A/N: Harry Potter is the property of J.K. Rowling and her associates. Please support the official release.
The All Hallows Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.
The most obvious one was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind, it would have howled through the windows, set the inn's sign to creaking, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of the night. If there had been music… but no, of course there was no music. In fact, there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.
Inside the inn, a pair of men huddled at one corner of the bar. They drank with quiet determination, avoiding serious discussions of troubling news. In so doing, they added a small, sullen silence to the larger, hollow one.
The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the wooden flooring underfoot and in the rough, splintering barrels behind the bar. It was in the weight of the rustic fireplace that held the heat of a long-dead fire. It was in the slow back-and-forth of a white linen cloth rubbing along the grain of the bar. And it was in the hands of the man who stood there, polishing a stretch of mahogany that already gleamed in the lamplight.
The man had dark hair, dark as night. His green eyes, hidden away beneath a pair of round spectacles, were dim and distant, and he moved with the subtle certainty that comes from knowing a great many things.
The All Hallows Inn was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn's ending. It was heavy as a great river-stone made smooth by the current.
It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who was waiting to die.
"Barkeep!"
A rough voice called from the side, disturbing the silence that lay so tightly coiled within this place.
"Yes?" the man behind the bar responded, raising a hand to adjust the spectacles on his nose.
"Another round for me and my friend here, please."
"Oh, yes. Coming right up," the man said, turning to fetch some empty mugs from the shelf above the barrels. His thoughts lay in shambles as he moved, a thin frown curled upon his lip. He had lost himself to reverie again. That seemed to happen often these days.
I wonder what Ginny would say if she could see me now… he thought, filling the mugs with ale from a tap behind the counter. I doubt she'd approve of the name, at least.
Even he had to admit that "All Hallows Inn" was a bit on the nose. But Ron had insisted, and so here he was, serving drinks in a tavern with a name as grim as its owner.
He frowned as he finished pouring, noting the way his hand shook on the handle. Once upon a time, that tremor would have unsettled him, but these days, it simply… was.
He set the mugs on the counter with a soft clink. The two men at the corner nodded in thanks, casting wary glances as they resumed their low, murmured conversation. It was strange, but he was used to it - the mixture of gratitude and unease that seemed to follow him. Once, people had looked at him with awe, maybe even admiration. But these days, he was just another fixture in the bar, another piece of worn wood with a story too dark for anyone to ask after.
He moved to clean some tables, just for the sake of it. There was no real need, but the motion put his mind at ease.
Without preamble, the door to the inn suddenly swung open, setting the candles to flickering as a chill breeze drifted in from the street. At first, he assumed it was just another local, or perhaps one of the regulars. But then, as if led by some wayward instinct, he raised his head just as the figure stepped in from the shadows.
Her silhouette was at once familiar to him - her hair a wild, cascading halo that somehow seemed to hold within itself all the warmth the night lacked. She moved with purpose, and as she did, the third silence - the one spun about him like too much yarn - seemed to shrink, replaced by a muted tension that lingered in the air.
"Harry," she said, her voice a quiet command.
"Hermione," he answered, meeting her gaze for the first time in… Godric, had it truly been years?
Her eyes softened ever so slightly, before she pushed a stray curl of caramel hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture he knew all too well. It was one of the last things about her that seemed untouched by time. Everything else - her gaze, the way she held herself - had a hardened edge to it now, an armor that mirrored his own. He supposed that was inevitable. None of them had walked away from that war without scars.
"You're a hard man to find," she said, though not unkindly. She reached up and pulled the scarf from around her neck, revealing a dark robe that bore faint traces of travel - a bit of dust on the hem, a frayed edge at the cuff.
Harry gave a quiet chuckle, one that did not quite reach his eyes. "I suppose that was the idea."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Hermione's gaze traveled over the inn, taking in the small details with the practiced finesse of an observer used to cataloging the world. Her eyes lingered on the men in the corner, the uneven stacks of barrels, the gleaming stretch of bar. And then finally, on Harry.
"Ron said I'd find you here," she began. Her voice was calm, composed even, but Harry could hear something else in it too - a tremor that had nothing to do with the cold.
"He's been here often enough himself," Harry replied, keeping his tone light. "Though I did not know you two were on speaking terms again."
Her mouth tightened into a line, and she stepped forward, the distance between them closing by slow, careful inches. She raised a hand, but stopped just shy of reaching him, her fingers hovering in the air before she let them fall back to her side.
"Could I get a drink?" she asked instead, resuming her idle inspections of the establishment.
"Rhetorical questions don't suit you," Harry said, moving behind the bar. "But yes – anything you want. It's on the house."
"Interesting business model," she said, taking a seat by the counter. "Are you sure you can afford it? There doesn't appear to be an awful lot of people in here."
