"Order up!" I yell, my voice filling up the cavern of the pub. I wipe away a dusty strand of hair away from my face and check the name on the receipt taped under the glass. "Malfoy!"
As soon as I holler, there is a shout from the back of the bustling area in response. I spot the blond-haired man in the back, watching the way he throws his head back laughing. The amount of drinks he has ordered is more than what our boss can pay for our salaries. His smile glints in the flickering flames of the candle-lit chandeliers, beckoning me to come towards him. I stride towards him and his friends.
I'm too lazy to make these trips to these lazy-ass people, I think to myself, watching the men of the pub scream out their drunken fantasies. My arms weigh like lead as I carry the tray of mugs to the table where Lucius Malfoy sits with his friends. His head tilts back to greet me in what I suppose could be considered a flirtatious manner, although it seems more like he is asking for a fight.
"Whaddya say, Burns, come to my hotel room tonight?"
The undeniable fact is, Malfoy is considerably hot. If anyone tried to deny this fact, they would be absolutely lying to themselves. Although it is true that he is an inbred aristocrat, it is also true that he is dripping in looks that only Narcissus would bow over for. Considering the age difference though, I would be lying if I say that I want to snog the older man.
"I have my own bed in my flat, Malfoy," I cannot help the grin that slides up my face — an atrocity that my best friend would certainly have me for my head for bantering with a Slytherin. "Why would I need your bed when my teddy bear can warm me up better?"
His mates laugh at him, making him flush red at his attempt. Thank Merlin Malfoy is as stoned as the slurring of his words show me. If he were sober, I would have imagined his eloquence to be more refined. Most of the time, when he shows up sober, his mood is worse than what anyone wants to deal with.
"But Burns," Malfoy presses, sidling up to me. His snow-white skin freezes my hand as he clasps it.. "The fire burning between us — what the bloody hell is this…"
His unintended pun might have made himself cast a spell — though I would deny anything to do with the cause. As a bartender, I am fully aware of how many excuses I have to not get screwed over by the Ministry. After all, the two main factors, though sometimes sexist, help me out of this situation. One, being a girl, and two, the man being drunk. This always works in a witch's favor, and most of the time, the man does not even bother to pursue a lawsuit. Dancing in his reflection of his pupils are flames on his body. Ranging in size, they flicker and crackle in a unsteady rhythm. His face morphs into an expression of fear, resembling a beaten-up tiger. I sink into a sadistic mood, reveling in his terrified look as I turn my back.
When I arrive back at my station, Dirk looks at me, raising an eyebrow. "Did that bloke hit on you again?"
I do not respond, hastily taking another order to avoid the subject; Dirk knows me too well about my common habits. He grins. "I'm starting to get why they call you a pyromaniac, Burns."
Propping his elbow up, he observes how the flames dance on my hand, entranced. The blues of his eyes pop out as the shadows of my face are engulfed by the flame. On the streets, little tricks like this can help anyone, if done right. Whether it is for being a show-stopper or a survival trick, fire is the most important resource that anyone would need after water.
"The Flame-Freezing Charm will protect him," I state calmly, pressing my fingers to my temple — the ones not on fire. "It's not going kill him, if that's what you're trying to say."
That is another reason why he cannot sue me — nothing hurt him in the first place, besides his too-big-for-this-world pride.
"Last year we learned it," he counters, "for the OWLs."
Flushing brightly at his comment, I distract myself by dulling the flames on my hand. The obsession with fire I have has not gone unnoticed by my peers. Last year, Filch had decided to ban any fire in the corridors. There had been a conversation going around if the fire that was on me was considered a Charm or not. Professor Sprout had driven herself crazy trying to make us recover the lost points I gained from accidentally turning into a flaming inferno the corridors.
"Because Professor Sprout was scared that Hogwarts would get the mickey taken out of them by the Ministry if I accidently burnt the student," I point out. "The whole year had to learn it 'cause I can't be trusted to do the spell myself."
He looks carefully at me, cautious of the flames on my fingers. "Just don't get it near me."
Hurt shoots through me. This has been one of the few times that I have played with fire on my hands, enjoying its warmth. Dirk, so far, has been nice about it, not jumping on me about my tendency to spontaneously combust like everyone else does. In the past, I distantly recall the number of first years that ask me every year — too many ("Burns, why did you burn a first year again?").
Every time I make friends, they always recoil at the fact that I am a pyromaniac. It is hard to absorb. After all, wizards and witches should be able to reign in their magic. I sigh. With someone as mentally ill as me, I have no doubt that I am as abnormal as a wizard can get. After all, fire is one of the easiest elements for one to control with their wand. But even my wand cannot restrain the roaring flames of my heart.
