A/N: Hey, under my Road trip story, which is doing GREAT (thanks!), I asked
which of the two plots I proposed should I do first (touch the other one
and I'll hurt you! Well, I did kinda reserve it, lol) and most of you (it
was close) chose this one! I hope you like. I need a good title! :P Thanks!
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I'm not a rich man, nor a handsome man. I know this, and accept that that will never change. I'm okay with that. I knew, yes I did, on the day that I opened the Leaky Cauldron that it'd never make me wealthy. But it makes me happy. I, a fairly poor and homely man, am happy.
I hear a lot of stories of storts, some of pain and grieving, some of... okay, they're basically of pain and grieving. These stories come with the title of a bartender. I always said, "If you can't pay the time don't do the crime." Well, I reckon if you can't handle the heartwrenching tales then don't become a bartender.
I remember a story an elderly man once told me about how his mother-in-law magicked him into a peanut with an anicent spell and his wife almost ate him. And another time, a young lady was telling about how she had left her husband at the altar; she still was wearing her dress and tiara as she spoke to me, and she had purple goo all over it. I asked her why the goo, and she said it was her almost mother-in-law. Yep, I get lots of mother-in- law stories.
One day, it was the 18 of May, I'll never forget that date. It was nearing midnight on, yes, the 18, and was soon to be the 19. I remember because it was the day of my eldest daughter, Louisa Mae's, wedding to her boyfriend with the crooked nose. Well, young Jimmie was wiping the tables down like he always does when it's a quarter to midnight and Jade was sweeping the floors. I bustled up from behind the bar and was just about to hang up the "Closed" sign fifteen minutes early, since we were fresh out of customers and all.
It was then that I noticed one customer that had yet to leave. Honest, I had no idea how long he had been sitting there or how I had missed him, but he looked awfully dreary. The young man was nursing a Butterbeer and I vaguely remembered serving one up to him an hour ago. I wasn't in the mood for another mother-in-law story, but as I said that I always say, "If you can't pay the time, don't do the crime," right?
So I pulled up a stool to the table in the corner where the young gentleman was sitting and I said, "What's wrong, son? You looked like you just lost your best friend."
"I wish," he said into his drink, nothing more.
Well, I sat puzzled for a moment and I just said, "Sonny, what's your name?"
"Draco," he replied, and for a two syllable word he made it sound like it was a mouthful, the way he strung it out mournfully. Perhaps this was worse than I had reckoned.
"Well, Draco, I'm Bud Davies. Why don't you tell me what's on your mind?" That boy Draco didn't reply, but I could see he was thinking about it in his mind. He just needeed a push. "You'll feel much better," I insisted, and then sat quietly. The key to hearing a story is to make the person feel like it was their decision to tell, no one told them to. And after twenty- six years as a bartender and sole owner of the Leaky Cauldron, no one knew about getting stories out of people better than me.
"I'm a Malfoy," he began, and I immediately realized what that meant. Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, was a Death Eater in training. Now it's a strict violation of myself to go on and blab what a customer told me so, although my blood ran as cold as the Greenland icebergs, I just gave him a "Go on" kinda nod and kept my bearings.
"And May 19th is my eighteenth birthday. I promised myself as a Dea--dea... well you know, a Death Eater." I was surprised by this sputtering of such a calm boy; how could he be evil if he couldn't even say "Death Eater" without a struggle? He took a deep, staggered breath and continued, "I haven't taken my final oaths yet. That means that if I don't take them by midnight of the 19th, I'll die." He choked out the last part.
Well, what was I supposed to say to that? In all of my twenty-six years at the Leaky Cauldron I had never had such a story. Why, I wanted to pat him on the back and ask him what was really bothering him, but I didn't dare. The expression on that face of his was all too solemn. This was real.
