"Can we get another round over here, Tom?"
"You can and you will, Mrs. Crockford and…Friends."
Doris Crockford is one of the regulars here at The Leaky Cauldron. She got it into her head one day (After reading that blasted Quibbler rubbish, no doubt.) that she is constantly being followed by an entourage of Nargles. She says they threaten to tear every tenth page out of all her books if she doesn't treat them to a couple of drinks every Monday night. And she never fails to show up once a week to sit at an empty table, sipping her lemon water, surrounded by five untouched glasses of fire whiskey. Nargles, according to Doris, are invisible creatures who love to create mischief by stealing people's possessions. Hogwash, in my opinion.
But business is business, and if I were to rid myself of all the queer folk who pass through those front doors, I'm afraid I would have no business at all. Indeed, Doris Crockford isn't the most bizarre thing I've seen here in my pub. I am old, and I have witnessed a great deal. And although I wish I could say that all these encounters have been with kind-hearted, trustworthy and innocent people, they haven't been. But as I've said before, business is business. I do not deny any guest to The Leaky Cauldron the brew of their choice, save perhaps one of those wretched followers of You Know Who. But I don't want to curse my pub with that thought. I washed out a glass and filled it with water from the tap.
I've always wondered what she does with all the drinks she orders for her "friends". They're always empty when I bring the second round to her table. Maybe she tosses them into the potted plant when I'm not looking. That would certainly explain why it's been looking so dreadful lately, although I've never really been much of a gardener.
I dropped two lemon wedges into the glass, just how Doris likes it. Then I poured five glasses of fire whisky. Couldn't forget about those Nargles, now could we?