There is only so much a badger can take before it bites back.
"Why?" I ask him, raising an eyebrow. "The fire isn't even all that hot."
Probably a couple hundred degrees — not hot at all according to my standards.
"Because of this," he hisses under his breath.
My mouth falls open when I glimpse what is tucked underneath Dirk's jacket. A glistening gold bottle meets my eyes. All my lamenting thoughts are out the window when I realise what he has. Of course, he doesn't want me to light up what could cost around a couple thousand Galleons easily, because alcohol and fire do not mix at all.
Even if Lucius Malfoy frequents our bars on a daily basis, few can order some of the luxurious drinks that are hidden under the bar. If the person was someone special, then the boss would have made us try to convince the person to spill their pockets for us. In this case, I understand why he doesn't want me near him — I'm the fucking paradox that can easily ruin his drink for tonight.
"Holy fucking Merlin," I breath out, "how the hell did you get that?"
Dirk shoots me a silver smile, teasing me. "Nicked it."
As a Hufflepuff myself, Dirk's act astounds me. The two of us are in different houses at Hogwarts. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws are worlds apart, if anyone paid attention. We do not talk to each other, so it would be a pleasant surprise for anyone who saw us here to see us laughing together as friends, rather than badger and eagle — clawing at each other's throats.
Whenever we go to Hogwarts, the distance between us is almost unbelievable. For one thing, our social circles are completely different. His is the smart people, the kind that no commoner like me can reach. Most of the time, they speak complete gibberish. Dirk is the only one of that group that actually can speak more than gibberish — a hell of languages that I, for one, do not speak.
On the other hand, the Hufflepuff stereotype goes to me, which is why Professor Sprout adores me, unless I accidentally burn a plant down. Last year, she was lucky that I only burned a tenth of what I usually burn down by accident. She still tries to find a spell to make all the plants fire-proof to save them from my hands.
"Did one of your 'lady friends' do it for you?" I inquire, making him make a face at me.
"Well… you make me sound dodgy," he frowns, disappointed at my contempt for his fake bravado. "I'd rather think myself as more of the intelligent kind that has mutual attraction."
I enjoy the way he squirms at how well I know him. He would never admit that someone else got it for him.
"With Professor Slughorn," I snort, causing him to send me a dirty look.
He shoots out a filthy rag at my face, missing me by a couple centimeters. I dodge it, ignoring the other customers' reactions. By tomorrow, it will not matter because we will not be working — thank Merlin. For each week, we work eighty-four tireless hours in front of faithless customers. Tips are easy to come by since the two of us know our ways with wizards.
There is a few yells up in the front of the bar, and I groan, sending my flickering flame into air. Dirk sends me a sympathetic look, knowing how much I dread these, but yet, it is my turn. The two of us take turns breaking up the bar fights, usually coming out of there with a few bruises to brag about. Once, when Dirk just started out here, he had gotten a good shiner. Unlike him, I have been lucky enough to not get injuries. I suppose it is also partly because Dirk has grown up with all these safety barricades around him to the point where he has never been in a physical fight. Me, on the other hand, has encountered fights enough to the point where I am immune to the oddity of it occurring.
"Break up, you lot!" I announce. "Otherwise I will have you burned at stake!"
Of course, like all men, they don't take me seriously. I look down at my hands, flames flickering in an instant. I could technically do it. The participants in the fight ignore me, continuing to brawl for no apparent reason. Men… I muse over this, wondering how did I ever even think I could just be a diplomat with them. The brutality they are showing is almost about to break the table they are wrestling. Dirk mouths at me a warning, telling me that I don't have very long until the boss will wake up above to a nuisance that none of his bartenders have stopped yet.
I observe the dark-haired, bespectacled boy at hand. He sits on the side, looking at his watch patiently. His eyes, on the other hand, tell a different story. There is a certain wildness that he has yet to reveal to the public, and I have a inkling that I don't want to know what it is. As if he knows that I am looking at him, his gaze latches onto mine, almost unnerving me.
"You havin' trouble with that lot?" he inquires, running his hand through his hair with an air of confidence. "I could, you know, help you."
Allowing people to help me would lose the purpose of my job. I want my pride to stay intact, rather than for some stranger for do something for me and go loose without any strings attached to what they did. He seems oddly confident that I will ask for his help — as if.
I smile awkwardly. "No, thank you. I'd rather do my job, you know, breaking up these fights."
"Have you been in these fights before? You have a big frame."