"Eh, it's a Wednesday night," Harry shrugged. "It gets busier on the weekends."
An uneasy silence settled between them as Harry moved to fetch yet another mug from the shelf. But then, he seemingly thought the better of it, and moved over to a cupboard instead, from which he retrieved a slender wineglass.
"You remembered," Hermione said, the traces of a smile playing upon her features.
"How could I forget?" Harry responded, his voice soft as he poured a rich, crimson wine into the glass. He watched the liquid swirl, glimmering in the low light, before sliding it across the bar to her. "You never could stand the taste of ale."
"Oh, really? Are we forgetting about Butterbeer?" she said, her fingers brushing the stem delicately as she lifted the glass to her lips.
"Butterbeer isn't ale," Harry said, wagging a finger at her. "It's a sugar-drink for teenagers."
"Says the man with a penchant for Strawberry Daiquiris."
"Just drink the wine already."
"As you wish."
He watched as she took a measured sip, closing her eyes to savor the taste.
"It's good," she said at last. "You have acceptable taste."
Her tone was light, teasing, but there was a melancholy to her words that would not be ignored.
Harry leaned against the bar, hands folded as he watched her. "I've learned a thing or two over the years," he said, though his smile faded as he studied her face. "So… you're talking to Ron again, huh?"
Hermione nodded, setting the wineglass down and tracing a finger along its rim. "Trying to, at least. It's slow going. There is… history, as you know."
"Yes, well… As much as it pains me to admit this, the news of your divorce did not come as much of a shock," Harry frowned, running a hand through his unruly hair. "How are the kids?"
"They're well," she sighed. "Spending time with my parents at the moment. Ron is away, and things are busy at the Ministry, so…"
Her voice trailed off, the weight of her words resting heavy upon the silence. The Ministry, the children, the layers of responsibility she yet shouldered – it all pulled at her, thinning her smile and darkening her gaze. She looked away, letting the edge of her glass catch the light.
"Ron? Working?" Harry asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Surely you jest."
Hermione's expression lightened, but only for a moment. "It's... complicated. You know how it is these days. Ever since the incident in France, things have felt less secure, even here." Her fingers tapped absently against the glass, a restless rhythm. "I'd call it paranoia, but I'd be lying. The disappearances are real, after all."
"Disappearances?" Harry repeated, feeling the old, unsettling pull. He knew better than to ask, but even now, curiosity itched beneath the surface.
Hermione nodded, the spark in her eyes dim yet determined. "Yes, disappearances. There's no other word for it. People have been vanishing without a trace, their memories erased from loved ones' minds as if they never even existed in the first place. It's subtle, silent, and the Ministry hasn't been able to trace it back to anyone specific."
She paused for a minute, searching his face for something.
"Ron thinks it's starting up again, Harry. And… I think he might be right."
The faint clink of a glass being set down startled them both. One of the men at the corner table was peering over, curious and uncertain. Harry gave him a terse nod, silently warning him to mind his own business. The man blinked, shrugged, and turned back to his drink.
"Well, whatever it is, I'm sure the two of you have it well in hand," Harry said, fetching the wine bottle to offer her a top-up. "More wine?"
Hermione shook her head, folding her hands on the bar. She leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. "We don't, Harry. That's why I'm here."
Harry's hand froze in midair. He had spent years convincing himself that his part was done, that the world did not need him anymore. That he could live out the rest of his days in quiet, in obscurity, in peace. And there was not a snowball's chance in hell he would let Hermione just waltz in here and trample all over that conviction.
"What are you saying, Hermione?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.
Her gaze was unflinching. "You know exactly what I'm saying."
He shook his head, his fingers tightening around the wine bottle. "I walked away. I left all of that behind for a reason. You, Ron… you're more than capable. You have the entire Ministry's resources at your disposal. But me? I don't… I'm not that person anymore."
Hermione sighed, the old familiar stubbornness sparking to life in her eyes. "That's just it, Harry. There's something at work here that the Ministry can't reach, something elusive and… slippery. We're fumbling around in the dark. This isn't just a missing person's case anymore."
"I don't care, Hermione. I'm out. Simple as," he said, turning away from her to return the bottle to its rightful place.
"... What happened to you?" she asked, her words infused with a sudden anger. "I know what you're like, and this is not it. What happened to the Harry I used to know?"
"Life happened, Hermione," he said, still with his back towards her. "Same thing that happened to you, once you became the Minister of Magic. Same thing that happened to Ron, and to your relationship. Same thing that happened to Ginny, and Luna, and Neville."
"So that's it, then?" she said, shaking her head. "You're just going to waste away here, manning the counter of a bar that nobody visits?"
