The Weight of the World

The Weight of the World

He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long enough into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. -Fridrich Nietzche

It was a small pub, hazy and common place in the dank streets of England, smoky and dark, full of shadowy corers where one could be almost completely assured of privet time with their thoughts, especially those thoughts that one doesn't particularly want to be alone with. The tables were streaked with grime and the glasses foggy with use, but people cam in at a steady pace, running from their demons, or perhaps confronting them.

Tom watched them all come in, knew most of them by name, had spoken to their kids, had calm chats with them about safe topics like the weather and Quidditch. He knew Hermione Granger by sight, by her drink order of gin and tonic, and by her constant seat in one of his patched and hidden booths. And yet he was totally unfamiliar with her. She was one of those who became an immediate regular, even though her visits were at random intervals. The part of her visits that was constant was this chip she carried on her shoulder wherever she went, distancing herself from other patrons and rubbing the poison from her blood shot eyes.

He had no idea if she had finally settled in London, or perhaps farther out, but he suspected she was a city girl, she wore heels, most country girls didn't bother with heels, let alone the flawless smile and fingernails she kept up. She was the ideal patron; she tipped well and could hold her own against any of the others. Men sidled up to her booth and never quite returned the same, women who asked to sit with her left after a second of her silent steely company, looking like their lives were over.

Hermione only ever has one drink, but she could drain it in one thrown back head or make it last four hours. It relived Tom a bit that she was always quiet. Occasionally she would make an abstracted comment about the weather, or say to another woman that she liked her shoes, but that was rare, Tom remembered her from her school days and talking hadn't seemed important to her then, if it ever had at all. After paying for her drink she would find her was to her booth and sit there alone, he often wondered how it was she could spend so many long hours in one seat and never talk to herself. Or perhaps she did speak to herself, but he never heard because she did it without the tiniest movement of her lips.

The woman herself never really changed either, no more than she did mannerisms or drink selection. She wore smart robes that no one could dare insult, her buttons and clasps were never missing or tangled, her stockings were delicately kept, and on the outside she seemed to be like every other witch who stepped over the threshold of the pub, small breasts and a tan face. Typical Hermione Granger from as far back as he could recall. Her hair was kept tied away, stray bits oft falling into her clear brown eyes in an attractive way. Her skin has that healthy glow that came from eating and drinking the proper amount and taking in decent doses of sunshine, so he had to wonder how a woman so obviously well off could do harm to herself by not sleeping enough.

There were weeks when she wouldn't come in, but he never worried because in time she always made her way back to his bar, an odd little half self-accomplished and satisfied smile quirking her thin lips and ready change in her palm. Other times she would come in every day for a month before one-day abruptly not showing. Still he couldn't worry because he read her name in tucked away newspaper articles that had to be reported, but were kept stealthily obscure, half the information missing and sentences hanging like unasked questions in the air. She always comes back for more and she's never mentioned in the obituaries has anything other than the unnamed cause of a natural death.

He went about his business every day at the same pace regardless of whether she came in through the cracked door of not. He raised drink prices, swept the returning dust away, restocked cognac as it evaporated, and kept up a generally stable and respectable establishment. It was the odd, crooked place in his heart that kept her gin and tonic at the same seven silver sickles.

*

The man who came in every Sunday was seemingly normal. He sat at the bar and could almost always strike up a conversation with whoever sat next to him. The topics he subtly guided the conversation through varied, one week it might be cricket and water polo, the next the stocks and financial muck of gold galleon bonds, and then later it might be the latest funny in the Prophet. Sometimes Tom joined in with the man's peculiar conversations, often halfway through a topic while he topped off the bourbon water the man was so fond of.

He was young, his face unlined, and manner careless. About once every month he brought a round for the house, personally this only made the old bar tender fonder of him. House rounds were always good for business.

On the Sundays when he came in early it was obvious the conversations would be dreary, for he was missing family brunch, a typical magic family tradition that seems to take the place of Jesus. These days the talk would be of the government and Corny Fudge.

If he came in around munch his mood would be unusually and unhealthily chipper, these days were bad for business as he was always in a hurry to be somewhere so he could only afford one drink.

At dusk he would come in with heavy bags under his eyes and a rumpled newspaper under his arm to use as a pillow as he slowly nursed his drink, making it last until closing.

And finally on the nights when he came in after dark, around nine of ten, the party was just to begin. He would sing along with the music his wand supplied, no matter what it happened to be, he would flirt with the two waitresses and the other women who moseyed up to him.

