy slacks and half-cloak, offset by a trim-fitting slate waistcoat over a crisp white undershirt. A diamond earring flashed from his right ear and his hair had been mussed purposely atop his head. In addition, if he smelled slightly of cologne, well . . . he needed Arthur to believe this outing was genuine or else he'd never get close enough to extract the information he needed. However, his wand was tucked into his sleeve all the same. Hawke had never been one for storing it in his pockets, needed to be ready for anything.<br/><br/>He was a good bit early, as was per usual for any event he attended. The Cauldron was quite crowded this evening, much to the Auror's displeasure, but this might work out in his favor, he conceded. With the constant hum of other patrons, he and Arthur could discuss whatever they pleased without being overheard. Though if this ended in a duel, then he supposed nothing could put a damper on the amount of attention the pair were sure to draw this evening. Regardless, Hawke was determined to play his cards right and make it out of this in one piece. As he allowed the door to swing shut behind him with a jangle, he moved to seat himself at a table in the corner, facing the entrance where he could spot his suspect . . . err, date as soon as Arthur walked in.<br/><br/>Not two seconds after he'd sat down, a dark-haired waiter with the thickest glasses Hawke had ever seen sidled up to the edge of the table, leaning against it provocatively.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffff00">"Can I interest you in anything, Sir?"</span>There was a bit of an awkward pause during which Hawke wondered what intent that question had been loaded with as he raised a skeptical eyebrow at the waiter.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"I'm meeting someone, thanks."</span>With that, the server's smile faltered a bit as he removed himself from the table, adopting a more professional posture.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffff00">"Pity. Suit yourself, then. How about a Firewhisky, Butterbeer, maybe Dragon Barrel Brandy?"</span>Hawke was again tempted to order a shot of scotch, but with alcohol in his system he'd be more likely to take Arthur home with him than interrogate him. And that was not an option for this evening.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Just gillywater for now, please."</span>The waiter gave him an odd glance, though Hawke had to admit refusing to drink in a bar might seem unusual. Perhaps when Arthur actually got here, he'd order something, just to remain convincing. Surely a couple of drinks wouldn't have him shoving the man into the nearest wall.<br/><br/>The fact that he was worried about such things in the first place terrified him a little bit.<br/><br/>The waiter left him with words that Hawke didn't hear, too preoccupied with his own thoughts. Green eyes remained on the doorway, a part of him wondering if Arthur would even show up at all. In fact, replaying the man's behavior at the scene of Frederick's murder, he half expected a no-show. Arthur had every freedom not to come, actually. In which case, he'd be back to square one in regards to the mystery of Arthur McClagin's impostor.<br/><br/>But there was still plenty of casework to be done in his search for the Death Eater Albiorix. Never a dull day at the office.