"And you don't want to take those finals oaths, do you, boy?" I asked after a moment of silence, although I'm sure that I already knew the reply. Draco, he went on and shook his head, slowly and sadly. "I say," I said, finding some strength inside of myself, even though at that moment I had the urge to let go of my manly reputation and begin blubbering right there, in front of Jimmie and Jade and this poor soul, Draco Malfoy, "that you make the best of these last twenty-four hours. Do what you want, and live those hours like never before."
Draco just kinda looked at me for a few moments, then stood up so quickly and suddenly that his drink teetered dangerously and almost crashed right over. He just nodded at me, for he wasn't a young man of many words, and quickly strode right out of the Leaky Cauldron. He didn't have to say nothing; I knew that this young man was gonna do something good. And I may not be a man of riches or looks, but I like to think that this man made something of himself, did some good, just from encouragement from Bud Davies.
I hung up that "Closed" sign on the night of the 18 of May and might I say, I felt pretty darn good.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
MIDNIGHT-----1 A.M.
The breeze of the cool night air cleansed my skin as I stood outside of the Leaky Cauldron, on the sidewalks of Diagon Alley. I cringed as the Philosophy Clock rang for midnight and blinked hard. "Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday dear Draco..." I sang sarcastically, kicking at a can littering the walkway. "Happy birthday to me..."
Who would have ever known? I pondered as I walked along the stretch of concrete. When I was in 4th year, it was so easy to promise myself. After all, when you're fourteen, eighteen is a million years away. When it's the last day of school in 4th year, your last day at Hogwarts ever seems a lifetime away. And in a way, it had been a lifetime.
I reached the corner of Birch and Dragon Heart Ave. and waited for the roads to clear. I hadn't brought my broom, but what did it matter now? A lifetime ago... It echoed in my mind. Truly, it had been, for a lifetime ago I would have never considered becoming something beside a Death Eater or falling in love with someone that wasn't of pureblood, let alone outside of Slytherin.
I checked my watch as I crossed the street and into the Floo Station. 12:03. Great, three minutes out of my life gone. Only twenty-three hours and fifty-seven minutes left. Wait, make that fifty-six, I added silently as the long hand on my Muggle watch made another full revolution around the face.
Once inside the Floo Station, I paid the attendant and tipped her generously; after all, what use would a dead man have for Galleons? I tossed the powder into my designated fireplace and muttered, "Hogwarts," audibly enough to get me to the right place. As much as I would have loved to scream at that dastardly fire, I didn't have any time to waste getting to the right place.
I jumped in the fire, and it felt painful at first as usual. As the slight pain subsided into a dull ache, I kept my eyes closed as I traveled through the vortex of the passage that Floo Powder used. Father had always told me to keep my eyes closed, that the powder would blind you if it got in your eyes. I always wondered if he was kidding, if it was something like the Muggle thing about going cross-eyed from sitting too close to the television.
Well, I might as well die blind, I thought grinning, and opened my eyes. Whoa! The colors were amazing, soft and glowing, and I watched as a young girl went flying by me, carrying her screeching cat by the tail. They seemed so close, like I could touch them. I reached out my hand, my fingers outstretched...
Wham! I was usually so good at timing my landings from Floo Powder, but I had been preoccupied. Instead of landing in a crouching position on my feet, I felt my butt slam full-force into a stone corridor of Hogwarts. I dusted myself off, rubbed my sore behind, and staggered up, whilst grimacing of course. 12:10. How bitter time could be.
I thought about how trivial it was that I was focusing on my bruised hindquarters rather than the fact that I had twenty-three hours and fifty minutes to live, but I eagerly welcomed the distraction. The dark, dank corridors gave me a forboding feeling but I chose to ignore it. What was the worst that could happen, somebody jumping out and killing me? Like it wasn't going to happen anyway. Basically, I had become fearless, because the worst was going to get me either way.
I found the entrance to the Slytherin common room and almost reluctantly gave the password, "Viper Breath," to the portrait. I didn't feel right with the Slytherins anymore. Most thought it was ludicrous that I ignored the "obvious calling for becoming a Death Eater," as Pansy put it with transfixed eyes. Seriously, there must be some sort of subliminal message going on. Obviously I missed the comercial for Exploding Cheesy Snacks that it was aired on.
