• who: open. • where: hog's head in. • when: feb. 1979; winter; evening.
What a terribly long day it had been. The rugged man sat hunched over at the bar, his cold grey eyes staring at the bar floor, the wet soggy mat and the curl of cloudy colored mold that grew in the drain right next to it occupying his mind. He watched as water from the sink dripped down into it eventually turning his gaze and quickly knocking his neck back as he inhaled the shot glass in front of him of firewhiskey. (That’s 3 killin’s more than yesterday, he thought to himself.) As much as he enjoyed his job as an Magical Creature Executioner, it was tiring. His shoulders ached and his arms felt heavy from carrying around his scythe all day, up and down hills, through hedges, trees, and whatever witches and wizards kept in their gardens. He also wasn’t the person most people were too keen to see. His face was almost always covered, he wore a jet black hood that only allowed his slate colored eyes to be seen. The man was normally quiet in his everyday life, but he was abnormally quiet on his job. He felt it was his own way of maining his professionalism. Very professional was Gregory Goyle, the grunty lad as he is known as in office. He had much rather prefer to do his job on site although it wasn’t uncommon when people had to bring their creature into the Ministry. It could be that the Ministry had picked them up, could have been because they attacked someone and had nowhere else to go. At least the field trip ones he got to wander out and was also given more time the next day to finish his paperwork.
The Hog’s Head Inn was the only place where he felt the most comfortable. It was a lonely hole of a pub with not a lot of witches or wizards. He spent most of his time alone anyway. Unless there was some sort of meeting with the group he was involved. He never let on that he was a Death Eater, but he was pretty sure it was written all over his face. No one could really prove it though. He followed the law. In his own way. Didn’t bother anyone. Unless necessary. And if you left him alone, Goyle would most likely do that same. That is, if you didn’t have a bounty on your head.
Feeling pretty good, yet exhausted, Goyle almost wished he had someone to talk to. Normally on nights as such, he would have a few drinks and wander home to his dirty old studio flat. His reflection in the broken bathroom mirror would be that only thing to talk to and most of the time, the mirror never said say nice things. He heaved a sigh, tapped his index finger to his glass for the bartender to give him another. His glass filling up on it’s own at the man behind the bar’s request. Gregory tossing it back again, slamming the glass on the glossy bar.
“Oi, ‘nother one, ye?” He grunted in a low mumble.