The Black Shuck, Raphoe, the Laggan, Ireland.
01:17AM, November 22nd, 1981
devoted-carrow
Coinn lotair was what they called them in these parts — the Hounds of Rage, growling masses of fur and teeth that stalked the ancient places of the world, the hunting dogs of Crom dubh. Raphoe was home to one of those too, perched on the summit of Beltany Hill, but the Beltany stones weren’t the reason he'd strayed to the Laggan, nor was the glowing cathedral determinedly lit up against the early hours of the morning, stained glass sparkling against the dim lights. There was a certain amount of irony to it’s location because Gideon could already hear the muffled riot of violins and laughter up ahead, seeping out into the night air around the faded edges of a muffling charm that the owner hadn’t renewed in a while. The Black Shuck was a Raphoe institution, a hell hound’s den of such ill repute that half the wizarding population of the town had been kicked out of it at least once and the other half regularly crusaded to have it shut down.
It was a long way from Diagon Alley to come for a pint of guinness — he hoped the intel was worth it.
A black dog snarled down at him from the swinging sign overhead, creaking on the wind, and a roar of laughter rose up to meet him as he tugged open the black-painted door, the fire of his hair marking him a brother in arms before he so much as opened his mouth. It wasn’t his first time in the Laggan, but the last had been spent studying the runes engraved into the stones on the outskirts of town and drinking their guinness to riotous applause, not settling into a quieter corner of one of the shadiest pubs that Donegal had to offer with a pint, facing the door with his back against the wall and his wand gripped in one hand underneath the table.
He was early, but the rumors that swirled the streets regarding Janus were few and far between, his first real bite coming in the shape of cryptic messages that all pointed to here. They didn’t want to be found, but Gideon had always liked his puzzles, liked them better now that there was nothing but time and an itch for vengeance creeping through his bones. His eyes fixed on the snarling teeth of a carved figurehead, hoisted above the bar, and he took a long sip of the thick dark beer from his glass, the froth of the head tickling his nose. Black dogs. Grims. It would be a bloody miracle if this wasn’t a trap.
The door swung open, a gust of night air admitting another late arrival and Gideon watched, thumbing the condensation off of his glass and watching intently as the shrouded figure lumbered his way. (Back table in the corner, don’t be late.)
The sound of chair legs screeched across the sticky floors and Gideon looked up from his cursory study of his pint, knuckles grinding as he clenched at his wand beneath the table and locked eyes with the familiar face across the table. Oh, this would not end well.
“Are you lost, Carrow? That seat is taken.”
