The Gift of the Mages

3. GUY GOSSIP

Dennis Creevey strode into the Leaky Cauldron. "A pint of your best, Tom. And join me if you will."

Tom smiled his toothless grin as he drew two foaming tankards of Fester-Addams Home-Brew. That Master Creevey was acting more like a Weasley every day. He remembered when Molly had taken the poor boy in after his brother Colin died in the Great Battle, and his parents were too appalled and grief-stricken themselves to offer him comfort. Thin as a rail, he'd been, and all but beaten, but her cooking and hugs aplenty had filled him out and bucked him up soon enough. Now Dennis was just like one of the family. Tom had even heard George call him "bro'" one day, though that was familiar the way young people talked these days.

Now, as an assistant in George's shop, Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, Dennis had earned enough to start wearing stylish clothes too. No more raggedy tees and too-large trousers for him. Tom blinked and admired his green suit, sparkling with dragon scales in the light of the pub fireplace. It made him look almost a man.

"Nice threads," he murmured.

"Thanks," said Dennis, "It was a present--from my--from George."

Tom took a long pull on his tankard and reminisced silently, smacking his lips over the tart beverage. It had been a great idea to get the little shrimp to help out at the Wheeze. After Fred died, George had been almost unable to go on, what with the pain and all. But this child, with his huge eyes and a million questions behind them, proved to be just what the Healer ordered in Tom's opinion. He'd never be another Fred, but he was a hard worker and a cheery sort, and seemed to be developing a flair for salesmanship.

Tom thought maybe Dennis and George shared a silent understanding only those who'd lost a close sibling could. But there was more to it than that. The first time the Creevey brothers walked into the Cauldron, years ago, goggle-eyed and excited and dragging their frightened Muggle parents, Tom sensed that Dennis and Colin had a very close relationship. After all, they'd shared the secret knowledge of their magical differentness for a long time; Tom thought it must be almost like being in the womb together--like George and poor Fred.

There was one way Dennis was definitely like Fred: he was a great one with the stories, especially from his days at Hogwarts, starting with that one where he fell in the lake his first night there, and made the acquaintance of the Giant Squid. But Tom had a capper for him today, if he could get in a word edge-ways. (It was well known that Den Creevey had the gift of the gab.) The canny bartender would let him run his mouth for a bit, then hit him with the news.

"Say, Master Creevey, how's it going?" Tom asked.

"Right well, Tom, we're just tearing up the airways with our ads for the shop. Can't keep those new Dungbombs in stock. Got five flavours now." He ticked them off on his fingers. "There's Cow-Patties. They're rather mild actually, the kind you'd leave on the doorstep of the Home for Retired Warlocks--to liven up their mornings, you know. Then there's Goat-Droppings. They're ever so skanky. And Boar-Fewmets, bane of hunting enthusiasts. I like the Pixie Poop the best. It's great for aerial assaults. And then there's George's personal favorite, Dragon-Spoor. Like he says: 'it's for when you care enough to send the very worst'."

Tom was not to be deterred from dropping his own little Dungbomb. "I only ask about business, Master Dennis, because George's brother was in here earlier asking how he could go about selling something on the Dark Market. Sounded like he was having money problems."

"George's brother? Which one? Not Bill."

"Nope. The skinny one--the one they call Ronnie-kins. He had on what he thought was a disguise, a great balaclava wrapped clean around his head, but I seen his hair sticking out. Weasley-red, thinks I. You can't fool old Tom."

"Hmm... that's weird. Did he say what he wanted to pawn, or why?"

"Nope, played his cards close to his robes, as you might say. But I got the feeling it was something very valooble."

Dennis covered his amazement with a long pull at his drink. He knew Ron least well of all the Weasleys. What did Ron own that was worth selling? Nothing he could think of--except maybe Hermione. "He didn't give you any clue as to what--or why?"

"Well, he might have said more, but just then, Mundungus Fletcher walked in. Methinks Ron don't trust old Dung much, although I suspicion Dung could give him better advice on the fencing of valooble commodiddies than I could."

That was certainly true, thought Dennis, finishing his drink. The old sot knew all the shady dealers in Knockturn Alley. But it would have been more like him to pick Ron's pocket of the item, then try to sell it back to him later.

Dennis thanked Tom for the tip and headed for the back door, the shortest way to the shop--and Verity Periwinkle. Thinking of George's pretty, blonde assistant--and her amazing blue eyes--and the faint scent of roses that pervaded her wake--made him check his suit sleeves briefly for wrinkles or the odd spill. Then he got a whiff of a far less pleasant odor, a unique blend of pipe grunge, stale whiskey, and cabbage gas. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Dung Fletcher keeping a very low profile in a corner booth. He decided to pay his respects--and see if he could pump Dung about George's brother.

"Mr. Fletch--um--Mundungus, my man, how's tricks?" Dennis meant this literally. According to George, Dung Fletcher was a very tricky sort.

The mass of rags stirred in the gloom. Eyes red and bright with rheum signaled that the old thief was awake and aware, for the time being at least. "Whoozat?" he croaked. "It's a mort dark in 'ere. Can't see yer 'and in front of yer face, yer can't."

