[leaky cauldron] the world below doesn't matter much to me [hunter]

It was pretty damn perfect, it was. So perfect, in fact, that she was surprised she hadn't thought of it earlier. Quinn Regan was set up in a darker, comfier corner of the Leaky Cauldron, reading over her latest accomplishment. It was a letter, short and sweet, written in Irish, and addressed to Bulgaria's national seeker. It said simply that Bulgaria was so much greater than Ireland, which was an obvious lie, but it also included something extra, a large helping of exploding potion that she had acquired from her brother. And if things went as planned, it would explode in the other seeker's hands.

She took a generous sip of her tea, taking care to drink from the cup with tea, as opposed to the cup with undiluted bobotuber pus she was going to add to her next letter. And she had added it to her precious letter. No, Quinn wasn't bitter about the World Cup standings at all. A breeze blew up as someone entered the pub, ruffling a few of her parchments and prompting the woman to pull her sweater tighter around her. She took a peek at her watch as she did so, figuring that she had about an hour before the post office closed. It wouldn't serve her well to use her own owl to send hate mail. It added one more level of secrecy to compose the mail from the Leaky Cauldron and not from her own house.

Quinn set her Irish letter aside, searching for her next blank parchment. It would be from a Portuguese wizard this time; it would be all the more clever, obviously, if these pieces of hate mail were coming from various places about the globe. After a letter from Portugal would be one from Spain, and then she would start picking secondary countries where all her known languages were spoken. It was a flawless plan, really. She had tried to dress to the level of sneakiness she was trying to portray: a bit on the messy side with an oversized sweater and a large wooly scarf. She hadn't planned to make today a social one.

But part of her did want someone there to openly admire her brilliant work in everything. Maybe Quinn should have at least tried to make herself look decent so there would be more to admire about her, but oh well. It was probably too late for that. Nothing left to do but drink more tea and plan more maniacal things to write.

After a busy morning working on Jimmy's market stall and a few hours in a sidestreet just off Diagon where his rats had earned him several galleons by performing their latest round of tricks, Hunter decided he'd earned himself a beer. Or, as was more likely, several beers. Wrapping his tattered cloak more tightly around him as a gust of wind swirled down the alleyway, he checked his pockets were all safely occupied and then walked back in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron. There were other pubs, but at this time of day he fancied the company that the Cauldron was sure to supply.

The wind was blowing harder once he'd reached the door, and he had to hold onto the handle to stop it from slamming against the wall as he entered. "Sorry!" he called to nobody in particular as some street dust blew in around his shoes before he could shut out the wind. Immediately he felt warmer; there was a fire crackling in the grate and although the pub was quieter than he'd expected there was a steady buzz of conversation which made him feel comfortable as he crossed to the bar. No butterbeer for Hunter, he went for a pint of real ale which he sipped slowly until a small head poked hopefully out of the corner of his sleeve.

"Alright, I haven't forgotten" he said, grinning as he ordered a bowl of water and a packet of unsalted mixed nuts. There was a free table in the darker end of the pub so he seated himself, at which point Trilo wriggled out into full view and begged for a treat. "Guess you've earned it" Hunter said, tossing a cashew nut onto the table. At this point his attention completely left the rat, and his jaw dropped. Wasn't that..?

No, he was imagining things. Why would the seeker of the Falmouth Falcons and the Irish national team be sitting in the Leaky Cauldron writing letters? Hunter shook his head, blinked hard and drank about half his pint before looking up again. No, it still looked like her, even dressed in that floppy sweater. Hunter briefly considered sending one of his rats over with the offer of a drink, but quickly thought better of the idea. Holding his pocket open for Trilo to leap back into, he stood up and strolled over to the table. He waited for her to look up and then said "Hi, sorry to bother you, I just...uh, recognised you, and I'm a big fan" he paused "anyway, yeah. Just wanted to say hi. I'm Hunter. Hunter Street." Far from his usual talkative self, the man suddenly felt like he'd forgotten how to string a sentence together.

Quinn was just wrapping up another masterpiece of a letter when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye, then closer movement, and then a person actually standing next to her table. She looked up, sliding her newly completed letter to the side, just in case he knew Portuguese and somehow managed to put together the pieces of what she was doing. She offered him a smile, the part of her that was wanting to be admired getting happier with every word he said.

"Hi, Hunter, Hunter Street" she said, fixing her face into her 'meeting a fan' look of a cordial smile and hopefully not-crazed-eyes. "Thank you so much," she added happily, waiting for him to say anything else, maybe comment on one of her better matches, or ask for an autograph, anything at all. But apparently he was far too starstruck to remember his manners, which is something she was all too familiar with, being a star and all.

