Tom had been worried when Albus Dumbledore had sat down across from the Russian in the booth, and their whispered conversation only increased his wariness. The bartender was nervous, his hands trembling, making more noise with his glasses than he intended. The drunken man with the snowy white hair at his bar seemed to have become more intoxicated, and it irked Tom that he couldn't keep his full attention on the Professor.
In fact, Tom had had to watch the drunken man at his bar more than he would have liked, because the young man in the old bomber jacket had already knocked into another customer as he leaned back on his stool. Tom was angry when he had to make his other customer another drink, and angrier that he had to help the drunken man back onto his stool. He was fuming with the white haired youth because the moment he turned his head back to the table Dumbledore had occupied, the Professor had gone, leaving his black bearded acquaintance behind.
Tom saw Albus once more as he neared the door. Dumbledore had, for the first time that night, turned his attention to the perceptive bartender, and had given Tom the sternest, and possibly the most frightened look that he had ever seen on the Professor's face. Tom was now absolutely sure something was going on. He had also thought that he had seen the drunken man at his bar watch Dumbledore go as well. In fact, he was sure he had glimpsed a spark of intelligence and intention in the drunk man's large blue eyes. For the first time, Tom was starting to suspect that the man in the old bomber jacket sitting at his bar, the man whom Tom had had to keep his eye on all night, might be something more than he pretended to be. But the moment Dumbledore left, the drunken youth turned back to his drink, and the sullen haze he had allowed himself to slip into. Maybe, Tom construed, the man had thought it odd that someone would wear an emerald cloak.
The bartender was so intent on watching the white haired youth that he had not been aware that the Russian had left his far corner booth, and had weaved his way through the crowd to Tom's bar. The bartender was surprised by this change, but was even more surprised when the stranger had asked for Tom himself. The dark haired Russian was agitated, sweating large drops of anxiety, that much Tom could see. His arms were wrapped vice like around his chest as if he intended to keep the blustering night out. Tom moved down the bar towards the frightened man, who leaned over the countertop, his large black eyes focused on the bartender as if Tom was his only salvation. As Tom Sr. passed the sullen white haired youth that had so irritated him before, he noticed an odd silence surrounded the young man. It seemed as if old bomber jacket was quite keen to listen to Tom and the Russian's conversation.
Tom reached Dumbledore's acquaintance, a mug and a rag still in his hand. The Russian leaned over his bar even more, smudging the mahogany countertop that the bartender had just cleaned. Tom could smell the tired Russian's fear as it mingled with his alcohol tinged sweat.
"Are you Tom?" stuttered the Russian.
"I am," Tom said tersely.
"Professor Dumbledore said that he would like you to personally show me where your backroom is."
Tom stepped back a bit. His pub was larger than most, but not large enough to hold a backroom. All he had was a back alley, lined with bulging trash bins of yesterday's trash, but this wasn't the first time he had received such an odd request. Tom nodded, and strode out from behind his bar. He led the Russian through the crowd, and as he passed his dishwasher boy, he pointed to the unattended bar. The boy nodded, and filled in Tom's usual post. As the dishwasher boy arrived behind the counter, he thought it odd when a tall, young man with untidy white-blond hair got up, quickly slapped a few bills down and pushed his way through the crowd, heading in the same direction as the bartender.
As for Tom, it didn't take him long to reach the back of his pub. He knew every inch of its worn stone and scarred wood. The Leaky Bucket had been apart of London for hundreds of years, much longer than his family had ever had it. It was said his grandfather had bought it off an odd chap, who had let the place fall into ruin. Now that it was his, and would soon be his son's, Tom took pride in it. He knew everything that happened inside the Leaky Bucket, even the subtlest change in the atmosphere. Tonight he could sense a difference in the air; it was a taunt, electric tension, unusual for the quiet establishment. Something big was happening inside his walls.
When Tom reached the door to his "back room", he hesitated, turning slightly to see if the dark haired, stocky Russian was there behind him. Dumbledore's acquaintance was still there, though his eyes were wide, and his face frost pale. The Russian was hunched over himself as if he were in physical pain. A phantom of fright flickered in the man's eyes.
"My back room," Tom said, and he opened the door onto the back alley.
To his surprise and the Russian's, someone stood there that he had never seen before, someone who had waited for the door to open, a wand at the ready.