My back stiffens, as if I'm a child refrained by their parents. If it were that obvious, I'd have joined in an instant. He is right, though. These things are second nature to me, even if it wouldn't appear that way. My fights come in and out. Most of the time, I come out with a few bruises but with a confident smile saying that I won.
"Big?" my voice sounds higher than usual, my throat feeling a little tighter than usual. "Is there something wrong with that?"
If he's calling me "big," then I have a lot of things to say about the scale factor between us — ginormous. It is one thing to say that I am big… but him? I think of a dozen ways to retort with a snappy tongue. Dirk sends me another warning look, one that I pretend not to notice. Who is he to stop me from punching one pretentious, fucking —
He flushes immediately. "I didn't mean it in that way. Your body is more muscular than a typical girl's body would be. It can handle all kinds of stresses. Good for a Beater, actually."
"You, a Quidditch player?"
"Nah, just an amateur," he comments, doing his odd habit again of running his fingers in his hair. "I'm the captain of our school team."
I roll my eyes at his shameless modesty. In Hogwarts, anyone would be bragging about their house's Quidditch team. He looks at ease, watching all these men battle it out drunk. His eyes aren't bloodshot or anything like that, rather soft. So just another wingman… Another creak of protest comes from the wooden table as soon as the man's body hits the table, and I know it's my turn to step in. The last time I let a table crack under pressure cost a few hundred Galleons.
"You might want to get my mate first," the mysterious man points out, flicking his head towards the scowling teenage boy that seems to be the center of the fight. "Once you get 'im, the rest will be out."
I start to notice the slight not-British accent to his tone. There is more of a warmth to it than a normal Brit. It sounds more of the kind that one would hear at Hogwarts, but again, he could be attending Durmstrang for I know. The students and graduates hate being mixed with Hogwart students, claiming their superiority.
"How do you know?" I say, my eyes guarded. For all I know, he's trying to prove a point to embarass me about being "big." My cheeks flush at the memory of his unfiltered comment, blowing my ego to pieces.
"Because he started it. Now stop them before he needs to pay for the table."
"Okay, Mr. Bossypants," I send him an irritated look, not bothering to hide my irked feelings. "When did you become my boss?"
"When you looked like that you were about to lose your job. Merlin, woman, you'd better get a move on before —"
His voice shuts up as soon as I flick my hand up to silence him.
"Hush, I'm going to save my job before my boss wakes up because of the ruckus."
The thing about fights is that one must always judge their opponents severely, not underestimating or overestimating them for who they are. Over the years of living on the streets, I would know, seeing the amount of fights I have been in.
The dodgy boy that the four-eyed man pointed out earlier is a decent fighter. I observe his fluid motions, scooping off his competitors. If he continues, he would have to pay a hell lot for his health and the table. This kind of fighting is what makes my job as a bartender worse than it should be. The other men get fooled by his motions every time. He brushes the other men away like they are miniscule flies to him.
Shit. This one is going to leave a few bruises on me. I pride myself on not getting hurt in stopping bar fights, but this time, my ongoing streak seems to be faltering.
In one motion, I dart onto the table, almost toppling as I squat. He falls onto his fours as someone tries to jump on him, only to sail onto the ground. I grip his elbows tightly.
He tries to shake me off. For a moment, I stumble at his strength — stronger than a drunk man — and land on my right shoulder on the table. But unlike the rest of these men, I am sober, allowing me to bounce right up. I ignore the throbbing of my right shoulder, focusing in on the kill. After all, the boss will be pissed if any damages are made to the property — not me. His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed with a pinkish-red. His shoulders rise and fall with hasty breaths. I lean forward like a dove ready for flight, my head tipped back to receive the blow that he shoves into my neck.
Hook, line and sinker.
Perfect. I grin, using the force to blow my arms under his armpits and grabbing the elbow farthest away from me to force him to try to roll out of my grip. He bucks under the pressure like a bull, swaying every way possible. I ignore the way the smell beer hits my nose, the aroma almost sickening to me. He rolls off the table with me, and I land easily on him with a thump! on the floor.
Almost instantly, the party disperses, some even stopping to thank me for stopping the "delinquent boy that attacked us" for them. It sounds like someone needed to get some energy out. I glare at the bespectacled boy as I gingerly remove the other man's arm from me. He wears a leather jacket, pulling off the stereotypical bad boy look easily.
