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Here is a Miniver. He's out of the infirmary, but one might say... not exactly looking spectacular.

He's sprawling more or less in a booth. Possibly he ended up here stopping to rest on his way to his room and forgot to move again. Or something.

There's a little enchanted model dragon skulking around the table and apparently trying to boil the glass of water a rat deposited on the table at some point, which is being ignored in favor of a book, which Miniver is sometimes reading, and sometimes staring off into space distractedly.

Come say hi to the recovering alcoholic.

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That earns Miniver a raised eyebrow look over Melou's glass.

"I'm not a kid. That yours?" He asks, nodding to the dragon.

Well... he's.... younger than Miniver? And probably younger than Draco?

"Yeah. It's just enchanted." The dragon snorts in Melou's direction. "Friend made it for me."

It's more an automatic response of the teenaged and independent.

Melou grins at it. "Hope your friend's careful with that. Magic can be a dangerous thing."

"He's a wizard. I think he can handle it." Miniver smiles fondly at the dragon. "He can make birds, too."

Melou snorts. "Being a wizard doesn't mean anything. They can still be irresponsible."

"Yeah, well. He's not."

Really? Miniver only says this because someone is implying that he might be.

"Maybe he is, maybe he isn't. Not like I'd know, unless it was Merriman," he pauses to stop himself from laughing, "and this just isn't his style."

"I dunno anyone called that. Draco made the dragon. Draco Malfoy."

"Nope, don't know him," he shakes his head and then sips his drink. "Makes sense, though, what with his name."

Miniver grins. "Yeah. He made it to keep me company, I guess."

"Too bad he didn't give you a real one. Now that would've been something." And Melou might have had to plot to dragon-nap it.

"Apparently a real one wouldn't fit. That would be so cool, though. My world didn't have real dragons anymore. Unless they were REALLY good at hiding."

He sighs wistfully. "Yeah, mine doesn't either, though supposedly we did once. Make a great weapon. Then I really could get Ireland eaten."

"Hey!" Miniver exclaims. "You're from Earth! Me too. My grandparents were all Irish. I'm from New York, though."

Melou makes a face at the mention of Irish family, but he lets it slide. "I am, so I'm told. From Camelot, originally, but I live in Wales now. Never heard of New York."

"The Camelot??"

ZOMG.

"Only one I know of, but then that usually doesn't mean much around here," drily.

"New York wasn't really around during your time, then. But I read about Camelot. It's gone by the time I was born. Sad, really. What's it like?"

"It was big and bright, noisy and real busy. Lots of people, lots of places to explore," he shrugs, staring down at the glass in his hands. "It was home."

"...You can't go back, can you?" Miniver asks, insightfully.

He takes a long drink. "Not unless I want my head chopped off."

Miniver has a lot of GUESSES as to who he might be, but doesn't dare voice any of them after Random's warning about family issues with the Camelot crowd.

"Who are you?" he asks instead.

"Melou."

And then, almost as an afterthought, though it's not, "Mordred's son. One of them, anyway."

LOOK WHO IS TOTALLY NOT GOING AROUND TELLING PEOPLE HE'S KING ARTHUR.

Miniver smiles innocently. "Neat. I'm Miniver. Cheevy. Of no-one-famous fame."

It would, perhaps, be wise not to mention that. Melou is armed, after all.

"Don't think I'm famous. Guess my Father and the rest are. At least I know there's stories about them."

He shrugs again. "What do you do in New York? That anywhere near California?"