The Traveler's Secret

CHAPTER 2: THE LEAKY BUCKET

The Leaky Bucket was an unknown, dusty place except to those who frequented its lonely interior. It was owned by a Tom senior who had a knack for keeping everything extremely clean and neat. He also had a knack for knocking heads together when anyone wanted 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. And 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 senior had a son, Tom junior who was slightly hunchbacked and a quiet child. Most patrons of Tom's establishment found that odd things seemed to happen around Tom Junior. What they didn't know was that Tom junior was a wizard. Of course his father knew this, even though it had been quite a shock. 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 this new fact he had learned about his son, but he had grown to accept it as best he could. Tom junior was his only son and after his wife died, the only one he would have.

But it 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 ladies bonnet, a sport's 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, without a drop of rain on him, 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 senior the news of his son's peculiarity. Though at first he had regarded the man with unguarded suspicion, Tom Senior had grown accustomed to him. He would never admit that the man had grown on him, but he respected the fellow.

Professor Dumbledore had brought something out of his son Tom Junior, that Tom Senior never knew existed; he brought out confidence and joy. Though Tom senior 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 junior, 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 junior, who never stopped talking about how great his teacher was.

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 door, his usual smile and twinkle in his eye 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, so much so that Tom 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 backs covered with drenched shirts which clung to skins. Subdued light leaked out from the gas lamps 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. He 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 thick chested man, whose tired face was covered in a dark beard. He was hunkered down in the seat, one hand holding a tight grasp on his whiskey, 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. He was nervous, constantly looking over his shoulder at the crowd around him. Something about the 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 man. 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.

Tom Sr. wiped down his counter which was soaked in drinks spilled of all kinds, sweeping his rag around the dark mugs, his eyes every once in awhile glancing over to the Professor.

As he made his way down his counter, he noticed that a new customer had just settled onto a barstool. Tom was intrigued by the young man as he ordered a whiskey on rocks. The man at the bar counter wore a tattered old bomber jacket and a pair of dirt stained pants. His 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. He seemed too young to be at a bar and yet his eyes were old, 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 he had 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, he 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. 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 felt a horrible shudder as if he tried to rid himself of the sudden darkness that had come upon him.