"Hey, I'll have you know we see more than our fair share of patrons on the weekends," Harry frowned, turning to face her again. "And yes, that is precisely what I'm going to do. I just so happen to enjoy my work, thank you very much."
It was no lie - Harry did enjoy playing the role of bartender. Mixing drinks, tending to customers and lending a sympathetic ear to those who needed it. He had also gotten into cooking recently, and was planning on expanding his menu to serve warm meals as opposed to just bread and cheese. But that was not the real issue at play here, and they both knew it.
For a long moment, Hermione simply watched him, her expression tempered with an edge that only deepened his ache. She could see right through him, of course, as she always had, and he knew she could sense the despair he had tried so hard to bury. He waited for her to turn away, to respect his silence and let him fade back into his beloved obscurity.
But she didn't.
Instead, she took a breath and leaned close, eyes alight with the spirit of compassion. "You've been hurting yourself here, Harry. Hiding away in this place, hoping no one would come looking. I can see that, even if you can't."
Harry flinched, her words striking close to the heart. He looked down at his hands, at the scarred and calloused fingers that had once gripped so much. Now, they held nothing but an old bar cloth and the remnants of a life he could not bear to relive.
"Hurting myself?" he said, though the bitterness in his voice was softened by a note of resignation. "Maybe. But at least I'm not hurting anyone else."
Hermione's gaze shifted, her hand hovering above the bar before she let it drop to her side. For just a moment, it seemed as if she was seeing beyond the inn, the mugs, the glasses and the flickering candlelight. Seeing the hollow spaces around him, the well-worn grooves of his isolation.
In that moment, she seemed to glimpse the specter of someone he had once been - a person whole, now shattered.
"Harry, that's exactly the point," she murmured, as though she feared breaking the fragile silence that now filled the space between them. "You're not hurting anyone, but you're not helping them, either. People need you. They need us."
"I did my part, Hermione," he said. "I gave everything I had to give, and then some. And now, here I am, just trying to… be, for once." He gestured around the mostly empty room, to the life he had pieced together from nothing. "You and Ron, and all the others - you can handle what comes next. I don't need to be a part of it anymore."
At last, her resolve wavered. She let slip a muted sigh of resignation, and rose from her seat, straightening as though preparing to leave. He felt an unexpected pang of loss blossom in his chest, but forced himself to ignore it.
Before she moved away entirely, however, she fixed him with one last look, a spark of determination in her eyes.
"I'm leaving tomorrow morning," she said quietly. "Heading out to a conference in Oxford. But if you change your mind… if you decide that this isn't all there is…" She let her voice trail off, a weak smile upon her lips. "There's always a place for you in my life, Harry. There always will be."
She hesitated, then reached out one more time, resting her hand briefly on his arm. Her touch was light, a gentle reminder of everything they had shared, of everything he had once been to her.
And then, she was gone, her footsteps soft as she disappeared into the night. The door swung shut behind her, leaving him alone in the silence once more.
He stared after her for long moments, feeling the space she had left behind settle around him like a leaden weight.
Glancing at the empty wineglass she had left on the bar, he noticed the faint traces of her presence lingering on its smudged rim. He should have been relieved to see her go, he told himself. And yet…
With a sigh, he picked up the glass and began to clean it, his hands moving in the familiar rhythm they had gotten so accustomed to of late. Needless to say, he would not be going back to his old life anytime soon, if ever. But maybe… just maybe… there could be room for her in his new one.
He would just have to spruce up the place a bit first. It would not do to have the Minister of Magic drinking in such a dingy-looking tavern.
A/N: First off, I would like to disclose that the opening paragraphs of this chapter were taken directly from the prologue chapter to one of my favorite novels, The Name Of The Wind by Patrick Rothfuss (only reworked to fit my story, of course). It is such a brilliant piece that I simply could not help myself, inspired as I am by his work. All credit goes to the master, as I am but a humble amateur standing on the shoulders of giants.
Second, an explanation. This story has been bouncing around inside my head for the past few days, adamantly refusing to leave me alone. Now, I am supposed to be working on an original novel, and so the mental image of an old and jaded Harry Potter tending to a bar in Knockturn Alley is profoundly unhelpful to me at this time. As such, I decided the best way to get the image out of my head would be to write a story about it. Which is precisely what I did.
As you can probably imagine, this is only the first chapter of said story. I wrote the entire thing in a day, and yet have plenty more ideas I would like to include. This means that, sadly, I have to write more "All Hallows Inn" at some point. When said writing will occur, however, I have no clue. As I said, I am supposed to be working on a novel, and so this will remain a side project from now unto eternity.
That being said, I do so love reader engagement, and so any comment or review you feel like leaving will be greatly appreciated. I promise to read all of them. I might even respond to some of them, if I feel it is warranted.
Thank you for your time, and have a pleasant day.
- Twisted