Why do I have to be here? I thought grouchily, when it occurred to me. I didn't have to be anywhere. I could get expelled or in trouble and not go to classes; I was going to die! I just laughed aloud and walked straight out of the common room, as quickly and latent as I had come in.
Where to first? Where to go? The school was mine for the roaming, I felt free and powerful. My watch read 12:30, but instead of pouting over the twenty-three and a half hours I had left, I rejoiced. I swore to make those the best twenty-three and a half hours I had ever had (er, not to mean that I usually compared lapses of twenty-three and a half hours, but you get it)!
I was walking without thinking, just letting my feet do the maneuvering, and found myself venturing toward the Gryffindor tower. "Of course," I thought aloud, not caring who heard. If they woke up, they couldn't do anything. I was invincible. "I have a few certain Gryffindors to pay a visit to."
"Password, please?" yawned Sir Cadogan of the portrait, yawning and eying at me suspiciously.
I didn't even bother to reply. "Imperio!" I exclaimed with my ready wand, almost with glee. That spell was strictly forbidden on Hogwarts grounds, but that didn't matter. "Now, open up and let me inside," I order. Sir Cadogan just nodded sleepily and swung open; I crawled through the space easily, seeing that I am thin and lithe.
The common room of the Gryffindors was eerily quiet, with an equally eery glow to the dark corners of the room. I shivered; it was unnaturally cold. A mischievous smirk spread across my deranged lips and I crept slowly towards the Prefects shuttle.
The Prefects shuttle was a convenient transportation device for the prefects of the house each was located within to get to the Prefect meeting room and dormitories, as well as bathroom. Undoubtedly I'd find them there. Harry Potter, Ron Weasly, and Hermione Granger were prefects after all.
"A quarter to one," I thought aloud bitterly, but smiled rather than grimaced. The prefects' common room was dark and desolate, but my eyes were used to the black of the night and I made out the lamp in the corner. It took just a tug of the string and the whole room lit up. It was so simple. I pulled the string again, and the blackness returned. Then light. Then dark. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Light. It was amazing how you stop to notice all the small things when you're going to die. Not to be sappy, but I wondered why I had never been too appreciative of lamps before.
I skirted across the carpet (yes, I had left the light on) and easily unlocked the girls' dormitory. Uh-oh. I had not been expecting what was in front of me. I remembered Potter telling me something of what he had had to accomplish in order to get to Voldemort in his first year, and this looked like something out of it, only different. There were thousands--no, millions!--of keys, flying around. I winced and ducked as one almost took off my ear as it whizzed by.
Through the blur created by the fast-moving keys, I could vaguely see a large, rectangular portrait with the picture of a beautiful woman in a Victorian dress. She looked down at me in a high-and-mighty, assuming manner and with an upturned nose demanded, "Password." I knew that she didn't believe I had it.
"Imperio!" I tried to scream but the whirring sound drowned me out and the spell was ineffective. How was her voice so booming? "I need to get in!" I called, hoping she could hear me, even slightly. "This is life or death!" She just kept staring at me, and had obviously not heard.
I took a deep breath and marched up to her, keys hitting me sharply. I felt one cut my left cheek and felt the blood dribble down my neck, but it didn't matter. Then, I did an act that would have caused expulsion. I dug into my pocket, picket up my pocket knife*, and waved it around threateningly. I watched the pompous painting blanch, gulp hard, and swing open obediently. "Wise decision," I muttered, although even I couldn't hear myself.
If possible, this hole was even smaller than the Gryffindors' and I chafed my already bleeding cheek. I cursed loudly, and then cursed at myself for cursing, which resulted in a string of words that I thought it best not to mention.
Either way, the mesmerizing lamp, the spat with the portrait and the never- ending tunnel took fifteen minutes out of my life as my watch beeped annoyingly for 1 a.m.
