With the air around him more clear now that he'd leaned away from Arthur, Hawke's mind snapped onto the other man's words like a vice.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"The wicked, huh?"</span>He chuckled knowingly. Was the bastard really taunting him?<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"My dear Arthur, I doubt there's a wicked bone in your body. Unless, of course, there's something about you I don't know . . . " </span>The waiter returned with his rum, Hawke thanking him before lifting it to take a solid drink of the dark liquid. As the heat spread down his throat, he reminded himself not to overdo it. He noted, however, that the level of Arthur's whiskey had barely budged.<i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">Curious.</span></i><br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"I wouldn't know. I'm all but immune to dementors now . . ."</span>He raised an eyebrow at the other man's stumble.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"You mean Voldemort,"</span>he insisted, leaning forward, his gaze intense.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"The bastard's dead. You need not fear the name of a corpse."</span>He re-straightened himself in his chair, more relaxed with a bit of rum in him.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#5900b3">"Not sure.. who you can trust anymore."</span>Hawke paused, his own mind screaming to whip out his wand and incapacitate the cocky bastard. If he knew Hawke was onto him, then why wait? Hawke knew exactly who he couldn't trust and that was enough.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Albiorix must understand that his master will never return . . . and I'll never understand how the man can kill in <i>his</i> name even still. No one knows his face. It would be so easy just to blend back into society now that the war's over."</span>He continued the ruse of conversation.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Then again, how anyone can murder innocents at all is beyond me. Frederick didn't deserve to die. All those people back at the Ministry didn't deserve to die. They were just victims,"</span>he jabbed, referring to the civilians Arthur's shades had killed.<br/><br/>A flash of words carved into the wall of Frederick's home flickered through his mind.<i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#5900b3">He was not the victim.</span></i><br/><br/>Hawke took another, smaller sip of his rum.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000"> "I just want to know what drives these monsters to kill. Albiorix, y . . . the cultists."</span>Damn, maybe he really should slow down on the rum. He'd almost accused the man here and now.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"Sure their motives are different, but the end result is all the same. The loss of life is a deplorable thing. And necromancy even moreso."</span>He eyed the man for his reaction, half expecting inferi to swarm into the Cauldron as they spoke and praying his slip had gone unnoticed. Maybe if Arthur drank enough, he would be able to cast . . . but his whiskey seemed untouched.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"You're not a lightweight, are you?"</span>He nodded towards the man's mug.