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A Disappearing Act in Reverse by La Syren Trompeuse [Reviews - 1]

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In the midst of all this annoying good cheer, he was an oasis of true bar spirit: utterly and completely miserable. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course, but barkeeps are better than shrinks at reading people. The man came in every Thursday at eight o’clock and left at nine, and in the interim he drank exactly two shots of whiskey. Not Ogden’s; the Muggle stuff. It’s better, of course, and the Ministry doesn’t get on us too badly about serving it, probably because the Minister himself has been known to enjoy a glass or two. Anyway, it was Thursday, and the man was sitting at his usual stool: the one at the end of the bar farthest from the door, one that happened to be completely in shadow due to the rather poor placement of a pillar. I always thought it odd that this man—let’s call him Bob, for the sake of the story—chose to lurk in the shadows. The only people that stick to the dark are spies, in my experience, and we’ve no need for those these days.

So as I was saying, the first time Bob graced us with his presence, I didn’t notice him come in. I felt eyes on my back and saw him in his corner, a slight blurring of the shadow. It was like that every week. I wondered how on earth he got to his stool without me knowing, but I suppose any tricky person could manage it. After I noticed him, a pale hand would snake out and deposit a few Sickles on the bar, my cue to bring him his chosen poison. The first time I saw Bob there in his shadow, I went over and did my usual routine: “So, laddie, what’ll you be having this fine evening? Wait, let me guess. You look like a man who likes hard liquor. Whiskey, perhaps?” I was rewarded with a grunt that sounded affirmative, so I continued. “Now, you’ll be too experienced to be drinking that Ogden’s. No, you’re a man of the world and as such will want our finest Muggle brand. Am I right?” Of course I was. I’ve never been wrong. I think Bob was a little annoyed that I’d read him so well, for his only reply was to toss a couple of coins in my direction. Lucky I’m fast on my feet, else I could’ve had a Sickle-shaped imprint on my forehead.

You may be wondering how I guess people’s drinks the way I do. I read people’s auras, in a manner of speaking. To simplify, a happy, bubbly little slip of a girl is going to want her liquor diluted with lots of sugariness, and a fellow who sits in dark corners refusing to let himself be seen probably has some heavy issues with which to deal, so he’s going to want something to let him forget, and fast. Easy, really.

Well, Bob’s been coming in for a year now. I still don’t know his name, or even what he looks like. The man must use an invisibility cloak to get in, since no matter how keen an eye I keep, I miss his entrance every time. One year… usually I’ve built up a rather nice rapport with my patrons by then. Bob has something to hide, that much is certain, but he makes it so darn obvious that his secrets are just begging to be uncovered. See, if you’ve got troubles and you don’t want folks knowing, you act like you don’t have a care in the world. If Bob didn’t want folks knowing who he was, he could put on a glamour charm and walk around with his head held high and no one would be the wiser. Seems to me he likes being a man of mystery.

Needless to say, I wanted to find out about Bob. The next Thursday, I strategically placed several large candelabras in Bob’s corner, eliminating the shadows in which Bob so liked to hide. As the clock ticked closer to eight, I carefully schooled my features to a mask of angelic innocence, which I’m sure looked slightly ridiculous on an old codger like me, and waited for Bob. At nine-thirty, I decided he wasn’t coming and devoted my attentions to the OxWiz kids and their silly umbrella drinks. Honestly, you’d think that ordering something called a Sex on the Beach from a geezer who could be your great-grandfather would be a little awkward, but the girls with their bosoms hanging out and the boys with their trousers sagging somewhere around their knees couldn’t have cared less. They were somewhat displeased that their Cosmopolitans and such had to be served in beer mugs—I think, “Omigod, how uncool!” were their words—but I haven’t bought new glasses in seventy years, and I’m certainly not going to cave to the trends of the latest batch of weirdos.

So, at two o’clock, after I’d kicked out the last few bottle-hugging, teary-eyed drunks, I was about to set the wards when the door banged open and a man in billowing black robes stormed in. I was on the verge of telling him that we were closed for the evening when he settled himself down on Bob’s stool and said, in a voice so smooth and unemotional that it gave me the chills, “Two whiskeys, please.” When he tossed the Sickles at me, I was ready with my wand, and sent them zipping back to his hand.

“You, sir,” I said, “are late.”



A Disappearing Act in Reverse by La Syren Trompeuse [Reviews - 1]

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