She pushed more of her parchments out of the way, clearing a space for the man to sit down if he wanted. Quinn was suddenly feeling social, and motioned to the seat across from her, "You can sit, if you'd like." He looked pretty close to her age, but she didn't recognize him from school. Still, he also didn't look like he would murder her if they shared a drink together. She smiled again and picked up her tea, but paused with it halfway to her lips.

"You don't happen to know Bulgarian, do you?" She posed the question with an innocent smile. It wouldn't hurt to ask, would it? He didn't need to know the reason why she was asking after all, although given his level of adoration, he might not actually mind. A letter to the Bulgarian seeker from a fan in Bulgaria, but also laced with a curse that would make the seeker's fingernails grow uncontrollably, would be the ultimate level of sneaky.

Idiot. I am an idiot. Hunter told himself. I go to matches and write reports on them all the time, I can sell anything to anyone. Jimmy's been saying that since I was ten, and now I can't string a sentence together because I unexpectedly meet a famous - well, famous-ish - Quidditch player? Great job! Thankfully Ms Regan didn't seem to mind, or maybe she was used to fans becoming tongue-tied in her presence so didn't even notice. Either way, he felt slightly better when she didn't immediately tell him to sod off, though belatedly he realised she was probably waiting for him to say something a bit more sensible.

Nope, wasn't happening right now. He was racking his brains for the last time he'd seen her play as opposed to listening to the match report on the Wizarding Wireless, but in the meantime she gestured to the seat opposite and invited him to join her. Well, not exactly the sort of invitation you gave someone you really wanted to spend time with, but one that you gave to an awestruck fan who was making the place look untidy by just standing around. Oh. Definitely time to stop acting like an ass.

"Thanks. You, uh...don't minds rats, do you?" he asked quickly, though Trilo was keeping well out of the way for now, probably because she'd found something delicious to occupy her attention in one of his deeper pockets. He sat down, but the woman's next question took him by surprise. "I speak a bit of Icelandic if thats any help...sorry, I'm being stupid. No, closest to Bulgarian I can manage is I was once at a party hosted by Viktor Krum...but I'm pretty good at translation charms of you needed a hand?" he noticed the pile of letters on the table and assumed she was replying to fans. Probably they were asking for autographs, signed photos, that sort of thing. It was a pity that people didn't already charm their own letters, so she wouldn't have to struggle to read them. Some fans really could be quite thoughtless...unless they were only ten years old and their parents didn't know they were writing?

Hunter's thoughts had wandered again, but this time not too far from the matter in hand. "I, uh...was at the Harpies game last month" he added, wanting to say something but not wanting to distract her from answering her letters "That was one of the best catches I've seen in years, the look on their seeker's face was priceless when you grabbed the snitch from right under their nose!"

Rats? He was getting weirder by the minute, but Quinn just shrugged her shoulders indicating her indifference. "Hmm," she said thoughtfully in regards to his statement about Icelandic. That wasn't quite what she had been looking for at all. She raised one eyebrow as he started talking about Krum, the seeker she was currently sending hate mail to. That was just a tad inconvenient. "Maybe on the translations," she said, tilting her head slightly as she looked at him. "I was hoping these would sound more.. authentic," she finished with a small smile, not needing to mention that not using a translation charm was just adding one more level to her sneakiness in the whole situation.

So he saw the match against the Harpies. That was unfortunate, considering the Falcons had lost. But, apparently he had forgotten the tiny detail that she hadn't caught the snitch, or was being far too polite to mention it. Quinn wasn't sure which was the better option at this point. "I'll be sure to pass along your congratulations to Markington, then, as she was the one to actually catch it," she said, her eyes narrowing as she mentioned the seeker for the Harpies. There was always the option that he was confusing her for someone else, but she really did find that hard to believe. Still, he hadn't actually used her name or said the word 'Falcons' yet.

"Actually, Icelandic might be useful too," Quinn said as another thought flashed through her mind. She could get over the slight of him talking about the wrong match if he proved to be at least a little helpful. Or, he could be helpful, and then she could also send one of these "fan letters" to him as well. The second option was quite tempting. She pulled a blank piece of parchment towards her, putting quill to paper as she asked, "How do you say, 'you're the greatest'?" She didn't want Iceland's quidditch fans to be underrepresented, after all.

"Or do you think you'd be able to write what I say in Icelandic?" She had plenty of blank parchment and having a letter that wasn't in her own handwriting would only help her main goal of remaining anonymous.