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*I don't know why he has a pocket knife, he just does, k? Good.
Thanks! Please review and check out Road trip!!!!!
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I'm not a rich man, nor a handsome man. I know this, and accept that that will never change. I'm okay with that. I knew, yes I did, on the day that I opened the Leaky Cauldron that it'd never make me wealthy. But it makes me happy. I, a fairly poor and homely man, am happy.
I hear a lot of stories of storts, some of pain and grieving, some of... okay, they're basically of pain and grieving. These stories come with the title of a bartender. I always said, "If you can't pay the time don't do the crime." Well, I reckon if you can't handle the heartwrenching tales then don't become a bartender.
I remember a story an elderly man once told me about how his mother-in-law magicked him into a peanut with an anicent spell and his wife almost ate him. And another time, a young lady was telling about how she had left her husband at the altar; she still was wearing her dress and tiara as she spoke to me, and she had purple goo all over it. I asked her why the goo, and she said it was her almost mother-in-law. Yep, I get lots of mother-in- law stories.
One day, it was the 18 of May, I'll never forget that date. It was nearing midnight on, yes, the 18, and was soon to be the 19. I remember because it was the day of my eldest daughter, Louisa Mae's, wedding to her boyfriend with the crooked nose. Well, young Jimmie was wiping the tables down like he always does when it's a quarter to midnight and Jade was sweeping the floors. I bustled up from behind the bar and was just about to hang up the "Closed" sign fifteen minutes early, since we were fresh out of customers and all.
It was then that I noticed one customer that had yet to leave. Honest, I had no idea how long he had been sitting there or how I had missed him, but he looked awfully dreary. The young man was nursing a Butterbeer and I vaguely remembered serving one up to him an hour ago. I wasn't in the mood for another mother-in-law story, but as I said that I always say, "If you can't pay the time, don't do the crime," right?
So I pulled up a stool to the table in the corner where the young gentleman was sitting and I said, "What's wrong, son? You looked like you just lost your best friend."
"I wish," he said into his drink, nothing more.
Well, I sat puzzled for a moment and I just said, "Sonny, what's your name?"
"Draco," he replied, and for a two syllable word he made it sound like it was a mouthful, the way he strung it out mournfully. Perhaps this was worse than I had reckoned.
"Well, Draco, I'm Bud Davies. Why don't you tell me what's on your mind?" That boy Draco didn't reply, but I could see he was thinking about it in his mind. He just needeed a push. "You'll feel much better," I insisted, and then sat quietly. The key to hearing a story is to make the person feel like it was their decision to tell, no one told them to. And after twenty- six years as a bartender and sole owner of the Leaky Cauldron, no one knew about getting stories out of people better than me.
"I'm a Malfoy," he began, and I immediately realized what that meant. Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, was a Death Eater in training. Now it's a strict violation of myself to go on and blab what a customer told me so, although my blood ran as cold as the Greenland icebergs, I just gave him a "Go on" kinda nod and kept my bearings.
"And May 19th is my eighteenth birthday. I promised myself as a Dea--dea... well you know, a Death Eater." I was surprised by this sputtering of such a calm boy; how could he be evil if he couldn't even say "Death Eater" without a struggle? He took a deep, staggered breath and continued, "I haven't taken my final oaths yet. That means that if I don't take them by midnight of the 19th, I'll die." He choked out the last part.
Well, what was I supposed to say to that? In all of my twenty-six years at the Leaky Cauldron I had never had such a story. Why, I wanted to pat him on the back and ask him what was really bothering him, but I didn't dare. The expression on that face of his was all too solemn. This was real.
"And you don't want to take those finals oaths, do you, boy?" I asked after a moment of silence, although I'm sure that I already knew the reply. Draco, he went on and shook his head, slowly and sadly. "I say," I said, finding some strength inside of myself, even though at that moment I had the urge to let go of my manly reputation and begin blubbering right there, in front of Jimmie and Jade and this poor soul, Draco Malfoy, "that you make the best of these last twenty-four hours. Do what you want, and live those hours like never before."
