I dropped my wand and put my hands up, like they do in those Muggle films. I was scared; Bob was all business. Even though he had to lean over the bar to keep his wand on me, he was taller by far. ‘Course, they say you shrink when you get old. Anyway, we stayed like that, him and me, for a long time. Seemed like hours, but it was probably just a couple of minutes. Scared me, you know; I’ve never been much good with complicated wand-waving. These days, people are pretty well-behaved in my bar. Well, comparatively, anyway. A couple of drunk wizards firing spells at each other can always get a little messy, but nowadays they tend to favor things like bat-bogey hexes instead of Unforgivables.

After a time, Bob lowered his wand, very slowly. I half expected him to snap it back up and fire a slicing hex right across my neck. Instead, he said, in a voice on the verge of breaking, “You were going to set the wards.” It wasn’t a question; it was as though he couldn’t believe he’d become paranoid enough to fear attack from an ancient barman.

I understood that this was as close as I was going to get to an apology. A wizard, even one who skulks around in the shadows, has got to save some dignity, after all. I resisted the urge to rub my throat where the wand had poked it and muttered, “’S all right.”

Bob sank back down on his stool and tossed back both shots in rapid succession, then rested his head in his hands. If I could paint, and I wanted to paint tragedy, I’d paint Bob at that moment: a mass of dark shadow and robes hunched over a bar, those two empty glasses next to him. Now, if the bar were open and full, I’d be leaving Bob to himself for a while to think about his problems. But the bar was empty, and Bob had already spoken more tonight than he had in the previous year. So, I stood in front of him, put my hands on the bar, and waited.

At first, I don’t think he noticed I was standing there, so absorbed was he in his thoughts. After a while, though, the atmosphere shifted and it became a battle of wills: who would speak first. Bob was certainly the silent type, but I’ve been around a long, long time, and with age comes patience. And so we stayed, a broken man and a very old one, waiting for the other to crack. While Bob studied the wooden surface of the bar, I studied him. Who was he? What had happened to him? His affection for the shadows and for hiding in a cloak obviously meant that he did not want to be recognized, and I decided that and the practically tangible sadness probably meant that the recognition he avoided would not be positive.

But as I’ve said, a man who doesn’t want to be seen puts on a cheerful face and a good Glamour charm; Bob was ostentatiously anonymous. It was odd. Perhaps he was a criminal. If that were true, he couldn’t have done anything too terrible or he’d be in Azkaban. Maybe he’d been involved with Voldemort, but escaped confinement. The late so-called He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had only fallen ten years before; all but the youngest children remembered those dark days with clarity. If Bob had been a Death Eater, he’d be recognized for certain. Death Eaters had favored cloaks… I fingered a scar on my hand, a gift from an unhappy Death Eater patron. But no, the Order had ensured all the Death Eaters met their just deserts. A spy, then. Someone the public thought badly of, even after all these years. That was more likely. I felt a tug at the edge of my consciousness and was jolted out of my thoughts. Legilimency!

There was a minute shred of amusement behind the bitterness in Bob’s voice as he asked, “You think I was a spy?” He stood suddenly, and I backed slowly away until my back was pressed against what I feared was a shelf full of my very best liquor. I had no desire to have Bob’s wand jabbing my throat again, thank you very much. Much to my surprise, though, the hand that emerged from Bob’s robes came up empty and continued up to his hood, which he pushed back in one swift movement. His black eyes glared at me from a skeletal face framed with lank black hair. I’m sure that after that dramatic display, Bob expected fear or horror or a quick Floo to the Ministry.

Instead, I laughed. I couldn’t help myself; I’ve seen a lot in my day, and not much shocks me anymore. See, I had figured Bob out exactly: standing in the middle of my empty bar surrounded by upturned chairs was Severus Snape, former Professor and Potions Master of Hogwarts, known follower of Voldemort, and killer of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. A man whose trial had been conducted in secret; his sudden appearance – free of shackles – outside the Ministry after his trial had nearly resulted in a riot, so outraged was the gathered crowd. The rumors flew wildly about his release (He bribed the Minister! He blackmailed Harry Potter!), but Snape soon disappeared from the public radar. But I had my suspicions. People can’t just disappear, and those who can have had some practice doing it.

Bob, or rather, Snape, just stared at me. When my mirth subsided, I said, “Stop gaping like a fish, my boy. You just traipsed about in my mind; you know I had you figured out. Lad, I was working this bar when Albus Dumbledore came in to celebrate his graduation from Hogwarts. I don’t get surprised anymore.” In spite of all my joviality, I have to admit that I was still scared. Severus Snape didn’t pick up a reputation for being one of the deadliest wizards around for nothing.