"It's Dennis Creevey. George Weasley's assistant."

"Oi, right. Seen you in the Wheeze, ain't I?"

"That's it." Dennis remembered. They'd been giving out free samples one day, and Dung had snuck back for seconds and thirds.

Dung scratched his head. "Them spinach-flavored breath mints was a big hit wiv the boys."

"Glad you liked them. Say, have you seen Ron Weasley around lately? You know: tall--freckles--um--"

"--vacant expression?" Dung finished with a chuckle. He grabbed Dennis's arm and yanked him into the booth. He was very strong for an old fellow. "I mighta, Denny, I just mighta. What's it worth to yeh?"

Dennis tried to imitate George's casual style. "Oh--heh--c'mon, um--Dung, what's a little gossip between--um--friends?"

Dung coughed brew-breath into his face. "Can't say, I'm sure, but times is hard, young fella, 'specially since You-Know-Who went you-know-where."

Dennis choked, but kept a smile on his face. "What do you mean? Business has never been better at the Wheeze."

"Well, you know, as long as they was hunting Death-Eaters, the Ministry didn't pay no attention to the likes of yours-truly. We're just small pertaters out there on the East End. 'Ardly worth bothering with. But now that Voldie's gone for good, them Aurors got nothing better to do than 'arass us little fellers--the Nation of Shoplifters--the foundation of sass-eye-uh-tee--" He drew out the last word deliberately, his hand over his heart. A tear formed in one eye--or was that just blear?"

The last words offended Dennis. His brother had died for the Magicosm and the likes of Mundungus Fletcher. He pushed the old man away. "Get off it, Mister. The soap-box, I mean. And it's shopkeepers not shoplifters."

"I was just sayin'--"

"Look, I just want to know if Ron Weasley approached you with any--ah-- business transactions is all."

"Naw, I ain't seen 'im since our days with the Order." Dung rubbed his hands together. "Fighting side-by-side with Albus Dumbledore. Great man, 'e was--a real saint--out to rid the world of evil--"

More like Dumbledore doing all the fighting and you skulking in the shadows, you great coward, thought Dennis.

"Say that reminds me," said Dung. "Spot us a drink, Denny, and I'll tell you a great shtory."

Dennis started to say he was sorry but--

"It involves one Ludovic Bagman." He laid a finger to the side of his nose and winked in the time-honored tradition of thieves and scoundrels.

Dennis remembered Ludo Bagman with bitterness. The fellow had once been Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, but resigned under a cloud for taking illegal bets at the Quidditch World Cup. Colin had been there with his camera, and had been conned by Ludo into making a bet on Team Irish with money he was saving for some new equipment. After the game, Bagman had absconded, leaving Colin and many other young wizards the poorer for it. But now Bagman was back at the Ministry, forgiven by all, though it was rumored that his new, wealthy wife had had a hand in his promotion.

Dennis shrugged. "Long's it's quick. I gotta get to work."

He settled in and called for a pint of small ale--just the one. Dung took a long pull, cleared his throat and started. "M'friend Rascal Raglan, you know, he comes from a good family, educated at Hogwarts an' all. Most of the family made it big, one way er 'nother. Anyway his younger brother's in the printing business er sumpin, and 'e juss 'ad a really big score. So Rascal persuades him to celebrate in a big way, but not with the Missus--if you get what I mean. Calls up his friends, some business ass-o-see-its, some Ministry brass--the family's got connections, right? And--get this--Rascal arranges for some luscious young witches from my neck of the woods to attend. That's how I hear about it. And I asks m'friend if they can maybe use a mater-dee or a broom-val-ay er sumpin. He gets little bro' Robert to hire me and I have m'self a great night--a little bartending, free booze, a bit of cadging on the side, nothing serious, you get me. But the real kicker is this. Some Auror--private agency, on an unrelated divorce case--gets pix of the party and our Ludo is in one of the pix--frolicking about with a bunch of these bounteous beauties. Missus B. finds out about it some'ow--and last I 'ear--'is Nibs is sleeping out back o' the mansion with the Crups and the Kneazles."

Dennis allowed himself a chuckle. "Say, that's pretty good, Dung." Serves the blighter right-- if it's true.

"It gets better. I got some pix of the party m'self. And I can let you have 'em for, oh say, a Sickle apiece. Ain't no good to me now--'cept as soo-veneers--now the cat's outta the bag..."

Dennis was no blackmailer, but he loved the thought of having something to remind him that Bagman was nothing more than a ferrety, cheating scoundrel. If they were good enough, he might even frame some and hang them in his flat. He took the lot and paid up.

"Now just for the record, Dung, are you dead sure you haven't seen Ron Weasley in here today?"

"Well, come to think of it I may have. I thought I saw a tallish feller talking to Tom this morning, as I come in, but when he saw me, he lit out quick. Thought at first he mighta owed me sumpin, but--naw--ain't nobody owes old Dung nothin' these days." He drained the last of his drink and looked hopefully at Dennis.

"Did you see which way he was headed?"

"Went out back--the Alley."

"Here," said Dennis. He tipped Dung a Sickle and, now with one more good reason to do it, headed for the back door.