On the front Tom could not say he disliked this man, this regular of his, he drank well, laughed loudly, and drank more. He wore his blond hair in his face and didn't bother to move it from his dancing eyes, the robes he wore were polished and fine, but his shoes were scuffed and never shined in the dim bar lights.

It was the shoes that told Tom this was the masked marvel Draco Malfoy.

*

Few people drank martinis, especially dry ones, especially among the magically gifted. So when the boy came in the first time and ordered the potent drink Tom had to recall where the olives were, he found them in a corner of a spider webs under the bar in a jar, he figured they were aged nicely.

The boy made his way back to the bar at least twice a week, sometimes even twice a day. He always drank his liquor quickly, but he savored the two olives, then he would stab the toothpick into the edge of his napkin, making a nice little hole. One stab wound for each end of the toothpick.

For some reason Tom never asked the boy for his name, but he felt like he shouldn't have to, like he should know whom this elusive youth was. He always had the appearance of a young boy not quite grown into his power, like he itched to be on with his destiny and have it out. There was no life in his green eyes, no sparkle, and his black hair always clung to the back of his neck like he had come in from a hot afternoon. This was strange as in London there was rarely any humidity to speak of, no scalding heat except for a few stray months in summer when the equator struck back. More than likely it was foggy and rainy, dirty puddles of slop lining the paved and cobblestone roads and back alleys. Tom would have called these small and inopportunely placed lakes boiling mucus pits is he hadn't known it would be bad for business. Truly, London was a disgusting city.

Occasionally a red haired man, immediately recognizable as Ronald Weasley, will come in with this nameless boy. He is tall sort of built fellow with a deep voice that carries into the rafter and over the knots in the bar surface. Tom compares him to his late brothers William and Charles. He is so different from his quiet companion, he's obviously grown up, he's not a boy any longer, something flourished in him before or because of, his friend apparently. Ronald drinks whisky, several shots all at once, and he can hold all his liquor, never really loses his head or get lucky enough to surpass a pleasant buzz.

When they're together they chat in a friendly sort of way, but there is always something left unsaid between them, as though it would be hazardous to speak of out loud, and in this world it may very well be just that. Other days, when they trail in after one another at a sluggish pace, they have silent toasts to...Tom never knows what they toast; it seems too grievous to talk of...so it is a silent salute. From her back corner, if she is there, Hermione will lift a glass to this unsaid deity.

Ronald is always leaves last, and when he is alone he sips at the remnants of his companion's drink, as though to remind himself of how much he hates the bitter taste. Then he shivers down his spine and orders himself a second, or third drink, doubtless to rid his mouth of the shocking aftertaste.

*

The world pays blunt attention when they enter a room, any room, but especially when they drop into the pub smiling and laughing, treating each other to beers. Tom had never seen them come in sad or desolate, quietly yes, but never long faces or despairingly. They are Fred and George Weasley, strange though they may be, they are never ones to frown. In one of their funny quirks they pay for each other's drinks, despite the fact they will be paying the same amount of money either way, and they always drink their beers from the bottle at room temperature. Say it reminds them of home, this Tom has never quite understood, he just serves them as they're ordered.

They never have known a stranger; they talk up outcasts, outsiders, and the outlandish--Draco for example or their brother when he is alone after his drinking partner has abandoned him, and they speak in huddles as though they've been separated for a very long expanse of time. Sometimes the bartender thinks they might have been friends, if he had not known their families and seen the days when they all just sit and ignore each other at the far ends. This, perhaps, is another stranger habit of theirs, they never sit at a booth or table, never talk to the people in the tables or booths, but they always manage to sit at the bar even when its full t capacity. They can always find barstools, Tom suspects he knows exactly how.

The tips they leave are bizarre; the amount varies according to a fluctuation scale unknown to their host. Tom has never made the connection between those newspaper and media broadcast death tolls and the monetary value of his tips. However he shrugs and smiles at their identical retreating backs as he counts whatever it is they're left on that day.

*

Ginny Weasley has known everyone since she was fourteen. With he red wine in hand she goes off to greet any other party in the room. Her heels click on the dusty wood floor and her slight figure glows with both drink and smiles.

Fred and George always pay attention to her, even it they have declined all other company, they will watch her as she makes her social rounds. It takes one glass of wine and four beers for her to make her way around the entire room. It's a shame she doesn't come in more often, he'd certainly have better beer profits, but she only comes in a few times a month at best.

When their schedules allow the first person Ginny will talk to in Hermione Granger. The conversation is pretty much a one sided affair, but it can go on for quite a while, the younger girl and her wine telling story after story and the elder speaking only when it can't be avoided.