The colour drained from Hunter's face, then changed it's mind, returning half a second later to infuse his cheeks, neck and forehead with a violent shade of puce. He'd been at the game, that much was true, but now he recalled that the previous night he'd enjoyed rather more beers than was sensible and actually had barely been able to decide which of the four seekers he could see where the real ones. So it wasn't any real surprise he hadn't realised that Quinn hadn't been the one to catch the snitch...but why, WHY hadn't he managed to keep his mouth shut? Or at least say something that didn't insult the poor woman AND make him look like the biggest prat in London? He groaned.

"Merlin, I'm sorry. I was convinced...maybe that was just the result I was hoping for, and I dreamt it..." no, there was no story he could spin that was going to make this one any better. He shook his head, and risked a millisecond sideways glance. She didn't look impressed, but on the other hand she didn't look quite ready to hex him. Yet. "Ms Regan, I'm really sorry. I was hungover that day, but I had tickets for the match and didn't want to miss it." The art of apology wasn't something Hunter felt comfortable with, but he wasn't about to try and blag his way through such an obvious mistake.

So it was that when she commented that his command of Icelandic could be useful he immediately nodded enthusiastically. "It's uh...
þú ert mesta" he said, having paused for a second or so to think. Although his mother had often spoken the language to him, they talked less often these days and he was so used to English that it didn't come as automatically as it once had. But nonetheless, he was confident that it was correct. "Oh - sure, I can do that" he said "though my handwriting's not that great, you might not be able to read it that clearly. Oh, I suppose you could always charm it afterwards or something, right?" He reached into a pocket and fished out a self-inking quill, pleased that he was always prepared.

What Hunter failed to notice was that this quill had been the very thing that had been keeping the attention of a certain rat, and while still functional it now looked very...chewed.

Quinn pursed her lips, not really finding his excuse very convincing. But at the very least, he could understand his dreaming about a match, especially one that she had been a part of. Really, she was only believing the 'dreaming about her' part of his story. Plus, he seemed quite embarrassed about his mistake, which really did help smooth things over. It was nice when other people felt bad about upsetting her. She raised an eyebrow at him before deciding that she ought to give him the benefit of the doubt. This time at least. "Maybe just go to another match and pay attention to me next time?" she suggested with the slightest of smiles. Really, it would be difficult not to pay attention to her, but if it had already happened once, maybe the little reminder really was necessary.

Maybe she had guilted him in to helping her with Icelandic, but really she didn't care how she had arrived at it as long as she got some sort of hate sent to Krum. "You uh," she started, pausing, "Might just need to write that down." She nodded, suddenly realizing that she had no idea which letters made up the words that he had just said, almost going as far as doubting her ability to actually repeat aloud what he had just said.

She smiled, pushing a piece of blank parchment towards her guest. "I'm sure it's fine about the handwriting," she mused. That would just make it all the more authentic and keep her just one step farther from the end result. One extra level of sneaky. "You can borrow a quill if you want," she said, handing over the one she had just been using, sliding the ink pot along with it. "Maybe don't share with the rat?" she suggested with a grin.

"This is for a general letter of support, rather than fan mail, in case you think it sounds a little mushy." She started, laying the ground work for why everything she dictated would be so kind, if not overly so. "Off the pitch we're a really friendly bunch," she lied casually, leaning back in her chair. "So if you're ready, go ahead and write 'You are the greatest' like we just discussed, and then perhaps, 'I hope you catch the snitch before the Phoenixes do,'" she said, referencing the Vultures' next match against the Pula Phoenixes.

She continued on, pausing every few words to make sure Hunter could keep up. "'There is no one like you because you are the best flyer." She paused, thinking of something new she could say that she hadn't included in the other letters. It was hard making up all of this nonsense to tell this honestly mediocre seeker. "'I hope to fly like you someday,'" she finished, leaning back towards the table to take a look at all he had written.

"I'll be at the Arrows match next month. Already got tickets" he promised. Hopefully she wouldn't pay too much attention to that, because the Appleby Arrows had been Hunter's favourite team since he was twelve years old, despite their dire performance record in the Quidditch league tables. Nor was he going to mention that he would be seated in the Arrows stalls, because he doubted that would go down very well. Not that one 'fan' more or less should make a difference to a first string Seeker, but he didn't really feel comfortable mentioning that he actually reported on Quidditch matches so was likely to see her around a good deal in the future. Not after how he'd already screwed up.

