The Leaky Bucket was an unknown, dusty place except to those who frequented its lonely interior. It was owned by a Tom Sr. who had a knack for keeping everything extremely neat and clean. He also had a knack for knocking heads together when anyone tried to disturb the peace he and his father before him had created. To him, this was a place where warring sides could meet, have a drink and sign a treaty. He really did believe that the world was a mess of misunderstandings, though lately that idea of his had been tested greatly. This war that Germany was bringing on everyone's doorstep seemed to be less and less a war that can be soothed by a truce.
Tom Sr. had a son, Tom Jr., who was slightly hunchbacked and a quiet child. Most patrons of Tom's establishment found that odd things seemed to happen around Tom Jr. What they didn't know was that Tom Jr. was a wizard. Of course Tom Sr. knew this, even though it had been quite a shock when he had learned of the fact. He had expected to pass his pub down to his son, and now that plan seemed to be in jeopardy. Tom was not overly enthusiastic about his son being a wizard, but he had grown to accept it as best he could. Tom Jr. was his only son, and after his wife died, the only one he would have.
But his son's ability did open Tom's eyes to this new world he had discovered. His pub, which sat in the heart of London, though not well known, did attract the strangest people. At times he thought he had seen people turn glasses into toads and back, but he had always thought it was his imagination, though he was a man of little creativity. Some would come in dressed in floor length cloaks, and try to pay him in strange overlarge coins. Others would come in wearing the oddest clothing; one man wore a lady's bonnet, a sports coat and a pair of fine pants. Despite the fact that odd people seemed to come in a lot, Tom never said a word, just gave them their drinks, and let them be. So long as they caused no harm, and paid in the right currency, Tom never took notice of this odd behavior. And that was why the Leaky Bucket gained a reputation of attracting the strange type.
So when a tall, lean young man wrapped in an emerald cloak came sweeping through his door on a stormy night, Tom Senior said nothing. He had seen the man before. It had been this man with his half-moon spectacles that had told Tom Sr. the news of his son's peculiarity. Though at first he had regarded the man with unguarded suspicion, Tom Sr. had grown accustomed to him. He would never admit that the man in the emerald cloak had grown on him.
Professor Dumbledore had brought something out of his son, Tom Jr., that Tom Sr. never knew existed; he brought out confidence and joy. Though Tom Sr. was a hard man to please, and often did not say what he felt, he had a soft spot for his only son. It was his departed wife's wish that their son find some peace and acceptance in the world. Tom Jr., never fully accepted in the world that his father lived in due to his physical abnormality, had found a niche in this wizarding world. Professor Dumbledore had opened that door to Tom Jr.
Tom Sr. had grown use to the brief chats he had with Professor Dumbledore about his son's improvement, and had expected to have one on that stormy black night. But when Dumbledore strode through the entrance of the Leaky Bucket, his usual smile and twinkle in his eyes, had been replaced by etched lines of worry that stood out on a youthfully, smooth face. Lips tightened into a thin line, and eyes as stern as steel, told Tom that a chat was not a good idea. In fact, he had never seen the Professor this tense before. This behavior stood out to Tom so much that he knew something huge was going on in the wizarding world. If there was one thing Tom was good at, it was reading the body language people emanated.
With crisp steps Dumbledore wended his way through the coiling cigar smoke that thickened the air, and slipped passed miserable people covered with drenched shirts which clung limply to their skins. Subdued light leaked out from the gas lamps that were melded to the walls, soaking the tavern in a sober and gentle mood. That was the way the bartender liked it.
Tom attended his customers diligently, attempting to keep one eye on Dumbledore, but he found that hard to do if he were to make drinks properly, or pay attention to the common questions asked of him from his more familiar patrons. Tom answered all inquiries in his usual gruff and terse manner, but when he turned back to watching Dumbledore, the Professor had gone. Dumbledore had melted into the crowd, not once acknowledging Tom, who had at least expected a nod of the head or a smile.
Tom saw Dumbledore again near the back of the room, closing in on a booth tucked away in the far corner. Sitting in the booth was a stout man, whose tired face was covered in a dark beard. The weary man was hunkered down in the seat, one hand holding a tight grasp on his vodka, which he swallowed with an anxious speed. His other arm was wrapped around his midsection, holding his thick fur coat and, Tom suspected, something else. The stranger was nervous, constantly looking over his shoulder at the crowd around him. Something about this man caused Tom unease. No, it was more than unease that made his scalp prickle on end. He couldn't fathom what the Professor would want with this suspicious person. When the stranger had ordered his drink, Tom was sure he had heard a slight accent, Russian, slipping up ever once in awhile. This had raised Tom's suspicions even more, since Russia was oddly neutral right now in this war with Germany. He had not expected to have a Russian in his tavern.
The bartender decided it best that he attend to his bar counter, which was soaked in all kinds of drinks that had been spilled, sweeping his rag around the dark mugs. Every once in awhile he would glance over at the Professor and the Russian. As Tom Sr. made his way down his bar, he noticed that a new customer had just settled onto a barstool. Tom was intrigued by this newcomer as the young man ordered a whiskey on rocks. The newcomer at the bar counter wore a tattered old bomber jacket and a pair of dirt stained pants. His platinum blond, nearly white hair, stood on end and his cobalt eyes were glazed over. Though his face was youthful, his eyes had a hard glint to them. This caught Tom's attention. The young man in the tattered bomber jacket seemed too young to be at a bar, and yet his eyes were old, as if they had seen too much of the world. Tom figured he must have come from another pub, because he already seemed slightly inebriated. The youth swayed back and forth on his stool as if he was riding a storm riddled ship. This would have to be another one Tom Sr. would have to keep his eyes on. Tom turned back to his mugs and their cleanliness, his eyes now flitting between Professor Dumbledore in the far corner and the drunken man at his counter.
BANG!
Jerking his head around, Tom Sr. saw that the door to his pub had been wrenched open by the black tempest raging outside. Howling wind filled with rain swirled through his entranceway. Tom shuffled over to the door. As he was about to reach it, a horrible clammy cold frosted his insides. A dark memory suddenly pounced on him. He saw himself and his son in the marketplace, people turning their scornful eyes on his deformed child, whispering and hissing as they passed.
Tom reached the door and slammed it, shutting away the cold and that memory he wished he hadn't revisited. It was odd that he would remember that particular memory at the time that he did. He shuddered as he tried to rid himself of the sudden darkness that had come upon him.