Their similarities are scarce, barely going farther than to touch on the fact they are of the same sex. Apart from that they share a tense manner, looking up as each new patron opens the door and examining each other with caution and guarded care, as though to be forewarned that the jerk they lost their virginity to was back for more. This was only how the acted, not how they were, or at least not the young one, she has an engagement ring, but her fiancée is never here.

She doesn't ever speak to the black haired and speckled boy, she looks at him as though he is six leagues below her and he usually scurries away, out the door, just barely remembering to tip. Ron she does talk to, they get along better than most siblings, patting each other on the back, trying each other's drinks, and even going so far as to hug once in a while.

But it is none other than Draco Malfoy who Tom feels the most sympathy for, because she just lets her eyes linger over him, making it clear that he means nothing to her. The fact is she hardly comes in on Sundays anymore because she knows they are both far too prideful to get up and leave. There was the first time they were in here at the same time, the things she said to him were scathing, bruises in the making, but her insults were never on her own behalf, they were punches learnt from big brothers. The thought it almost comical the way she roused no retaliation from him other than the arch of a cynical eyebrow and sip of his casual drink.

Tom noticed Hermione was absent from her back booth that day, and that Ginny and Draco never spoke with words again. It was all daggers thrown from fiery brown eyes, received, and melted with calm cool gray ones.

*

Port is not a drink a bartender from a pub in the wrong end, and to the general public non-existent, of London serves very often. Port is a classy drink, and he was a classical man. Not necessarily a normal man; there was a twinkle in his eyes as he accepted his drink, a glow about his persons that drew all eyes to him. Albus Dumbdlore will insist upon paying for his drink, but you will feel as though he shouldn't have to.

It was dusk and he came in quietly, looking down at his wrinkled hands and touching the hems of his rich robes, but he was the imposing sort of figure who was never out of place in unique status. Dumbdlore was a status unto himself.

He spoke in a voice that did not belittle the person blesses enough to be in his presence, though it definitely made you aware of your inferiority. Without asking he began to push around furniture, scooting two square tables together and adding mismatched chairs carefully.

Meeting Tom's questioning eyes he said happily, "I won't be here to tell them where to sit, just make sure they sit here." He took his last sip of port and swept out into the still and unusually sunny October evening, smiling.

*

They trailed in together. Each face quiet and lost, none clinging to another, but their bodies far apart. Hair ended in dusty ribbons, new scars cut through eyebrows and over knuckles, history lingering in their eyes.

Tom didn't quiet know which drink to prepare first, so he started with the red wine, as it was the simplest to prepare. He drew out the bottle and the glass, poising his hand to pour when a pale freckled hand reached out and snatched the new, freshly uncorked bottle and sat at the pushed together tables. He noted, dully, that her wedding band was missing, replaced by a ring of dried blood, but he didn't have time to ponder its gaudy absence as two bottles of beer were calling to be opened.

The whisky was taken and its drinker fell heavily next to his sister as she nursed her wine, the twins sat sown on his other side, flanking him. For the first time since their early school days the family resemblance appeared again. Four people who had worked to be so different now needed their similarities. How had Tom forgotten who these children had been? In between one of his older brothers and his little sister he looked to much younger, far more like a boy than he had been. He was completely lost, scarcely noticing the shot glass his hand was fervently wrapped around.

The last two joined the table together, sitting in chairs so close it looked as though they would soon be sharing an armrest. She sipped that gin and tonic, and to the amassed surprise of her bourbon and water companion and their host, she leaned her hesitant head on his shoulder. Across the table the youngest gave a sigh of relief and nodded into her wine.

There was a last empty seat and it sat through their whole meeting forlorn, as though they knew one of two people should be sitting there, but it retained its animosity.

Silently he refilled each glass as it emptied, but he dare not intrude on their moments. It was as through none of them wanted to leave alone, as though there was a voice, unheard, binding them together, a subject they didn't quite address.

It was abrupt and nearly every chair skidded as the man at the end of the table, previously ignoring his whiskey raised his brimming glass toward the empty chair and said, "Them. The lost."

The reaction took a moment, but one by one oddly formed pieces of glass rose in the air and dry voices that had forgotten quiet speech said, one by one, "Them. The lost."

Tom watched as they left, he felt it, with only these few that they were suddenly more than tips and turned tables. They were more than their drinks of choice, they were more then the small children who had begged parents for butterbeer. They were on the house. He never had the heart, after that night, to move the tables apart, and though he never realized who was supposed to be sitting in that empty chair, it never left the presence of those tables.