Returning my glare with a smile, he stands up, brushing off his shoulder with a sigh. He meets the other man's eyes, nodding at him. The man who wears a leather jacket looks smug, as if he has won jackpot. Of course, as I think to myself, he should. After all, he just got a kick out of fighting people. I envy him; fighting for enjoyment is a luxury to anyone who is living in poverty. Most people in that field have to fight for entertainment "underground" to satisfy the rich folks. London has plenty of that — I would know that myself very well. I wince in pain as I roll my shoulders back, hearing a crack. My right shoulder is throbbing slightly. I make a note to myself to get something for myself later.
"Why didn't you stop him in the first place?" I jump to my feet, ignoring the person's smirk.
"Because I was curious to how well you fought," he shrugs. "I would've stepped in if the situation required me to. And I was right, you do have a Beater's ethic. The name's James Potter, future seventh year."
"Should I care?" I raise my eyebrow at Potter as I examine myself — bruises starting to blossom. His hair falls down in mischievous spirals that fall back as he tilts back his head in amusement.
For some reason, at the sound of his name, there is a familiar ring to that is some obligation that pulls me to try to remember who he is. If he were in the Daily Prophet, I would have noticed for sure, seeing that I read it every day. Everything about him, now that I examine him closer, is actually very familiar.
"That bloke over there is Sirius Black."
"Like I said, I don't really care."
On the other hand, that name rings a louder bell in my mind. So this is what the infamous Black looks like.
At Hogwarts, most students are well-equipped. Whether we know it or not, we are blessed to be born with magic because there is absolutely no way you can go unemployed in the wizarding world. In Black's case, he is especially one of the betters of us because he was born with a gold spoon in his mouth (or as rumour says).
It would be a lie if I say that I am not envious of him. With Black, everything he has received is the result of having good fortune. His aristocratic family is practically the talk of the wizarding world. Actually, most pure-bloods are the talk of the wizarding world because they have more drama than all the muggle soap operas that exist in the world. I recall the gossip that I see in the Witch Weekly, all the illegitimate children that spring out of nowhere from poor women who are seen as "whores" by the rest of the world. The first years at Hogwarts are shielded from this information, as we older students weed it out for them, ripping some pages that can violate their precious minds. As they get older, there is no guarantee that we can stop them from learning of the atrocities that our world hides from them.
Dirk watches me closely from a distance, his eyebrows raised. I beckon him towards me, which he obliges. His eyes are wary as he talks to Potter who sits on top of the table, legs crossed. Black still is groaning in pain from the impact that the fall had on him, probably because he is intoxicated. He lies on the bench, right underneath Potter's feet.
"Potter," Dirk slaps Potter on the back with great excitement, grinning.
Potter returns the gesture, hugging Dirk like a friend. "Cresswell."
"You two know each other?"
Dirk's mouth falls out open incredulously, but he snaps it shut, remembering who he is talking to. Conversely, I am the kind of person that is unobservant of the events that happen at Hogwarts. It normally takes me a few months to notice a couple or a break-up. If it takes me that long, it is not a surprise to figure out how long it takes me to figure out the popularity figures at school — forever. It is not like anyone bothers to socialize with me at school.
"That's right," Potter brightens up, glancing at Dirk. "You don't know me, Burns."
"And you know my name?"
"Well, it's on your nametag," he says while pointing at my shirt. "I'm from Hogwarts, Gryffindor. S'pose you don't go there, since you don't even know me…"
His arrogance bleeds into the conversation I watch how he talks like another Scot. For a moment, I wonder how I never noticed his Gryffindor antics — taking the initiative of telling me what to do and bossing me around. I muse over it; he could have been mistaken for a Ravenclaw if I didn't know better.
"I'm a Hufflepuff — Mina Burns," I hold out my hand, trying to bite down my animosity for the Gryffindor. "Future sixth year."
"Like Burns — like the first year that burned their broomstick because she was scared to fly?" Potter cocks his head and studies me, his glasses gleaming in the dim light of the bar.
If that is the only thing known of me, I might as well get out of Hogwarts. For one thing, burning a broomstick does not necessarily mean I am scared of heights. The way that my body sits on a broomstick really does hurt. Nowadays, I still ponder how do male Quidditch players have no reaction to how the broomstick castrates themselves in the midst of flying.
During first year, I had kept saying "up" to the broomstick, hating its stubbornness. It communicated its disgruntlement towards me with little head shakes when Madam Hooch's head was turned. In return, I had burned it a bit, making Madam Hooch ban me from flying on the pitch ever again. The rumor is exaggerated, partly because I had had the nerve back then to insult a seventh year's ego and broomstick.
