Chapter Three:
The New Year heralded a change in pace at the Three Broomsticks. Apparently, attendance at the pub had been erratic over the holiday period. Harry was soon enlightened. There was a group of clientele, largely ministry employees, whom Harry could only describe as 'confirmed bachelors', who came in for breakfast most days of the week. Mr Leith was on particularly good terms with a few of them, and Harry even recognised one or two faces from the ministry, one might even have been at his trial. A particularly stocky, slightly freckled, gentleman turned out to be a man referred to only as 'Perkins' and Harry thought he might have worked along side Mr Weasley at the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. Mrs Cuffe continued to sit at her table by the door each morning — Harry wondered if she had any family. Throughout the day there would be sporadic flurries of activity; sometimes friends or acquaintances would be meeting up, business lunches took place and sometimes a mother just wanted to get out of the house with her children. In the evening there were the regulars, like Bilius Weasley, and those who came in immediately after work to socialise. The pub saw quite a cross section of wizarding Britain. Friday and Saturday nights were the busiest and it was on these nights that Harry witnessed some of the livelier situations that occurred in the Three Broomsticks.
There was one particular incident a few days into January that stuck keenly in Harry's mind for several days following. It was a Friday evening, Rosmerta was out the back organising a new keg of mulled mead, and Harry was collecting used glasses from the tables. A dark haired customer, wearing a pointed beard and a caped sort of cloak, who Harry had recently furbished with a glass of red currant rum, walked, in an exaggerated manner toward a table near the stairs. He stopped and looked down at the table's occupant, a well presented man who was probably on the shadier side of forty.
"You." Red-currant-rum kicked a table leg. "You're in my seat."
The seated man glanced around, peering through dark, square rimmed spectacles that sat on a somewhat shapeless nose, "There are other empty seats, sir."
"No seat in here is fit for you, Squib. Get up." Glowered the first man.
A frown formed between thick eyebrows, "I'm sorry?"
"Up. NOW!"
Harry put down the tray he was putting glasses on, glancing round he noted other patrons were either staring rather too fixedly into their drinks or watching the proceeding, round eyed. He edged closer.
"I think you've mistaken me for…"
The bearded man brought his glass of rum down on the table with a great 'slam!' causing a bottle of butter beer to fall and smash on the floor. The bespectacled man jumped back in his chair a little.
"UP!"
With a jerk the victim in this not-even-remotely-intoxicated bar-room brawl stood.
"Hey!" Yelled Harry. Simultaneously two pairs of eyes turned on him, one glowering, the other wide with apprehension. "Mr.. Um.. ?" He raised his eyes brows in question at the victim.
"Whitehorn."
"Mr Whitehorn, please, sit back down. You, Mr…?"
"What's it to you, boy?" Growled the bully
Harry ignored this. "Look, either you calm down and take a seat away from Mr Whitehorn, or you leave."
"I've been bringing valuable business to this place for forty years and Cyathus knows it. You won't be telling me what to do." This man was reminding Harry increasingly of Uncle Vernon.
He sighed. "Yes, I will. I'm telling you to take a seat somewhere else."
Above his greying beard, the nameless man's nostrils twitched, and Harry's well trained instincts kicked in. Placing his wand hand firmly upon his wand's grip he held still, waiting. In a laboured motion the bully plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out a short, dark coloured wand and brandished it at Harry.
"Make me, you impudent idiot."
With a practiced flick of his wrist, and a brief arc of red light that Harry was overly familiar with, Harry held the man's wand in his hand.
Pocketing his own wand and holding the other aloft, Harry said, "I will give this back to you at the door."
There was a pause, while the bully glared daggers at him. Harry glared back. With a huff the bully marched to the door of the pub. Flinging it open, he stepped into the snow and turned to look back in at Harry.
"Well?! Give me my wand!"
Walking over, Harry handed the wand back and shut the door firmly in his face. Mr Whitehorn, he saw, had sat back down and every eye in the place was on Harry. He felt himself flush a little.
Rosmerta, who had returned at some point, no doubt due to the raised voices, waved Harry over to the bar and, handing him a bottle of butter beer smiled at him and said, "My hero. Give this to him." She indicated Mr Whitehorn with a nod of her head. "On the house."
A routine was soon established; Harry was responsible for breakfast on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday and worked through past the lunch hour. From Thursday onward he joined Rosmerta at the bar in the afternoon until closing. Monday was his day off. The first Monday off, after a quick trip via floo down to the Leaky Cauldron and into muggle London to find some decent trousers that were most definitely not bell bottoms, he wandered along to the Shrieking Shack. Harry knew, in order to find out more about time travel, he had three options; do the research himself, ask Albus Dumbledore, or ask the Department of Mysteries.
