The Traveler's Secret

CHAPTER 4: TOM'S BACK ROOM

Tom had been worried when Albus Dumbledore had sat down across from the Russian in the booth, and their whispered conversation only increased his wariness. He had become nervous himself, his hands trembling making more noise with his glasses than he intended. The drunken man with the snowy white hair at his bar seemed to have become more intoxicated, and it irked Tom that he couldn't keep his full attention on the Professor.

In fact, Tom had had to watch the drunken man at his bar more than he would have liked, because he had already knocked into another customer as he had leaned off his stool. Tom was angry when he had to make his other customer another drink, and angrier that he had to help the drunken man back onto his stool. But he was fuming because the moment he turned his head back to the table Dumbledore had occupied, the Professor had gone, leaving the black bearded man behind.

Tom saw Albus once more as he neared the door. Dumbledore had, for the first time that night, turned his attention to Tom, and had given him the sternest, and possibly the most frightened look that Tom had ever seen on his young face. Tom was now absolutely sure something was going on. But he also thought he had seen the drunken man at his bar watch Dumbledore go as well. In fact, he was sure he had seen a spark of intelligence and intention in the drunk man's large blue eyes. For the first time, Tom was starting to suspect that the man in the old bomber jacket sitting at his bar, the man whom Tom had had to keep his eye on all night, might be something more than he pretended to be.

But the moment Dumbledore left, the drunken man turned back to his drink, and the sullen haze he had allowed himself to slip into. Maybe, Tom construed, the man had thought it odd that someone would wear an emerald cloak.

Tom was quite surprised when the stocky Russian in the corner, that the Professor had spoken to, had found his way to Tom's bar, and was even more surprised when the stranger had asked for Tom the bartender himself. The dark haired Russian was agitated, sweating large drops of anxiety, that much Tom could see. His arms were wrapped vice like around his chest as if he intended to keep the blustering night out. Tom moved down the bar toward the frightened man, who leaned over the countertop, his large black eyes focused on him as if Tom was his only salvation. As Tom Sr. passed the sullen white haired youth that had so irritated him before, he noticed an odd silence surrounded him as if old bomber jacket was quite keen to listen.

Tom reached Dumbledore's acquaintance, a mug and a rag still in his hand. The Russian leaned over his bar even more, smudging the mahogany countertop that he had just cleaned. The dark haired man smelled slightly of whiskey and sweat.

"Are you Tom?" stuttered the Russian.

Tom looked at him for a moment, studying his character. The man was obviously afraid about something.

"I am."

"Professor Dumbledore said that he would like you to personally show me where your backroom is."

Tom stepped back a bit. His pub was larger than most, but not large enough to hold a backroom. All he had was a back alley, lined with bulging trash bins of yesterday's trash. But this wasn't the first time he had received such an odd request. Tom nodded, and strode out from behind his bar. He led the Russian through the crowd, and as he passed his dishwasher boy, he pointed to the unattended bar. The boy nodded, and filled in Tom's usual post.

The dishwasher boy thought it odd when he arrived behind the counter, that a tall, young man with untidy white hair got up, quickly slapped a few bills down and pushed his way through the crowd.

It didn't take Tom long to reach the back of his pub. He knew every inch of its worn stone and scarred wood. The Leaky Bucket had been apart of London for hundreds of years, much longer than his family had ever had it. It was said his grandfather had bought it off an odd chap, who had let the place fall into ruin. But now that it was his, and would soon be his son's, he took pride in it.

He knew everything about the Leaky Bucket, even the subtlest change in the atmosphere. He could sense the difference in the air; it was a taunt, electric tension. Something big was happening inside his walls.

When he reached the door he hesitated, turning slightly to see if the dark, stocky man was still there behind him. He was, though his eyes were wide, and his face frost pale. The Russian was hunched over himself as if he were in physical pain. A phantom of fright flickered in the man's eyes.

"My back room," Tom said, and he opened the door onto the back alley.

To his surprise and the Russian's, someone stood there that he had never seen before, someone who had waited for the door to open, a wand at the ready.