Dirk starts to catch onto my growing dislike for the Gryffindor. His slight shake of the head pushes me a little further to screw Potter over even more. "Yeah, and like Burns, the girl who almost burned down the Gryffindor locker room."
Alas, it is the very reason I am now a clinically diagnosed pyromaniac. Because of that very incident, the Ministry had involved themselves because of the property damages. All my Hogsmeade visits are now considered void, and in exchange, I am required to attend meetings with a therapist to discuss my growth as a person. The therapist and I get along mutually, and I barely survive the session, having homework to do and such. If she discovered my behavior at school as a unbearable person to talk to, I would have a lot more on my plate than I could ever handle.
As the conversation continues, the crowd of men start to dwindle, becoming bored in their drunken state. There is no excitement in our conversation, just idle gossip and retorts that get middle-aged men bored easily. It would have been trouble for both me and Dirk if the boss found out that we had let a fight continue longer than it was supposed to.
"Pipe it down a notch or two, Burns," Black groans, sitting up straight. His posture is perfect, as if someone has sticked a rod up his ass. "I think the whole world has heard you."
His hair looks perfect, little spirals falling down to complement his waxy skin. Strangely enough, he looks attractive even when he is recovering from his drunken state. Remnants of beer dribble down his lips almost like silken honey. The image is striking, although I hide my feelings by grabbing a napkin for Black and handing it to him. He looks down at it in confusion, and I point towards his lips.
"As if," I snort, running my fingers through my hair. "It's your fault, Black, that you even got drunk in the first place. At least karma's a bitch."
"Language," Dirk chastises me lightly, making me grin in return. "Sirius, though… getting drunk before the first day of school. I thought you were better than that."
I share a look with him, agreeing with him. One would have thought that someone would have the smarts to remember that having a hangover is not good for the first day of school. I shudder at the thought of Professor Sprout. I have seen more than my fair share of hangover students getting busted by her.
"Ah, ah, ah," Black looks more awake as he talks — signs of a narcissist, if I ever have seen one. He wags his finger playfully, much to me and Dirk's chagrin. "Minnie will never find out. Hangovers for me are practically non-existent."
The way he addresses Professor McGonagall is very familiar. I imagine myself for a moment calling Professor Sprout "Pomona." The mental image of the after-event is disorientating. There is a subtle difference between students and staff in anywhere. Black probably does not respect anyone, by the looks of it. I repress any negative thoughts bubbling out of me. One would have thought that he would have some respect towards his superiors, judging by his upbringing.
The two of us look at Potter for confirmation in the honesty of this statement. He nods sagely, glancing down at his mate. "Padfoot is some kind of superbeing when it comes to this."
I make a face, observing Black. "Are you sure? 'Cause I can scream some more, if you want. The only thing stopping me is my boss who is snoozing upstairs."
"You have a bloody set of lungs that can shatter windows even when you talk normally," he looks incredulously at me, his smirk taunting me. "Of course someone will get a headache from that."
I have to restrain myself mentally before speaking, reminding myself that Black is partially drunk. This means that his behavior will be completely annoying for me overall. Otherwise, flames might as well shoot out of my hands and possibly burn Black to ashes. Thinking of the boss' expression, I shake the thought out of my head. If I want to get my paycheck in time and return to my job next summer, I cannot make this fatal mistake of burning down Black as annoying as he may be.
"You're just making my day," I mumble, rolling my shoulders around once more to help with the soreness. The crack comes to me in a satisfying manner, but I hear a pop, making me yelp. "Ah, fuck!"
Three pairs of eyes immediately come to me as I cradle my right arm. Dirk's expression transforms to concern when he sees my state. Pain spikes in my right side, causing black dots to dance along my vision
"Sirius… did you hit her?" Dirk asks, looking at Black with narrowed eyes. He grabs onto me, causing me to let go of my right arm with a grimace. "What the bloody hell did you do to her?"
His fingers gently probe my arm, and I swear I feel myself shatter into a million pieces at his touch.
Black cocks his head at Dirk, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. "What do you mean 'what did I do to her?' I did nothing but get a beating."
"You fractured her elbow, that's what you did."
AUTHOR'S NOTE
I'm new to , so I don't really understand it much at all, to be honest. I'm used to using wattpad, which is completely different than this writing platform. However, this platform actually helps with writing, which I need help with. I'm writing in my norm, which is Harry Potter, my childhood series. Although it is written in third-person, I do hope that this does not stray from the canon too much. This will be updated every two weeks on Saturday!
Please review and favorite, if you do enjoy it! If you don't, well, I really do hope that you can write a review so I understand what aspect of my writing needs help in.
Thank you!
- JoJo