The latter two seemed incredibly risky — he couldn't trade on his name for help as how could they possibly know who 'The-Boy-Who-Lived' was. To freely ask anyone for details of time travel might be to give up any control he had on his life in this time. Even if he could put his memories in a pensieve to prove his time travel Harry did not pretend to know the inner workings of Professor Dumbledore's great mind; what might the Dumbledore of the 1960's consider to be for 'The Greater Good'? The Department of Mysteries was, of course, part of the ever fickle and unpredictable establishment. The Ministry was as subject to the tides of change as any individual. He rather thought there was a very high chance he might be locked up, by either party, to prevent 'temporal anomalies' and to let 'fate play its course'. Harry didn't like this idea. Without control he couldn't get home, nor could he deal with Mouldy-Voldy, temporal anomalies be damned. He wanted to see Ginny again, not be prevented for doing so, and if the very worst happened and he couldn't get back, he'd damn well make sure the countless people who died in both the wizarding wars had a better fighting chance this time round. He would also like to see Hermione put those changes she had planned for the Ministry in place while Harry actually got paid to round up one or two minor Dark Wizards who paled in comparison to Voldemort. So, Harry had concluded it was only practical to do the research himself. This, he knew, would involve getting into the Hogwart's library.
The shack, he realised as he rounded a bend in the path through the woods was not a shack at all. It stood proudly before its picturesque white backdrop. It looked to be in reasonably good repair — although perhaps it could do with a new paint job. The windows, though dulled a little with dirt, were not boarded up and a slightly rusty knocker hung on the door, still firmly on its hinges. He supposed, before the shacks use as a kind of quarantine for lycanthropy it had not actually been considered to be 'shrieking'. It must be another two years or so until the marauders start Hogwarts. Momentarily, he wondered if he might meet them.
He approached cautiously, wary of wards, but found little happened. Out of war time and in an all magical village like Hogsmeade perhaps there was little need for them. On closer inspection (Harry smashed his face to the window) the shack did not look to be inhabited. Although furnished, he could see the large claw footed dining table was coated in a heavy layer of dust. Through another window he saw a cluttered sitting room, there was a chair that looked like it might have been a piece that had littered the floor of the shack during his Hogwarts years, shredded by the claws of a werewolf.
He gave the window a jiggle. Unsurprisingly, it didn't budge. After a quick look around he wrapped the edge of his plain woollen cloak around his fist and hit the window. Hard. With the force of what felt like four bludgers hitting his chest Harry sailed backwards landing on his back several meters from the shack. All air expelled from his lungs it took him a moment his breath back. That sort of ward was not mentioned in the Auror's 'Stealth and Tracking' course. Most wards, apparently, acted over areas as a whole. In domes. Bugger. He had been hoping getting into the shack would be easier than it appeared it was going to be. Breaking into Honeydukes' cellar seem infinitely more reprehensible somehow.
Dejectedly, Harry returned to the Three Broomsticks.
Mr Leith, working the slow Monday, was giving a wave of his wand to affix a heavy piece of parchment to the section of the wall allocated for public notices. It was large, dwarfing the advertisements for entries into the British Isles Witches Duelling Championship and the sale of a litter of kneazles, and in big, carefully penned letters read 'Mr Cyathus Leith is considering offers of purchase for the Three Broomsticks Inn'.
Harry blinked. "You're selling?!" He blurted.
Smiling genially, Mr Leith replied, "Aye, but dinnae worry, laddie. This howf has aye be'n a howf."
That, thought Harry, was decidedly unhelpful.
Nothing seemed to come of the advertisement over the next few days. For now, Harry seemed to still be gainfully employed. He supposed that even if Mr Leith did sell he might not lose his job. However, on their next shift together Rosmerta was decidedly less up beat than usual. She didn't seem to speak unless it was to a customer and her eyes had a tendency to flick toward the evidence of Mr Leith's seriously questionable decision, then her lips would purse like she'd selected a really bad every-flavour bean.
"Hey, Rosmerta?" Harry attempted to stimulate conversation.
"Mmm?"
"I've been reading your Mum's section of the Prophet."
"Oh?"
"Yea," Harry persevered. "Did you know people's pets write in?"
Silence.
"Seriously. Yesterday, there was one that read 'I am an owl now. I was only an owlet when I wrote to you last'. That sort of thing."
"Oh."
"And I think some teenagers are using it to flirt. Some bloke wrote 'Did I ever say to you Dot that I despised girls?…I think they are all 'much of a muchness'. But that isn't despising them.' Your mother was outraged at his insensitivity."
"Huh."
Harry gave up. Bilius Weasley wasn't reminded once to pay upfront that night.
The first major anomaly in Harry's work routine occurred on the last weekend of January. It was a Hogsmeade weekend for the Hogwart's students and suddenly a parade of infinitely more familiar faces descended upon the Three Broomsticks to binge on butterbeer and trample snow across Mr Leith's polished floor. Harry and Rosmerta stacked crates of butterbeer behind the counter in preparation, and even Mr Leith, who usually kept himself to the mornings, turned up to help serve the crowds.
