AN: Ahem, just a quick bite to whet your appetite. Bigger chapters are on the way, I promise! There was certainly a long period of trial and error to word each sentence to flow cohesively and grandiosely, so as I get better it'll become easier and faster to outpour everything onto the page. I'm hopeful it'll go that way, at least!
The Leaky Cauldron smelt odd. The crossbreed of a hundred years of cigarettes, spilt alcohol, and rotting wood all began to culminate into an unruly stench. The butterbeer held a tart aftertaste; Harry supposed that Tom merely forgot to further sweeten his drink.
"D'you hear what happened at Hogwarts? Never in my life…" someone from his left said.
"— And the Ministry booted me! Just because I didn't want my family murdered!"
"The world's on fire! Aurors gone, the Ministry in shambles, and a fairy tale saving the world! Dumbledore's dead and Hogwarts is in shambles! Merlin, help us all!" the tallest whispered to a group.
"Dumbledore should o' been Minister, I tell ya," said the same man from his left.
"Merlin, Dumbledore as Minister. We'd've known Voldemort was back a year earlier, probably would've stopped him right when he broke into the Ministry. I would have my job right about now. Hell, Dumbledore would've been alive and kicking…"
The Leaky Cauldron erupted in a cacophony of shouts and protests. A wizard with a face like a crumpled map slammed his tankard on the bar, sending ale spraying.
"Don't be daft! Dumbledore was a good man, a powerful wizard, but Minister? He was too soft! Fudge might have been a bumbling buffoon, but he wasn't afraid to make the tough decisions!"
A witch with fiery red hair and a hawk nose scoffed. "Tough decisions? You mean burying his head in the sand while Voldemort danced a jig on the Department of Mysteries?"
The air crackled with the unspoken tension. A group of Aurors sitting in the corner exchanged worried glances, their hands hovering near the concealed wands beneath their robes.
Suddenly, a booming voice cut through the din.
"Enough!"
The room fell silent. All eyes turned to a tall, wiry figure standing in the doorway. He wore a worn leather trench coat and a thick beard that cascaded down his chest. His eyes, however, were the most striking feature – piercing blue, glinting with an unsettling intensity.
"Minister Shacklebolt," someone whispered.
The Minister strode towards the bar, his presence demanding respect. He addressed the man who had first spoken of Dumbledore.
"You speak of a different world, friend. One where Dumbledore lived and Voldemort was vanquished easily. But we do not live in that world. We live in a world where sacrifice is necessary, where difficult choices must be made."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room. "Minister Fudge made mistakes, yes. But he also made hard decisions that saved countless lives. We cannot judge him with hindsight, nor can we rewrite the past."
He turned to the woman with fiery hair. "And you, Madam, speak of Minister Fudge burying his head in the sand. But was it not Dumbledore who refused to declare that Voldemort had truly returned? Was it not Dumbledore who clung to hope, even when all evidence pointed to the contrary?"
A hush fell over the room. The Minister's words hung heavy in the air. He had a point. Judging the past with the knowledge of the future was always easy, but it was a dangerous game to play.
"We must learn from the past, yes," the Minister continued, his voice softer now. "But we must also look to the future. We must work together, united against the darkness that still threatens our world. That is the legacy of Albus Dumbledore, and that is the path we must follow."
He raised his tankard. "To the memory of Albus Dumbledore, and to a brighter future for the wizarding world."
The Leaky Cauldron remained silent for a moment, the tension slowly easing. Then, one by one, people raised their glasses.
"To the future," someone murmured.
And as the murmurs grew into cheers, a sense of hope, however fragile, flickered in the hearts of those gathered. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was still a chance to build a better tomorrow, a future where the sacrifices of the past would not be in vain.
Harry, still reeling from the argument about Dumbledore, downed the last of his butterbeer. He felt a pang of nostalgia for the days when the Leaky Cauldron was a haven for wizards, a place where he could escape the pressures of the wizarding world. But those days were gone, and now all that remained was the bittersweet memory of a past that could never be.
As Harry stood up to leave, the room around him began to shimmer and distort. He felt a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness, the world spinning around him uncontrollably. He stumbled forward, reaching for something to steady himself, but his hand grasped at empty air.
When the world finally stabilized, Harry found himself staring at a scene that was both familiar and terrifyingly alien. The warm, inviting atmosphere of the Leaky Cauldron was gone, replaced by the sterile, brightly lit interior of a modern pub, of the same structure and layout. Gone were the wizards and witches in their robes and pointed hats, replaced by ordinary muggles in jeans and t-shirts.
The sounds of laughter and chatter filled the air, but they were different somehow. They lacked the warmth and camaraderie of the wizarding world, replaced by a superficiality that made Harry's skin crawl. Panic surged through Harry as he searched for a familiar face, someone who could explain what was happening. But everyone he saw was a stranger, their faces etched with a blandness that made him feel even more isolated.
He stumbled blindly towards the bar, hoping to find some solace in a familiar drink. As he approached, the barman, a burly man with a shaved head and a surly expression, looked up at him with a raised eyebrow.
"What can I get you, mate?" the barman asked gruffly.
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He was paralyzed by fear and confusion, his mind unable to process the bizarre situation he found himself in.
"You alright there, mate?" the barman repeated, his voice laced with impatience.
Desperate for any wizarding connection, Harry blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
"Firewhisky," he croaked, his voice hoarse with fear.
The barman gave him a puzzled look. "Firewhisky? We don't have anything like that here. We've got beer, cider, spirits...the usual."
Deep within Harry's subconscious, a faint, insistent whisper echoed. It wasn't quite a thought, more of a feeling, a nagging unease that nestled alongside his fear and confusion. He couldn't pinpoint its origin, nor could he fully articulate it, but there was an undeniable sense of wrongness, a subtle dissonance in the world around him. It was like a melody played in a slightly off key, a picture hung askew, perhaps a word spoken in another accent. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet it gnawed at him, leaving him with the unsettling feeling that he was a spectator in his own life, a visitor in a world that wasn't quite his own.