Draco just kinda looked at me for a few moments, then stood up so quickly and suddenly that his drink teetered dangerously and almost crashed right over. He just nodded at me, for he wasn't a young man of many words, and quickly strode right out of the Leaky Cauldron. He didn't have to say nothing; I knew that this young man was gonna do something good. And I may not be a man of riches or looks, but I like to think that this man made something of himself, did some good, just from encouragement from Bud Davies.
I hung up that "Closed" sign on the night of the 18 of May and might I say, I felt pretty darn good.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
MIDNIGHT-----1 A.M.
The breeze of the cool night air cleansed my skin as I stood outside of the Leaky Cauldron, on the sidewalks of Diagon Alley. I cringed as the Philosophy Clock rang for midnight and blinked hard. "Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday dear Draco..." I sang sarcastically, kicking at a can littering the walkway. "Happy birthday to me..."
Who would have ever known? I pondered as I walked along the stretch of concrete. When I was in 4th year, it was so easy to promise myself. After all, when you're fourteen, eighteen is a million years away. When it's the last day of school in 4th year, your last day at Hogwarts ever seems a lifetime away. And in a way, it had been a lifetime.
I reached the corner of Birch and Dragon Heart Ave. and waited for the roads to clear. I hadn't brought my broom, but what did it matter now? A lifetime ago... It echoed in my mind. Truly, it had been, for a lifetime ago I would have never considered becoming something beside a Death Eater or falling in love with someone that wasn't of pureblood, let alone outside of Slytherin.
I checked my watch as I crossed the street and into the Floo Station. 12:03. Great, three minutes out of my life gone. Only twenty-three hours and fifty-seven minutes left. Wait, make that fifty-six, I added silently as the long hand on my Muggle watch made another full revolution around the face.
Once inside the Floo Station, I paid the attendant and tipped her generously; after all, what use would a dead man have for Galleons? I tossed the powder into my designated fireplace and muttered, "Hogwarts," audibly enough to get me to the right place. As much as I would have loved to scream at that dastardly fire, I didn't have any time to waste getting to the right place.
I jumped in the fire, and it felt painful at first as usual. As the slight pain subsided into a dull ache, I kept my eyes closed as I traveled through the vortex of the passage that Floo Powder used. Father had always told me to keep my eyes closed, that the powder would blind you if it got in your eyes. I always wondered if he was kidding, if it was something like the Muggle thing about going cross-eyed from sitting too close to the television.
Well, I might as well die blind, I thought grinning, and opened my eyes. Whoa! The colors were amazing, soft and glowing, and I watched as a young girl went flying by me, carrying her screeching cat by the tail. They seemed so close, like I could touch them. I reached out my hand, my fingers outstretched...
Wham! I was usually so good at timing my landings from Floo Powder, but I had been preoccupied. Instead of landing in a crouching position on my feet, I felt my butt slam full-force into a stone corridor of Hogwarts. I dusted myself off, rubbed my sore behind, and staggered up, whilst grimacing of course. 12:10. How bitter time could be.
I thought about how trivial it was that I was focusing on my bruised hindquarters rather than the fact that I had twenty-three hours and fifty minutes to live, but I eagerly welcomed the distraction. The dark, dank corridors gave me a forboding feeling but I chose to ignore it. What was the worst that could happen, somebody jumping out and killing me? Like it wasn't going to happen anyway. Basically, I had become fearless, because the worst was going to get me either way.
I found the entrance to the Slytherin common room and almost reluctantly gave the password, "Viper Breath," to the portrait. I didn't feel right with the Slytherins anymore. Most thought it was ludicrous that I ignored the "obvious calling for becoming a Death Eater," as Pansy put it with transfixed eyes. Seriously, there must be some sort of subliminal message going on. Obviously I missed the comercial for Exploding Cheesy Snacks that it was aired on.