The first student entered at around eleven o'clock. A Hufflepuff. Could she have a butter beer please? Yes she could. That'll be one sickle. Harry felt like a stuck record for most the day.
At one point, he became uncomfortably aware that a table nearby was giggling. At him! A blonde girl, in a Ravenclaw tie, kept glancing over her shoulder. Then, turning back to the rest of the group, would sort of titter, then more giggling would follow and the whole table would look at him.
"Rosmerta," he whispered in hushed tones. "Is there something on my face?"
"Yes, love. Those beautiful eyes."
The giggling got louder and Harry saw lines form around Rosmerta's own eyes — they were a nice blue — as she grinned.
"I think that table over there might need more butterbeer, don't you? Why don't you go and find out?" She gestured, with an obvious flourish, toward the gigglers.
Harry felt eerily reminded of the Yule Ball. Only this time he was older than the giggling school girls, and it was weird.
Uncomfortably he made his way over to the table. One girl, a blonde, kept on giggling.
He cleared his throat, "Can I get you some more to drink?"
"Oh yes," said the Ravenclaw. "I could definitely do with a long… cool… drink."
They all erupted into giggles. Merlin's beard. Did Ginny ever have this phase? Harry hoped not!
"Great, well, I'll get you a butterbeer then! What about the rest of you?"
"They'll have what I'm having. We're very good at sharing things." Said the Ravenclaw. Oddly no giggling followed this and all their eyes diverted to his left.
A stern voice said, "Girls."
"Professor!" Minerva McGonagall, dark hair tied up in her signature bun, and a hat perched primly on her head had arrived at the Three Broomsticks.
"You have their order then?" This was directed to Harry.
"Um… Yes."
"Well then, go and get it."
Harry barely stopped himself from replying with a hurried "Yes, Professor." Instead he nodded and returned to the bar.
"You," he informed Rosmerta a little bit stiffly, "will be delivering butterbeer to that table. McGonagall thinks I'm cradle-snatching."
And Rosmerta, apparently temporarily back on form, had the gall to say with a wink, "Do you prefer your women older then?"
Over the course of the day Harry suspected he saw the youthful faces of some of the members of the original Order of the Phoenix. He was positive he saw Alice Longbottom, although, of course, Longbottom wasn't her name yet. There was a blonde Gryffindor he suspected might be Marlene McKinnon — it was hard to tell, he'd only ever seen one picture of her. He saw a few death eaters too, Amycus Carrow had come in with what could only be a group of Slytherins. There was a round-faced boy who looked a little bit like Alastor Moody, although Harry was sure that it wasn't Alastor himself. A black boy, messily dressed, looked very much like both Jonas and Lee Jordan. And a tall gangly youth looked surprisingly similar to Millicent Bulstrode, Millicent herself had been much squatter. It was surprising, Harry thought, how many relatives of people he had known in the future whom he had never seen or heard of. He supposed that made sense, it seemed like the number of students was much larger than Harry's time at Hogwarts. People did not, after all, rush to have children in the middle of a war, coupled with the deaths of would-be parents it was hardly surprising the birth-rate had lowered.
The arrival of two older, identical, red-headed boys seemed to cause a bit of a stir in the already louder than usual inn. A table of people in a far corner had been waiting for them and hailed them on their entrance.
"Fabian! Gideon! Over here!"
Oh, Harry realised. It was Mrs Weasley's brothers – Fred and George senior.
"Hello! Chaps!" Said Fred, or Gideon and then, in true Fred and George fashion, they continued.
"What are we…"
"…All drinking then?"
"Butterbeer?"
"Thought we might try…"
"…some fire whiskey ourselves."
It was scary really, Harry thought. Fred and George had turned out just like their Uncles. Rosmerta was nearest and headed over to take their orders. Harry felt a little relieved.
"What can I get you today, troublemakers?"
The twins faces split into identical charming grins when they saw her and launched into their double act. "Ah. Rosmerta…"
"Looking beautiful today."
"As ever."
"When will you say yes?"
"To a date."
"With one of us?"
"Or both!"
Rosmerta laughed good naturedly. "I don't think even both of you together could handle me." Someone nearby wolf-whistled.
"It's the new barman, isn't it?" Several pairs of eyes turned Harry's way, he shifted a awkwardly on his feet.
"He's wooed you away from us all." Chimed in the other twin, an exaggeratedly morose expression on his face.
"A little on the short side, don't you think, Gideon?"
"Indeed, I do, Fabian."
"Maybe it's that beard. We can grow beards, Rosmerta."
"Or those glasses."
A sigh. "It's the studious yet manly, look isn't it?" Harry wondered what Hermione would have to say about that assessment of him.
