(28th October, 2012) - 9pm

It was dark for this time in the evening. The dark water below the ship was black ink lapping against the side of the boat, causing it to shudder back and fourth. Jack shuddered in unison, and having vomited consistently since departing from the infamous prison, he had nothing left to give but the dry heaves of his aching gut. A member of the crew shook his head, glowering at Jack with disdain. It was amazing how many prisoners couldn't make this short jaunt without throwing up.

Jack met his stare with one of his own.

"We ain't all Death Eaters in Azkaban, mate." He snapped, making a show of wiping his mouth before patting his pockets for one of the few things he had on his person when he had been apprehended. His wand was not one of them. That was being held by the crew until they landed. His fingers brushed the cool metal of his cigarette tin, brushing his thumb over the tarnished brass, he pulled it out and flipped open the catch. There was one paper left but no tobacco in sight. Sliding his finger along the edge of the tin, he found the corner where the felt bottom gave way. Peeling it back, he found it. A small, leather pouch of a loose brown mulch-like substance. He pinched a small amount from the bag and spread it out across the paper, rolling it in record time.

"'ow much longer?" He demanded, squinting at the ghostly shape of the Scottish coast in the distance. He propped the unlit paper in his mouth, letting it hang there.

"About twenty minutes." The crew member shot back, gruffly. Jack grunted, trying to stay fixated on the unmoving shadow of the coast. His stomach threatened again and he leant against the railing heavily.

"Need to get yourself some sea legs."

Jack snorted. "Don't plan on making another trip like this." He said.

"What?" The crew member almost laughed. "Planning on sticking to the straight and narrow? Do you know the percentage of criminals that re-offend?"

"Don't plan on that much, mate." He said, pulling a low-brim hat down over his mussed blonde hair. "Just not to get caught." He grinned, his mouth stretching lopsidedly, exposing a gold canine. Running his tongue habitually over it, he turned away.

Another wave of nausea and a near-miss with his cigarette and the boat was steered into the docks. Jack didn't wait for it to be tied up before he hopped off. using every once of will-power to stop his knees from knocking.

Freedom!

He rubbed his hands together, turning expectantly back towards the boat.

"I believe you got sommink that belongs to me, chaps!" He held his hands out, ready to receive it and with a flick of the captain's wrist, a thin sliver shot through the air. In a single sweep of his arm Jack reached out, and missed it.

His wand shot past his ear, clattering against the wood of the docks. It wedged itself between two planks and he lurched after it, the roaring laughter of the boat's crew burning his ears.

The wood trembled in his grasp, only the reassuring, tight grasp he had on it was enough to quell the vibration. Soon after that he wasted no time in scraping off a little rust by flourishing his wrist and lighting the tip of his cigarette.

With a sharp intake of breath, smoke rushed into his lungs and it was with a pained expression that he held it there, trying to remember the last time anything had felt so fantastic.

Freedom.

He reached the end of the dock,his ears and eyes filled with clucking chickens in cages, beggars and shady characters lurking against the buildings that scattered the dock. Then, like the pop of a muggle television, Jack was gone, reappearing six feet away in the direct path of a donkey and cart that was heading to unload onto a nearby ship.

Someone swore at him. Jack vanished again, appearing another ten feet further away. It felt weird. Weird but good. So fuckin' good... He had nothing but a cigarette tin and his wand to his name but he needed to celebrate. Sure. he also needed to check in with the Ministry to make sure the Magical Law Enforcement team knew of his whereabouts but that could wait. And it would.

Another pop, and this time Jack did not reappear at the Scotland docks. Instead, the worn leather soles of his boots struck cobbles.

The Streets of Hogsmeade were empty, but there was a reassuring glow in the corner, at what he called the 'arse end' of the place. The Hog's Head. Trust it to be one of the few remaining pubs that disobeyed the curfew. Still misbehaving as much as ever, it seemed.

Tapping the ash from his cigarette, Jack rolled up toward the pub, idly patting the pockets of his battered leather tunic for money. He had nothing. Whatever he might haver been in posession of had long been removed. Bloody guards.

So instead of opening the doors to the Hog's Head and getting himself a quiet drink, Jack burst into the pub, threw up his arms and announced to the entire room:

"Good evening all!" Pulling out a chair from a nearby table, Jack was greeted by a stony, unnerving silence and a dozen half-drunk, intimidating faces. With some fumbling, he managed to pull himself up onto the chair, standing in full view of the entire room.

"Tonight, I am a free man!" Someone coughed.

"Four years rotting in a tiny cell, but no one can keep me down for long!"

"I'd like to try!" Someone shouted, with scattered laughter.

"I haven't seen daylight in four years! Who wants to buy me a drink?!"

