CHAPTER TWO
The Three Broomsticks was crowded and cheerfully noisy as they entered. Many of the locals seemed to be chasing the chilly spring air away with a warm butterbeer. Rosmerta raised a hand in greeting while serving a group of young warlocks, who were eyeing her appreciatively. Out of the corner of her eye, Irma spotted a couple of Hogwarts students duck beneath a table at the sight of Minerva and herself, but Irma didn't bother to point them out to her companion. She didn't care.
Minerva led the way to a secluded corner booth with a curtain, and Rosmerta appeared almost as soon as they had seated themselves, having stopped the young warlocks' advances with a few very well-aimed hexes. "They'll grow back in a couple of hours," she mumbled guiltily to herself, and smiled at the two witches in front of her. "What'll it be, ladies?"
"Two D.A. Specials, Rosmerta, and pull the curtain after you bring them. Anyone I should know about?"
"Everyone in here now is a regular, Minerva. Not that that means much anymore." Rosmerta sailed off to get their drinks, and Irma stretched her mouth into a sardonic grin.
"D.A. Specials," she murmured musingly. "I don't seem to remember those from the menu, Minerva."
"Don't take off your cloak just yet. It may get a little chilly. The drink is quite a whirlwind."
A minute later Rosmerta brought the drinks, and pulled the curtain shut on the bustling pub. "Good evening, girls, don't worry about the tab, hey, Minerva?"
Irma looked across the table at her colleague. The drinks sitting in front of each of them shimmered, their pale pink hue deepening to rose, shifting to violet, indigo, chocolate, and pale green in a swirling mix of colors. A pale vapor drifted from the surface. The drinks in their heavily carved silver flagons reminded Irma of the Pensieve she had seen once in Dumbledore's office.
"Well, drink up, Irma. Best to do it at the same time." Minerva tilted the flagon to her lips, and Irma hastened to do the same, shutting her eyes tightly.
It was an odd sensation. The drink pulled and twisted the two witches in what seemed a million directions at once. Irma felt alternately hot and cold, stretched and shrunken, squeezed and inflated. After a few seconds of this, she felt herself settle firmly into a seated position again, but when she opened her eyes it was not Minerva's angular figure across a table in a crowded pub that she was looking at, but the solemn face of Albus Dumbledore.
They seemed to be in a private sitting room in one of the pubs, but which one Irma couldn't say. Minerva was seated next to her on a lumpy green sofa, Dumbledore in a cushioned chintz armchair of his own design. In the dim light emanating from the mumbling fire, she could make out terrifically tacky velvet artwork on the wood-paneled walls. Two great sorcerers from the 1970's, Elvis Presley and Andy Kaufman, were posing their best and pretending that the fabric-bound light shows erupting from the ends of their wands was magic as real as when they were alive. Irma could hear the clinking of glasses and muffled speech through the walls.
Dumbledore looked about a thousand years old, Irma thought. All this trouble to save that damn Potter kid from the Ministry. She probably would have let Umbridge have a crack at him – after all, the Ministry wouldn't actually hurt the boy, and he would be sent back to his uncle's house, out of harm's way. Dumbledore sighed almost imperceptibly before speaking again. He looked solemnly through his half-moon glasses at the pair, all trace of his trademark twinkle absent from his eyes.
"I risked you coming here tonight, Madam Pince, because of certain associates you have from the past. I believe you know to whom I refer." Alma nodded grimly. She wondered where the Lestranges were at that moment.
"It has been over three months since the mass breakout at Azkaban, and we have had no sign of any of the Death Eaters. However, I believe that they will soon attempt to resume old ties. I am asking you to go along with any instructions or requests you may receive, to the furthest extent of your nature, and find out what you can. You will be protected as best we are able. Specifically, I have planted a rumor within a select circle of the Ministry, and if Voldemort has heard of it, I will be forced to act against the Minister."
"What is this rumor?"
"That I will not tell you; if you are found to have previous knowledge of this information, it may be perilous for you. Suffice it to say that if Voldemort's inner circle has heard it, the 'knowledge' will excite them immeasurably. You will hear of it – of that I am sure."
Minerva fidgeted abruptly, then rose and passed to the opposite side of the room as Dumbledore and Irma discussed the situation at the school. The noise from the bar got louder as Minerva opened the door, slid into her feline form, and exited. Dumbledore waved his hand gently and the door clicked shut behind her. A minute later, a soft scratching at the bottom of the door caused the wizard to wave his hand again, an almost invisible movement, and Minerva returned, her cat-eyes reflecting the low fire for a split second before she resumed her human form.
"He's coming."
As she sat down, a grumpy-looking older man, with a passing resemblance to Dumbledore, stumped softly into the room. Irma recognized the drinks he carried on a dirty tray, and immediately began to don her cloak. Minerva did the same, and after bidding farewell to Dumbledore, they each took a drink from the bartender, who left the room just as Irma began to sip her drink.