Why do I have to be here? I thought grouchily, when it occurred to me. I didn't have to be anywhere. I could get expelled or in trouble and not go to classes; I was going to die! I just laughed aloud and walked straight out of the common room, as quickly and latent as I had come in.
Where to first? Where to go? The school was mine for the roaming, I felt free and powerful. My watch read 12:30, but instead of pouting over the twenty-three and a half hours I had left, I rejoiced. I swore to make those the best twenty-three and a half hours I had ever had (er, not to mean that I usually compared lapses of twenty-three and a half hours, but you get it)!
I was walking without thinking, just letting my feet do the maneuvering, and found myself venturing toward the Gryffindor tower. "Of course," I thought aloud, not caring who heard. If they woke up, they couldn't do anything. I was invincible. "I have a few certain Gryffindors to pay a visit to."
"Password, please?" yawned Sir Cadogan of the portrait, yawning and eying at me suspiciously.
I didn't even bother to reply. "Imperio!" I exclaimed with my ready wand, almost with glee. That spell was strictly forbidden on Hogwarts grounds, but that didn't matter. "Now, open up and let me inside," I order. Sir Cadogan just nodded sleepily and swung open; I crawled through the space easily, seeing that I am thin and lithe.
The common room of the Gryffindors was eerily quiet, with an equally eery glow to the dark corners of the room. I shivered; it was unnaturally cold. A mischievous smirk spread across my deranged lips and I crept slowly towards the Prefects shuttle.
The Prefects shuttle was a convenient transportation device for the prefects of the house each was located within to get to the Prefect meeting room and dormitories, as well as bathroom. Undoubtedly I'd find them there. Harry Potter, Ron Weasly, and Hermione Granger were prefects after all.
"A quarter to one," I thought aloud bitterly, but smiled rather than grimaced. The prefects' common room was dark and desolate, but my eyes were used to the black of the night and I made out the lamp in the corner. It took just a tug of the string and the whole room lit up. It was so simple. I pulled the string again, and the blackness returned. Then light. Then dark. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Light. It was amazing how you stop to notice all the small things when you're going to die. Not to be sappy, but I wondered why I had never been too appreciative of lamps before.
I skirted across the carpet (yes, I had left the light on) and easily unlocked the girls' dormitory. Uh-oh. I had not been expecting what was in front of me. I remembered Potter telling me something of what he had had to accomplish in order to get to Voldemort in his first year, and this looked like something out of it, only different. There were thousands--no, millions!--of keys, flying around. I winced and ducked as one almost took off my ear as it whizzed by.
Through the blur created by the fast-moving keys, I could vaguely see a large, rectangular portrait with the picture of a beautiful woman in a Victorian dress. She looked down at me in a high-and-mighty, assuming manner and with an upturned nose demanded, "Password." I knew that she didn't believe I had it.
"Imperio!" I tried to scream but the whirring sound drowned me out and the spell was ineffective. How was her voice so booming? "I need to get in!" I called, hoping she could hear me, even slightly. "This is life or death!" She just kept staring at me, and had obviously not heard.
I took a deep breath and marched up to her, keys hitting me sharply. I felt one cut my left cheek and felt the blood dribble down my neck, but it didn't matter. Then, I did an act that would have caused expulsion. I dug into my pocket, picket up my pocket knife*, and waved it around threateningly. I watched the pompous painting blanch, gulp hard, and swing open obediently. "Wise decision," I muttered, although even I couldn't hear myself.
If possible, this hole was even smaller than the Gryffindors' and I chafed my already bleeding cheek. I cursed loudly, and then cursed at myself for cursing, which resulted in a string of words that I thought it best not to mention.
Either way, the mesmerizing lamp, the spat with the portrait and the never- ending tunnel took fifteen minutes out of my life as my watch beeped annoyingly for 1 a.m.
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*I don't know why he has a pocket knife, he just does, k? Good.
Thanks! Please review and check out Road trip!!!!!