Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter
Bar, Mead, and Stranger Things
Strange things happen in this bar.
He knew this, but when he tried to talk to the bartender the man had laughed himself silly.
This should have been his first warning but his mundane mind, weary from a day of accounting, had chosen to murder all thoughts from his head and beg for a mug of mead instead. Hennigan, whom nearly everyone referred to as "Tom," never laughed. Chuckled with an amused twinkle in those bright eyes of his, sure, but not laugh.
He didn't think much of it. Better to enjoy the mead he had finally found after days of searching. He knew it was Britain, but it was London. Surely finding some foreign drinks weren't so rare.
Then Lady Luck had decided to go and prove him wrong. Curses! Thinking back, perhaps it was his desperation that drove him to set foot in this bar in the first place.
It was a shabby little pub, dubbed "The Leaky Cauldron," with a creaky sign of a - surprise surprise - cauldron hanging right outside the double oak doors. The inside was a strange mixture of shadows and a surprising amount of warmth. Maybe it was the all the outdated pictures that he swore winked at him when he walked past, or it was the sunny yellow glow that lit the place up day and night. The furniture was all smooth and wooden, but the walls seemed to be made of stone with some faded white paint that stretched on with a high arching ceiling with many wooden beams. Not what he would call modern, but good enough.
London had worse places, and it definitely had worse places for a man to drink his mead, but that wasn't what made it strange.
It was the day he decided to revisit the bar, he decided. Never the one to enjoy change, he had simply picked the seat he used last time. That is - the second one from the left side of the room, right behind the ever-present hunchback with a dirty, moth-eaten veil hiding her face and hair.
He wasn't sure why he picked that spot, but it was the only one out of the way and unoccupied. The rest of the seats that were even vaguely secluded were systematically filled with people of all shapes and sizes.
Some wore clothes that seemed more suited to the Victorian Era and cast snide glances to the side as if they thought themselves secret agents, some were all wrapped up and refused to talk to anyone other than Hennigan, some came and never went; all of them acting like this was a perfectly normal thing to do, some absolutely reeked so the secluded seats were understandable, and just once he had laid eyes upon a strange little fellow with baseball-sized eyes and crinkly skin.
That wasn't even the worst part. For one he had a horrendous choice of clothes wear, every time he laid eyes upon him it reminded him of one of his old, moldy pillowcases. For another, he was tiny in height. The head seemed overly large but was attached to a frail body that simply didn't seem to fit. It was like the lad couldn't decide to be a man or a child and ended up with a foul mashup of both.
But what if he was just a lad with some bad luck? Perhaps his hormones had pulverized him rather than run him over. Thinking over it, he decided that the answers were simply not worth the headache. The regal, snobbish man with platinum blond hair so white it must have been dyed called the little lad to his side and proceeded to leave. If his memory had served him well, the man had just finished exchanging heated words with Hennigan. How rude.
He must have stared for too long because he remembers the man pinning him with a cold gaze that reminded him of a serpent and giving a small, disdained sniff. Oh no, best leave it well and alone. Pfft.
Of course, not everyone was an oddity. After some time he found his version of normal being more skewed than he thought it would be.
He personally thought it would be best if he described this bars customer as… Peculiar. Complicated would be a good one, but it just didn't seem to encompass what he saw. Just in case someone asks of course.
Fellow customers they may be, but insult one of your own risks. It was an unspoken rule, and the last time he saw a fight in this bar it ended with Hennigan pulling them both into a convenient alleyway (he knew, he had followed and watched) which had lit up like muted fireworks before abruptly diminishing. Hennigan had walked out alone whistling a merry tune, the man even had a new spring in his step!
He swore the bartender had stuffed something that looked suspiciously like a polished stick into his back pocket before re-entering the bar, but then decided that wasn't possible. After all, whatever he did to them couldn't involve something as preposterous as a polished stick.
Right? Right?
Mulling his hands over his own eyes in frustration, he tipped his mug back and chugged the mead as if his life depended on it. Letting out a satisfied sigh, it took all his remaining willpower to not slam his mug onto the table. The one they call "Mulled-Mead," that they served here was amazing, but then Hennigan went ahead and introduced him to "Bungbarrel Spiced Mead." He soon learned to use it as his own secret weapon against raging headaches. He never failed to feel calm after a mug, it was why he came here every day after work in the first place.
