The Troll's Behind

The Troll’s Behind 1: The Troll’s Behind

The rain beat down on the cobblestones of Knockturn Alley. It drummed on the roofs of The Broken Axle, Borgin and Burke’s, Anlet’s (All Kinds of Creatures), Kirk and Snickey’s and The Troll’s Behind. It tapped the windows of The Restricted Apothecary, Flaskman’s (Britain’s Best Pharmacy) and Black Coach Transportation. The rain also thoroughly drenched a blond and blue-eyed man in a dirty cloak walking the empty streets.
The man was hurriedly making his way towards The Troll’s Behind. The Troll’s Behind was Knockturn Alley’s filthiest tavern and that’s saying something. When he reached his destination and carefully evaded the precariously hung sign, he stepped hurriedly inside. The bartender, a large, heavy-set Norwegian, shouted to his wife (the only waitress employed) to get “Mister Brez” a dry cloak and a clean spot at the the bar counter.
One cloak, one firewhiskey and three cauldron cakes later, the blond man took up a dirty napkin and dabbed fastidiously, as fastidiously as one possibly can, at his lips. Once the crumbs on his chin switched places with the dirt on the cloth he asked the bartender softly, “Any slips of the tongue by my friend Lazarus’ henchmen? And Gunther, please refrain from calling me Mister Brez, Mister Brezhnev or Vladimir, you know very well that I hate it.”
The large Norwegian chuckled at his friends reprimand. “I called you mister Brez because shouting the names Vlad or Brezhnev might be dangerous.” He jerked his head towards two cloaked men sitting at a table in one corner of the tavern. “And although I haven’t heard anything of interest from Larz’s henchmen–.”
“Ah, well, no luck there then.”
“...Lazarus Mordecai himself got quite tipsy in here three nights ago.”
The blond man (a Russian by the name of Vladimir Joseph Brezhnev, though simply called Vlad) sat bolt upright. “What useful information tumbled from the man’s slimy mouth, Gunther?” he asked excitedly, altogether forgetting to whisper.
“Well, he got quite smug and drunkenly secretive at one point saying only that he had made a wonderful business deal with a man named Dom. He kept saying that he would make a lot of money once “Dom” brings down the order the wizarding world needs.”
“Dom, is that short for Dominick or Domovoi?”
“Most likely Dominick.”
Vlad pursed his lips and scratched his stubbled chin. He flipped through his memories of all the big-time criminals he knew. After the name “Dominick” failed to come up, he switched to shady politicians. There were not that many left following the Dark Lords little adventure in the ministry's Department of Mysteries. Unlike the majority of the wizarding world, Vlad knew the details of what had happened that day.
“Vlad, look.”
Gunther's warning snapped Vlad out of his reverie. He followed Gunther's gaze to the doorway where two men had just entered. One was short, clumsy and smoked a cigar, the other, tall and alert, with pale skin and eyes darted around the tavern, coming to rest on Vlad.
“Wilhelm Kirk, eh? Never thought he’d come here. Who’s the other one, Gunther?
“Dunno, short and stupid looking though.”
“That might be a front. A bit like you; act thick, be clever.”
Gunther blinked, not knowing whether to be insulted or complimented. The tall man said something to his shorter companion and the man nodded and walked out. Vlad watched with narrowed eyes as the pale man stepped delicately over to them and smiled silkily. ”Mister Brez–.” he started in an oily voice, but was cut off.
“Never call me by my last name, Kirk, you know that.”
“O-of course Mister Br-Vlad, it’s just that Mister Stephan Spavento wishes to see you.”