So it's been several bad days now. Children getting scared all th' time, pulling on their Mum's robe ends, badly hemmed. Distressed faces. People telling me, "Ole Tom, oh, these times are killing me." And they say it like it's just 'cause they're tired, but tired never felt like I was going to walk 'round the corner and not know if I come out of the shadows alive. People say, "Tom, fill 'er up with the usual, y'know, the mulled mead. Feelin' little lonely t'night." But lonely never was 'cause my best friend's gone missing or someone's something somewhere gone and turned into a Death Eater.
Tom the Innkeeper. You think it's unglamorous; I got no teeth, looking like I got no one to lean onto. But I got every single one o' these stories in my pocket every night, everything you saying to me – I remember. Lately, lots o' Ministry workers come by. Got Dirk Cresswell, brightest kid 'round, I knew him since he was at Hogwarts with his ole smile and crewcut, now traded in for a lopsided swagger and a long face. Tells me:
"The Ministry's going to burn, Tom. It's going to burn." He takes a swig of his drink. "We've been fighting good fights, I'd like to think, but the goblins – not trusting us anymore. Currency's been uncontrollable. Hey Tom, you can't tell anyone," and he looks around warily, but everyone's here getting to be best friends with their drink and not anyone else anyway. He continues. "But listen. I hear Fudge is going to resign. Can you believe that? You see a man go from magenta bowler hats to nothing in just a couple years. People are afraid, and I'm not just, you know, not just talking about your mum and dad around the corner, I'm talking about the Ministry. I'm talking about other Ministers of Magic. But I," and he adjusts his robes at his neck, "I will not fail the people who, every day of their lives, depend on the Ministry to keep things running."
He's always one of the best customers. Puts down a whole galleon, then slams his mug down, though not too harshly. He does it solidly, definitely. Takes his leave, and always tells me, "It's been good talking to you, but you get some rest and take it easy." But y'know he's really telling that to himself more than he be telling it to me.
But there ain't always fancy folk coming 'round this end. The Cauldron's known for attracting some strange ones, like the two witches smelling like beetles and knarl pellets the other day. Knobbly knees and knobbly canes, swore I see stubble beneath them noses. Never see 'em before and you bet I remember every single soul that pass through my door. And they crying all night, and I'm bringing another pitcher for 'em (free, because what's a litre o' good draft when we're all too dead to drink it?), and one of the witches looks up at me, say, "Boy," and let me interject to say I ain't no boy no more, "Boy, the world's fallin' part. My hu'band, he tell me, 'I go take this wand,'" and with a wicked grin and her own wand in hand, "'I take it and give meself the best Avada Kedavra you ever seen.' And he sure shown me a bloody good 'un, and he gone, jus' like that. That was a year ago an' lookit me now. Still alive." And through tears she cackles, raucous and painful to my ears.
So maybe I ain't gonna come out this thing alive or come along and save the day. But I hear every story and see heroes passing through my door and greet them with the usual "hullo" and they sit down at the bar and tell me an epic.