Some people say that pool was a game of angles, and that those with a sharp mind had an advantage over those who had a sturdy stick. Stupid people, Draco remarked, as he circled the table calmly. Instincts and talent would get you further in the world than book smarts and studying ever could. You could read up on the geometry and the physics of how to make a ball jump over another, and the right set of figures to make it bounce off of one wall after another until you’ve hit three until it strikes the target and taps it into the pocket and still be a complete inept when they actually tried it. Speaking of which... Draco bent his knees and looked down his pool stick, not to see any angle or line up but instead to read the number on the ball in front of the cue. A seven. With a simple flick of his wrists he sent the cue ball over the seven, leaving it untouched, and sent it bouncing off of three of the four green bumpers that lined the table before easily striking the coal black eight ball and knocking it into the pocket. Draco took the money that lay on the table beside him, a pile of galleons, without even looking at his opponent. He knew he was walking away to his friends, head down and pockets empty. It had been over two years since he’d last visited the bar that lay hidden beneath Knockturn Alley, once he’d started a relationship with Harry the need had went away. But lately he had felt the familiar itch, the familiar urge to visit the place and be surrounded by fellow fans of the black arts, and to be surrounded by smoke and darts and pool tables. He knew Harry would disapprove of course, for it was a dangerous place, so he’d told him he’d gone to old Ollivander’s to pick up a second wand. It was a habit that many Aurors and Magi had picked up lately, a way of dueling that lead to some interesting spell results. Come to think of it, Ollivander was the only old wizard you saw around anymore, since the war. Draco stiffened as he felt someone advance behind him, not used to being caught off guard like that. Aurors were supposed to have keen reflexes and keener senses, and anyone who got that close to them undetected had to be trying to sneak and be damn good at it. He turned around quickly, holding his pool stick in both hands in case he needed to alter its use to that of a weapon. For a moment he thought he would, because he recognized the man in front of him from somewhere other than the bar, which meant he was a Dark Arts supported, but not a law abiding one most likely. It was Marcus Flint. “Draco,” the man who was even larger by comparison then he had been in their youth, as a way of greeting. He was greeted back with a nod. “Marcus.” Draco had no idea if Marcus knew what he did or who he even worked for now, but if he did, surely he was planning to strike out at him. He and Harry had taken down more members of the once time Death Eaters then any other, and it wasn’t a fact that anyone seemed very eager to keep hidden in the Underworld. He wondered how Flint had know where to find him, he used an alias here and had let his true identity slip to none. Marcus seemed to read his nearly blank eyes, which was a remarkable feat for someone who Draco remembered as amazingly dim witted. “Don’t worry.” He said, with a voice that sounded like gravel scraping on gravel. It wasn’t much of a surprise, all Death Eaters were living hard lives in the streets and the underground tunnels. “I don’t want to fight you. Actually, I have an offer.”