A teaspoon of firewhisky
.
.
Warm beads of sweat gather at the base of my neck. The sticky liquid seeps into my curls, making their shape slacken. I drag a rubber band off a stack of newspapers behind the bar. With a swift movement I tie my dark hair into an unforgiving bun.
"Four butter beers."
My scrawny arms jerk into the mechanical routine of fetching the bottles and unhinging their lids. Agitation needles my skin as the customer rummages for the money. His hard eyes search the pub for something or someone to save him from impending boredom. There's an endless line of people pressed against the bar, hassling to be served next.
It's essential I don't lose the rhythm of the assembly line of drink pouring. If I do that, if I take a moment to glance up at the customers, the stress of catering to an assorted mix of inebriated magical beings will barge over the barrier of the bar and cause my knees to buckle.
Finally the coins skid across the counter. He tosses them without counting them, without acknowledging my existence with a flash of eye contact.
"Keep the change."
"Gee, thanks," I scoff at the petty tip of five knuts. My frustration falls on deaf ears. The teenager with a feathered mess of hair has already embarked on the harrowing journey back to his table. The throng of colliding shoulders quickly swallows him. I sweep the coins carefully off the counter and tuck them deep into the security of my sock. Waste not, want not.
"Florence, slip us a free drink, will you?" Mundungus Fletcher swings himself up onto a bar stool, ignoring the outraged customers he's just barged through. An overly preened woman scowls at him. Dung mimes pulling a flea out of his ruffled hair and flicks it in her direction. At least, I think he's miming. You never can tell with him.
I remember when I first started moving in the same circles as Mundungus. It was at the beginning of my rebellious phase, sparked by the news of my dad's engagement. The hasty engagement gave way to marriage to Fifi LePouf, the top heavy manicurist extraordinaire. Fifi is vile. I tend to latch onto anything that doesn't remind me of her, and Dung is the anti-Fifi, if not the anti-christ.
"Not now, Dung. I'm slightly busy," I say sharply, not bothering to hide my annoyance. I wipe the gathering sweat from my forehead, the physical evidence of my hard work tonight. Hardworking. A reasonable explanation as to why I was sorted into Hufflepuff.
"I've got three knuts. What'll that get me? A teaspoon of firewhisky?" Dung spits gratuitously into a bowl of crisps as Madame Rosmerta emerges from the cellar.
"Florence dear, is this a friend of yours?" She questions in a strained voice, slapping Dung's dirty fingers from a customers back pocket. I stare blankly at his goofy grin.
"No. I don't know him." Loyalty. A gaping contradiction as to why I was sorted into Hufflepuff.
Madame Rosmerta lets me go for the night. I drop my earnings into my other sock and push slowly through the bubbling crowd. More than once my fingers slip into someone else's pocket and lightly pull out a coin with a subtlety Dung just can't grasp. No one notices the slight touch in the pressing crowd and they're unlikely to notice the absence of a few petty coins later.
Waste not, want not.