"Studious? Rosmerta, just think how much more fun you would have with us."
"Yes. We're told we're very good company. Right?" The twin looked inclusively at the occupants of their table. They all nodded dutifully.
"Besides, we're very manly."
"We are?"
"We are."
"Oh. We are. See, Rosmerta — you really should say yes."
"To the date."
Rosmerta assumed a serious expression and said with great gravity. "I'm sorry boys, but Harry here has another attribute that I'm afraid you just can't compete with."
"Oh-Ho!" Said one twin, the others eyebrow's lifted suggestively. Harry contemplated suddenly remembering something that needed doing out the back soon.
"Yes," continued Rosmerta. "He's old enough to drink fire whiskey. Two butterbeers then, boys?"
Merlin's beard, Harry sighed in relief. He was sure he had been about to suffer through very public references to his 'wand-work'.
Harry it seemed was fated to run into almost every single one of Ron and Ginny's relatives. No sooner had the last of the Hogwarts students meandered out the door towards the castle allowing Harry and Rosmerta to cast a few quick scourgifies across the table tops than the usual sort of evening clientele began to wander in from the cold. This heralded the return of Arthur Weasley and his new bride. Mrs Weasley, it turned out, had been very trim in her youth albeit just as short. While her body had changed with age and six pregnancies her personality, it seemed, had not. She was less maternal, not yet having children to worry about. But, just as ferocious as Harry had known her to be.
"Rosmerta!" she declared upon entering. Mr Weasley followed behind her. "How have you been?"
Rosmerta's face, although approachable, looked marginally less thrilled in Harry's opinion. "Molly. I'm very well, thank you. How was the honeymoon?"
Mrs Weasley took a seat on a stool at the bar. "Oh it was just marvellous, thank you. We stayed in a lovely hotel in Egypt, it had the most beautiful view of the pyramids. Arthur just loved it, didn't you dear? Why, on the first night we…."
Mr Weasley pulled a bit of a face at Harry. "Glad to see you're back on your feet, old chap. Bilius said you'd got a job here."
"Yes. It was a bit of a rough night. Thank you, for your help. Congratulations, by the way. On the wedding," responded Harry. He felt a bit awkward. Mr Weasley had always been a father figure to Harry and here he was, more or less Harry's own age, being matey.
Mr Weasley nodded, "Thanks. We've got to save up for a house now of course."
"Oh." Harry paused, 'adult' discussions about finances were never something he had much experience with. "Well, what sort of place are you looking for?"
"Big enough for us and one or two children, I suppose. We want a few you see."
Harry grinned. "Yea." The Weasleys were good parents. "Well, there's always a few nice places down by Ottery St. Catchpole," he continued knowledgeably.
"Devon?" Mr Weasley queried. "You know I hadn't thought…I've always been a midlands chap, you know?"
"It's nice down there. The weather's quite mild. It's always good for quidditch."
Mr Weasley's eyes lit up. "I suppose it would be! Speaking of quidditch, what do you think of McCormack being named captain of the Prides? I'm not convinced it'll lead to much myself."
Harry frowned. He was pretty sure he'd read about that in 'Quidditch through the Ages'. Catriona McCormack had captained the Pride of Portree in the 60's he was certain. Hadn't her son been in the Weird Sisters? He thought the Prides had won the British and Irish League at least twice during her captaincy. "I shouldn't think it'll be so bad."
"Well, I'm a Canons fan myself."
Harry was about to reply when Mrs Weasley's voice became a little louder, "Really?!"
Rosemerta was nodding. "Yes."
"Well, that'll be a shame for you, won't it?"
Rosmerta's eyes seemed to narrow slightly. "I shouldn't think I'm guaranteed to lose my job," she retorted.
"If he does manage to sell… You never know. You wouldn't want that would you, dear?"
"Can I get you two something to drink?" Rosmerta asked, including Mr Weasley in the question.
"Oh, yes. We'll take a glass of gillywater each please."
"I'll bring it to your table."
Nodding Mr Weasley led his wife to a table near the windows. It was snowing outside again, Harry noted.
When the Weasley's had moved away Rosmerta let out a huff.
"What?" Asked Harry.
"That woman. Well, she's still a girl really."
"Huh?"
"She's convinced I'm out to steal Arthur, as if he weren't ten years my junior."
Harry blinked. Well he supposed Mrs Weasley might have sounded a little terse, but only if he thought about it quite hard.
"Bloody Prewetts. They're all full of themselves, the lot of them."
Harry didn't know what to say. It turned out he didn't need to say anything. After a brief pause, during which Rosmerta pursed her lips, she continued thoughtfully. "Harry?"
"Yes?" He asked cautiously.
"How are you financially? I think we should buy the Inn."
Harry almost choked on his own saliva as he breathed in. "We?!"