And now he was answering her fan mail...okay, that was whole levels of weird beyond what he'd ever experienced. But he supposed if he carefully veiled the experience, he could turn it into a story in a few years' time. If he changed some of the details, nobody would ever know he was referring to Quinn Regan. "Thanks" he said, accepting her quill and stowing his own back in his pocket, immediately feeling a helpful tug that told him it was going to be even more ratty before the day was out. Then he frowned slightly.

A letter of support? She was writing to a fellow player? That was weird again, and he'd not come across the friendliness she mentioned - at least, not to the extent of writing each other fan letters. Hunter opened his mouth to say something, but held back. What could he say that wouldn't reveal he was more than just a casual fan? "Okay..." he said instead, copying down what she said and trying to keep himself from smirking. There was definitely something more than met the eye going on here, and the young man wanted to know what it was. He pushed the letter back towards her, though he realised belatedly that she had no idea what he had written. Still, she would at least know what he'd put there was legible.

"Did you want to write to any of..?" he trailed off, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. Why was she writing in Icelandic to a member of the Bulgarian team? "...any of the other team members? I mean, I guess it depends on whether they speak Icelandic. I must admit, I didn't realise it was widely spoken in Eastern Europe..." he reached for his glass, figuring that if she turned out to be crazy enough to hex him, at least he'd finish his beer first. 

The Arrows match probably wasn't going to be that great of a display, what with them not being one of the teams that she was actually worried about facing, but if that's the match he wanted to go to, so be it. "That should be fun for you," she offered, even though she was sure that match would be over just as soon as it started. At least he was in for more of a treat by helping her out today, though really he did owe her for his earlier blunder. And at least he seemed somewhat receptive to it. The addition of an Icelandic letter would be great, because who could ever trace that back to her?

"No, no one else," she said with a slight shake of her head. She counted the small stack of letters she had amassed, turning her shake into a nod. "That's plenty of support." The woman shrugged, straightening up the pile with her hands. "It's just something we do, to show there's support from across the globe." She tucked the written letters into her bag sitting on the empty chair next to her. "Insider secrets, you know," she said with another reassuring nod. She would just have to wait to add any of the extra gifts to the letters; this man didn't seem like he would find as much amusement with it as she did.

She looked him over again, curious to know why he knew Icelandic in the first place, with a name so incredibly English as Hunter Street. But Quinn wasn't about to ask too many questions about him lest he start asking questions about the activities of questionable legality he had just assisted her with. "Thanks for your help," she said, rummaging around in her bag again, ignoring his musings about how widely spoken Icelandic was in Bulgaria. "I must be off, but have another pint, my treat," she placed enough sickles on the table for at least two more pints. It wasn't bribery, just a way to show her appreciation for his letter writing skills.

"I hope you have a nice time at my match," because of course he would. How couldn't someone enjoy watching her play quidditch? She stood up, pushing her chair back, snatched up her bag, and headed out into Diagon Alley.

Having grown up in what the authorities liked to euphemistically call 'no fixed abode' and his father referred to as squats, Hunter had met his fair share of crazies over the years. He just hadn't expected to meet one on the Quidditch pitch - or, in this case, relaxing in the pub.To Hunter, Quidditch players were success stories, figures to be respected, and this afternoon was leaving him feeling rather disillusioned. Not that he wanted to say as much; he'd interviewed a few players so far and hoped to work his way up to meeting all the big names, so he wanted to appear to be on Quinn's good side, just so she wouldn't talk unfavourably about him to her team mates.

He wanted to find out more, and he was just deciding the best way to phrase his first question when she started collecting the pile of letters together. Hunter also noticed she hadn't reacted to his comment about Eastern European languages - which was weird. Not that she hadn't reacted, but because it seemed to him that she deliberately hadn't reacted. Almost as if she was hiding something, though he had no idea what. It was just...weird. So he smiled as she tucked the letters into her bag and then left a pile of sickles on the table. Well, that was the easiest cash he'd earned in a while!

"I will. I'll enjoy writing my report afterwards" he added to her departing back, though he didn't intend for her to read anything into the words. He just wanted her to know he was more than simply an adoring fan, that he was happy to help out, no matter how weird the request.

The door closed, and a furry head peeked out of his pocket. "Come on out...keep the table for me" he told Trilo who jumped into the table as he headed for the bar and returned with a pint in each hand. Placing them on the table, Hunter produced a pecan from his pocket. "What do you reckon? Hands up everyone who thinks she was crazy..." he said to the rat, holding out the treat. The little animal stood on its hind legs and raised one front paw into the air, and Hunter chuckled. "Good job..." he said, offering the pecan as he settled down to enjoy his beer.