The Three Broomsticks was crowded and cheerfully noisy as they entered. Many of the locals seemed to be chasing the chilly spring air away with a warm butterbeer. Rosmerta raised a hand in greeting while serving a group of young warlocks, who were eyeing her appreciatively. Out of the corner of her eye, Irma spotted a couple of Hogwarts students duck beneath a table at the sight of Minerva and herself, but Irma didn't bother to point them out to her companion. She didn't care.
Minerva led the way to a secluded corner booth with a curtain, and Rosmerta appeared almost as soon as they had seated themselves, having stopped the young warlocks' advances with a few very well-aimed hexes. "They'll grow back in a couple of hours," she mumbled guiltily to herself, and smiled at the two witches in front of her. "What'll it be, ladies?"
"Two D.A. Specials, Rosmerta, and pull the curtain after you bring them. Anyone I should know about?"
"Everyone in here now is a regular, Minerva. Not that that means much anymore." Rosmerta sailed off to get their drinks, and Irma stretched her mouth into a sardonic grin.
"D.A. Specials," she murmured musingly. "I don't seem to remember those from the menu, Minerva."
"Don't take off your cloak just yet. It may get a little chilly. The drink is quite a whirlwind."
A minute later Rosmerta brought the drinks, and pulled the curtain shut on the bustling pub. "Good evening, girls, don't worry about the tab, hey, Minerva?"
Irma looked across the table at her colleague. The drinks sitting in front of each of them shimmered, their pale pink hue deepening to rose, shifting to violet, indigo, chocolate, and pale green in a swirling mix of colors. A pale vapor drifted from the surface. The drinks in their heavily carved silver flagons reminded Irma of the Pensieve she had seen once in Dumbledore's office.
"Well, drink up, Irma. Best to do it at the same time." Minerva tilted the flagon to her lips, and Irma hastened to do the same, shutting her eyes tightly.
It was an odd sensation. The drink pulled and twisted the two witches in what seemed a million directions at once. Irma felt alternately hot and cold, stretched and shrunken, squeezed and inflated. After a few seconds of this, she felt herself settle firmly into a seated position again, but when she opened her eyes it was not Minerva's angular figure across a table in a crowded pub that she was looking at, but the solemn face of Albus Dumbledore.
They seemed to be in a private sitting room in one of the pubs, but which one Irma couldn't say. Minerva was seated next to her on a lumpy green sofa, Dumbledore in a cushioned chintz armchair of his own design. In the dim light emanating from the mumbling fire, she could make out terrifically tacky velvet artwork on the wood-paneled walls. Two great sorcerers from the 1970's, Elvis Presley and Andy Kaufman, were posing their best and pretending that the fabric-bound light shows erupting from the ends of their wands was magic as real as when they were alive. Irma could hear the clinking of glasses and muffled speech through the walls.
Dumbledore looked about a thousand years old, Irma thought. All this trouble to save that damn Potter kid from the Ministry. She probably would have let Umbridge have a crack at him – after all, the Ministry wouldn't actually hurt the boy, and he would be sent back to his uncle's house, out of harm's way. Dumbledore sighed almost imperceptibly before speaking again. He looked solemnly through his half-moon glasses at the pair, all trace of his trademark twinkle absent from his eyes.
"I risked you coming here tonight, Madam Pince, because of certain associates you have from the past. I believe you know to whom I refer." Alma nodded grimly. She wondered where the Lestranges were at that moment.
"It has been over three months since the mass breakout at Azkaban, and we have had no sign of any of the Death Eaters. However, I believe that they will soon attempt to resume old ties. I am asking you to go along with any instructions or requests you may receive, to the furthest extent of your nature, and find out what you can. You will be protected as best we are able. Specifically, I have planted a rumor within a select circle of the Ministry, and if Voldemort has heard of it, I will be forced to act against the Minister."
"What is this rumor?"
"That I will not tell you; if you are found to have previous knowledge of this information, it may be perilous for you. Suffice it to say that if Voldemort's inner circle has heard it, the 'knowledge' will excite them immeasurably. You will hear of it – of that I am sure."
Minerva fidgeted abruptly, then rose and passed to the opposite side of the room as Dumbledore and Irma discussed the situation at the school. The noise from the bar got louder as Minerva opened the door, slid into her feline form, and exited. Dumbledore waved his hand gently and the door clicked shut behind her. A minute later, a soft scratching at the bottom of the door caused the wizard to wave his hand again, an almost invisible movement, and Minerva returned, her cat-eyes reflecting the low fire for a split second before she resumed her human form.
"He's coming."
As she sat down, a grumpy-looking older man, with a passing resemblance to Dumbledore, stumped softly into the room. Irma recognized the drinks he carried on a dirty tray, and immediately began to don her cloak. Minerva did the same, and after bidding farewell to Dumbledore, they each took a drink from the bartender, who left the room just as Irma began to sip her drink.