He gave a mental snort.
Just. Like. Magic.
Strange things. Stranger things. Heavens above he would never say them.
He wouldn't say them, but that didn't mean he was stupid.
He could see the bathrobes these people wore, he could see the crooked, bloodied teeth that smelled of decay from the hag-like woman behind him, he could see the looks of loathing and curiosity these people shot at him when they thought he wasn't looking, he could see the outrageous things they deemed wearable in public (was that amour?!) and he could see that knowing look in Hennigan's eyes though the man would deny it through and through.
If it was an elaborate prank to drive him crazy, then he would have to commend them all because it. Was. Working.
Every time he came here, he left just a little bit more insane. Unfortunately, it was the only place in London where they brewed decent mead. All well, a small sacrifice.
After about a year of this places shenanigans, he had determinately dragged one of his friends from work with the promise of good mead. When they had arrived at Charing Cross Road, his friend had suddenly remembered something urgent and bade him farewell. He tried again sometime later with a different friend but this time his friend's mobile phone had rung and he had rushed off after uttering a quick apology.
He tried again, again, again and again and again, but nothing seemed to be working! It was as if something was repelling anyone and everyone he invited to drink with him. Curse his luck!
So now he couldn't even complain about this place without someone asking him why. This lead to him making good on his vow to never tell another soul. As far as people were concerned, it was just a mysterious place where he went and drank decent mead.
Oh, he wished it was alright, but it never came true.
Draining the last of the mead, he thanked whatever deity that existed in this world of his. Not only was it his day off, but nothing abnormal had happened today! Work wasn't a headache for the entire week and he felt peaceful, calm, quiet and pleasant. It was all a man like him could ever ask for.
He was just about to ask for another mug but then his words went and died a premature death.
Standing right in the middle of the entrance was a man he would label "giant," with a monstrosity of a beard and a mane of hair to match. Dressed in a coat with more holes than pockets, his keen beetle eyes were focused on a scrawny, messy haired child who looked no older than eleven. Gently leading the lad into the bar, Hennigan greeted the giant like an old friend.
He sank into his stool and allowed himself to relax a little, realizing he had tensed without noticing. Everything seemed fine and dandy, though he did eye the giant suspiciously. He deigned to order another mug of mead when Hennigan whispered in a tone of awe, "bless my soul, it's Harry Potter!" Then all thoughts of relief in his head came to a grinding halt.
...The lad's a celebrity.
The lad's a celebrity.
He almost knocked over his stool in his haste to leave but stayed long enough to gently lower the stool to the ground. No need to draw any unwanted attention to himself after all.
He then proceeded to sprint out of the bar before something happened. Slamming the door shut - easy does it - he ran off but not before the distant cries of "Harry Potter!" reached his ears.
I spoke too soon. Curses!
He really should have known better; stranger things have happened in that bar.
Author's Note: I honestly don't know where this came from. No idea if there are people out there who have done something similar to this either. If so, I sincerely apologize beforehand. I also apologize for any grammar and spelling mistakes, I'm rather horrible at it. I tried my best to keep this as accurate as possible. Feel free to leave a review and comment, have a nice day! Or night, in which case good luck with sleeping
Some questions that people might ask:
1. How did he not notice Dobby's ears? Or anything about Dobby really.
A: We all know Lucius Malfoy would give him a beating if he embarrassed him in public, so being the devious Dobby he is, he uses a bit of elf magic to make himself seem more human, albeit a strange human.
2. How does this man enter and not get repelled by the magic surrounding The Leaky Cauldron?
A: Beats me, maybe he's a squib who never knew magic. Maybe he's a very special human with special abilities. All in all, Word of God says he's unaffected by the wards. It could be a Just Because. You guys can decide.
3. Why is Tom called "Hennigan?" Does he know that my OC doesn't know about magic?
A: Tom realized that if the OC really doesn't know who he is (it's almost impossible to not know about the owner of The Leaky Cauldron if you shop at Diagon Alley), therefore knowing that the OC isn't at all familiar with the Wizarding World, he decides to give another name just in case him being in his bar is violating some Law of Secrecy, or the OC decides to talk about The Leaky Cauldron to the muggles. He doesn't really care that he may be a muggle, business if business after all. Kinda devious ain't he?