Russia had been having on hell of a day.

While she loved going to work in the morning (a clear testimony, perhaps, or at least a reflection how uneventful her social life was), today had been dreadful. Russ had been contacted in the minute of the night when Hortentia, one of their prized Abraxan, went into early labour. By the time she made it to the stables the young mare was in a pitiful state, and after long hours of hard, dirty work, the team of carers and healers were forced to give up, unable to save neither the mother nor the foal. It had been a horrible blow to the Estate; not only was it incredibly upsetting, but these were animals with flawless bloodlines which they could simply not afford to loose. The next few months would be gloomy indeed.

She'd finished the day thinking she most definitely deserved a drink; the idea of going back home, where her mother would cover her in attention and pity, was not appealing in the slightest. The Leaky Cauldron was out of the question, as her younger sister was on duty that night, and Russia did not feel like she could endure her exuberance. What appealed to all of her senses right now was a dark and gloomy place, to suit her dark and gloomy mood. The Hog's Head could not be better suited.

Ironically, her mood was slightly uplifted by the time she apparated in Hogsmeade, relinquishing the promise of a mind-numbing drink. She decided to go in nonetheless, and ordered a Firewhisky. After blatantly ignoring the barman's suggestion that it was 'no little girl's drink', she grabbed her full glass and made her way to one of the few empty table, ensuring her face was as unwelcoming as possible. She felt a bit more chirpy, but that did not mean she fancied handling a conversation, and less of all with an old, drunken man.

She started sipping on the alcoholic beverage, feeling its warmth slowly cascading down her throat. With it came a small rush of lucidity, and she was quickly lost in thought as she observed the other pub's guests, making up short stories as to who they could be, and what had pushed them to be completely smashed still so early in the evening.

Time passed, and Russ made it to her third drink where a man flew in the establishment with great extravagance. Her mind was ever so slightly hazy, but she understand something about freedom, daylight and free drinks. She had no idea who this man was, but he looked like the sort who'd have a good story or two. She raised from her seat.

"I'll drink to that, Sir! A drink on me, if you would." Russia was known for having rare, short-lived bursts of spontaneity, more often than not spurred on by alcohol - it felt foreign and odd for her to speak out in a room full of strangers, and she felt blood rushing to her cheeks as her self-conciousness surfaced.

The silence that descended on the pub was deafening to his ears. He had spent four years in a place that was filled with the chilling moans and howls of damned men. However, the silence here was so much colder. But, being Jack, he retained his pose, looked from face to face of each patron, a tilt of the head of the raise of an eyebrow to the odd promising volunteer, but to no avail.

That is, until the tid-bit at the far end of the room piped up. Her offer was like music to his ears and he punched the air in triumph as he looked in the direction of his offer. A female was always promising, though he was a little rusty on the proper etiquette when it came to meeting women in pubs. Especially women in pubs like this.

"You heard the lady!" He called to the barman, who was eyeing Russia up incredulously from where he stood. Jack landed on the hard wooden floor with a great thump, half swaggering his way across to the barman who had now turned to look at him with suspicion.

"I'll have pint of your famous Steaming Stout, my good man." And so a tankard was pulled from above the bar and filled slowly with a rich, foaming liquid the colour of tar. Jack's mouth watered as the tankard was slid across to him, smoke coiling from the neck of it. He couldn't even remember where he'd been for his last proper drink. Well, all right, that was a lie. It had been in Knockturn right before his prison sentence. But that one hadn't made him ache the same way this one had.

"Slap it on the lady's tab. There's a good lad." He said, swiping his drink from the bar top and twisting away before the barman could change his mind. With drink in hand, he thought it was only proper to go and introduce himself to the charitable lady who had saved his taste-buds. After all, there could be a second drink in it for him.

It wasn't hard to deduce the table he needed. There were only three women in the pub and one of those was asleep while the third had glowered at Jack with such disdain that he felt his feet physically drag him in the opposite direction. One look at Russia and Jack was grinning wide enough to display teeth and tonsils. He dropped into the seat opposite and carefully set down his drink. cautiously wiping off any excess perspiration on his dark trousers before offering his hand out to her.

"All right, my lady?" He asked; and however formal the words sounded, there was no covering up the strong Bristol accent that slithered out his mouth. He offered his hand for her; the one missing half a pinky, using his good hand to pick up his tankard and take a long-awaited swig.

"Ahh. Fuck me. Pardon my French. There ain't nothing that beats a drink like this, y'know? First pint in ages and it's all thanks to you." Another grin. "I'd love to return the favour, but I've only been out a few hours and them Azkaban guards are lacking in scruples when it comes to looking after a man's effects, if you get my meaning. But anything else you want as payment in kind, just you ask for it, my lover."