Karkaroff kept his face hooded as he slid the bartender some Muggle money and accepted his drink swiftly, as though fearing theft. By all rights, he shouldn't be here; it was too conspicuous, too crowded. But he had been fleeing for months now, and allowed himself this lapse of reason. It was his fifty-fourth birthday.
Grimacing, Karkaroff drained the shot of vodka and ordered another. As a wizard, he had many years ahead of him, but those were now terrifyingly uncertain. All he could do was keep running and pray he'd live to see fifty-five.
Happy birthday, you old fool.