Prompt: POV of Inanimate Object Challenge: Leaky Cauldron
Pairing: Hermione/Ron
Rating: T: For suggestive language, nothing horrible
Summary: The little old pub hidden from Muggle view has been around for ages, serving the needs of all wizards and witches of any age, from the likes of Voldemort, to the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter. It has seen it all.
A/N: So for SlytherinPrincessxXx's Challenge! I think it's cute... a little dark I guess... Thanks so so so so much to May (Reciprocal) for being my beta. I wouldn't be able to do this without her! I took everything you said into account May! Thanks! :D
"Reality is merely an illusion, although a very persistent one"Albert Einstein
…
Since the day it was constructed to the now modern age, the Leaky Cauldron's main structure-as rickety, old, and smelly as it was- was teeming with more magic and mystery than anyone could ever imagine. Its moldy walls sang and hummed to its own lullaby as wizards and witches of any age came in and out, often stopping for a quick drink or to talk for hours with colleagues. The little old pub hidden from Muggle view has been around for ages, serving the needs of all wizards and witches of any age, from the likes of Voldermort, to Harry Potter. It has seen it all.
The dusty walls had endured everything, from the first Great War, to ricocheting spells of small, unsuspecting children; from drunkards itching for a fight, to even one or two odd little creatures who decided to bang their round-ish heads onto the planks. After the hyped up energy from the war against a mysterious man had ended, the Leaky Cauldron slowly and surely started to age away as the wizarding world hesitantly settled back into its mold. After all, the building didn't very well care who, or what, disturbed the Ministry politics, it was quite content to just sit, watch, and observe
Now, the old, seedy bartender, Tom as he was called, had been around almost as long as the little pub itself. Spending year after year, decade after decade, catering to any who came in, cleaning dirty glasses and offering room to all those staying, good or evil. The Cauldron didn't pay attention much to the man, preferring to sleep like a tree that had reached its peak, but, when he did choose to observe the man, there was just silent contemplation. He was quite useful, sweeping any little dust bunnies that had escaped, cleaning the filthy bar...
…
After the first decade or so, the Leaky Cauldron slowly stopped paying attention to the hours, days and weeks, each blending in to the last. Unless there a raging fire magically appeared, heading straight towards them, threatening to burn the building down, there wasn't much to keep track of. So, when another little brown haired witch with hair as brown and curly as the little dust bunnies sitting in the cracks, he didn't pay much attention. Even as she oohed and ahhhed as she took in the place, the LC (as he secretly liked to be called, it had finesse. Not like Leaky Cauldron. Who even names a place that?) just listened, bored, letting its invisible gaze slide to the little women in the back nursing a brownish drink. It was obvious, if the burly too large man was anything to go by, that she had never heard of witches before this day, but LC couldn't care less about one's blood. Blood led to problems, problems lead to spirit, spirit led to pride, pride led to ego, and (from what he believed) ego led to war. Case one: The First Great War.
The war wasn't over, as so many other were so willing to believe. Humans were quite...gullible. And stubborn. They refused to believe in reality, clinging to the little fantasy that they constructed for themselves. After all, only a building could ever see the truth while mankind danced in and out of their little fairy tales. The forest winds whispered to a docking ship set off the coast, bringing word of a less-than-human walking the grounds. The ships lulling voice brought the news to a broom ready to be sold, and soon, the news was brought to the attention of the Leaky Cauldron's ears. News traveled fast through the grapevine. Madam Puttifoot's had after all reported to have seen a Ms. Skeeter skulking the Hogsmeade pathway just yesterday. The building did have a penchant for gossip.
…
When a hoard of red-headed men and two women walked in leisurely through the murky doors, the walls paid no heed, preferring to fall asleep instead. As the group sat down at one of the tables and ordered a round of drinks, the chatter increased tenfold and the invisible ears of LC couldn't help but perk up. He was a gossiper at heart, even if he was loath to admit it. Another boy came dashing threw the doors, glasses askew on his lopsided nose and black hair wild. He resembled a man who, long ago, always seemed to carry around dungbombs, sneaking in at the dead of night. Sources heard that he was long gone already, drifting with his red-headed wife in the clouds.
The group waved, one of the taller boys, with a massive amount of brown dots on his face, jumped up, hugging the green-eyed boy, laughing enthusiastically, before dragging him to the seat on his right. The other boy's eyes twinkled, sitting down after saying a few choice words to the obviously oldest man. The rest just grinned, the younger red-haired girl blushing bright tomato red and ducking her head under the wooden table as he sat next to her. As they chattered mindlessly about a man with an unfortunate name-'You-Know-Who'-and the two adults talked all sneaky like about a "mad" man named Sirius Black (another unfortunate name), LC started to slowly tune them out, focusing his divided attentions on an amusing hag drinking herself tipsy.
A loud crash vibrated against the outer walls drawing the Leaky Cauldron's divided attention to the small brown haired girl falling over as she dropped a cup of water that 'ol Tom had procured. Contrary to the Shrieking Shack's belief, the pub did have an amazing memory, able to remember every single face after only glancing at said face once. Only Ollivander's ever beat him in memory, or magical level. That place was so filled with magic that it had become arrogant, that little...
As LC shook himself out of his little day dream featuring Ollivander's, a torch, and lots of flammable objects (wood being the star player in his evil scheme), the girl -Hermi-nie was it- had set herself in between the redheaded girl and scarred boy (what a peculiar scar it was) and started jabbering away, while pulling book after book after book from her bag. The Leaky Cauldron soon lost count and drifted away once again, drinking in the mildew growing on his walls. Ahhh, such a great stimulant.
…
LC had long ago ever given up on blocking the horrible noises that seemed to emanate from the walls itself. IT always happened like a clockwork, an underage couple would stumble in, groping each other with a large lack of decorum, Tom would stare on impassive, eyes seeking out a little niche in the wall where small mice lay, and handed the room key's to the couple, soon...groans. It was sickening. He always grew mold faster when he could hear the loud creaks as they screamed.
Yet, today, the whole pub was empty. Dusty tables and chairs creaked as a draft swept through; Tom polished glass after glass even though no patrons walked through the dirty doors. A loud commotion could be heard outside thin walls as shouts from wizards and spells ricocheting off the walls could be heard clearly. The fear and terror the "Dark" wizards induced was horrifying, yet as LC watched in abject fascination as a "warrior of the all-mighty Light" dragged away an impregnated woman, magic wand at the throat, the little pub no one noticed saw with clear eyes, the Light was every bit as bad as the Dark, even if they thought themselves pure. In war, you needed to make sacrifices, shield yourself from the cruel reality, and no one knew that better than the Leaky Cauldron.
…
The world was wreaking havoc, drunk men (and women) stumbled through the creaking doors every minute as they shouted their congratulations to one "Harry Potter." Streamers were tossed and trampled on as everyone gathered in the tiny pub, stretching it to the limit. Everyone wanted to be there to watch on the telly when Harry would vanquish evil and kill the dreaded "Voldermort." It was like when all the rowdy Muggle men lined up to watch the sport, "football." Ironic that they would watch but not actually participate in the actual fight.
Suddenly, a great thundering shout was heard-'round-the-world (you think that's just a saying? Oh no, it actually happened, LC was witness) as everyone started to dance and sing, crying and laughing as bottles were tossed in the air or chugged down. When there was a time to celebrate, humans drank. The pub could never understand how their minds worked sometimes. Confetti was launched in the air as couples kissed, mothers cried, men shouted and poured into the streets, to the confusion of clueless non-magical beings. And LC saw, with a clear view of the bright screen, the abnormally-scarred, black haired boy standing triumphant, a smug smile on his face as two others flanked both sides. The tall red-haired boy—who he had once heard from Three Broomsticks chugged a whole mug of Butterbeer in one gulp—stood to his right, eyes shining, grinning into the camera. How odd. Yet, on the other side of the Boy-Who-Lived, a girl of medium-height stood, head held high. Her brown hair was the same as when she was thirteen, but matted and tangled, hanging messily into her eyes. Unlike the smug looks on her counterparts, the young girl- Granger was it?- looked ready to faint and sink towards the ground, weary of all the attention garnered from "saving the Wizarding world." Wizards surrounded them, cheering, obscuring the trio from view. But the Leaky Cauldron knew -just like he knew that even as the war patrons celebrated, the mice would still crawl, trying to gnaw at his walls-, he knew that they would come back more battered than ever, trying to rebuild the devastated world. Picking and torturing the Dark followers, just as the Dark had once done to them. Reality, still obscured by fantasy.