It was on a cold day that the man stepped up to the tavern, his patched clothing blowing around his thin, drooped body in the wind. He paused before it, not entering, appearing as though he needed to find the courage first.
Nobody paid any attention to the man. All the muggles took one glance at him and carried on, deciding he was not worthy enough for two glances. They tightened their scarves around their mouths, heaved their bags stuffed with Christmas gifts over their shoulders, ignoring him so well that a few bumped into him, causing him to stumble, too weak to take the blow.
But the man didn’t care enough to do anything about it. He had far too much on his mind at the moment, still deciding if he had made the right decision, before he would no longer have the opportunity to turn back.
His green eyes stared at the door, dread running through him. He hadn’t been down this way for many years. He hasn’t been this close to them for many moons. The last time he stood before this very door seamed like a lifetime ago.
And yet, here he was.
He could just turn around and walk away, the man reasoned. He didn’t have to do this. He didn’t have to go back.
But in his heart, he knew he did.
So without further delay, the man reached out and grabbed the black handle, opened the door, and stepped into the Leaky Cauldron.
Nobody recognized him when he walked in, for which he was grateful. He had been in the spotlight far too many times throughout his life. He just wanted to stay in the shadows now. And if he were recognized, he’d have no chance to be.
He walked over to the bar, drawing his hood down, yet knowing without a doubt that it wouldn’t help. But Tom wasn’t a really loud person. If he could only tell Tom to be quiet soon enough, then everything would be fine. He could get a room, pay Tom to be quiet about his presence, and figure out what he was going to do from there. Yes. That would work.
“Can I help you, sir?” Tom asked as he drew near. The sound of Tom’s voice brought the man an unexpected feeling of tenderness towards the bartender. It was as though he had just returned to a time when things were better. When the sun shined everyday. When there were towns without the mist from the reproducing dementors.
“Tom, please be quiet. You can’t tell anyone that I’m here.”
Tom’s eyes widened in disbelief. Even though the man had whispered his request, and even though his hood was covering most of his face, Tom knew that man anywhere. Everyone did. He opened his mouth obviously to ask if his eyes and ears were telling him the truth but the man beat him to it.
“Yes, it’s me. Don’t be fooled. Cobra.”
At the word Cobra, Tom’s expression no longer showed any doubt, only amazement in the situation. Disbelief of the idea that the man really was there, yet not that he was who he said he was. Cobra. It was their keyword. Their password. So that they would always know that the other wasn’t an imposter. No one else would know the night that that man was his only customer, and the two of them sat up telling stories. That’s where the password came from. A story. A memory. A better time.
“Yes…” Tom said slowly, staring. He walked out from behind the bar. “ Yes…it is you.” He stared up at the man for a moment, joy and lost hope returning. It was as though the man’s weak state and ragged clothes weren’t there. As though he was as strong and as wealthy as before. As though he still had a chance to right the wrong in the world.
“Let me take you to your room. Do you have any luggage? How long are you planning to stay Mr.-err- sir? You can stay as long as you’d like. No charge.”
The man’s guilt came again. Just as it had been for the past five years. “I can’t do that to you. I insist on paying.”
“No. No. No.” Tom was practically bouncing with every step up the stairs, a feat for the old man. “Why, with what you’ve done, with what you’ve come back to do, of course I can’t even think about letting you pay.”
“I didn’t come back to do anything.”
Tom stopped at the words spoken coldly. He turned and looked at the man.
“I can’t do what everyone wants me too. I’m not strong enough.” The man’s voice was defeated. Hopeless.
Tom said nothing. Turning around, he opened the door and stepped back, allowing the man to enter. “That will be two gallons per night. You may pay at the front desk.”
The door shut sharply, leaving a dull echo in the man’s head and a black room before him. He felt around attempting to find something, anything, to help guide his way around the unfamiliar objects. There was no light switch on the wall, something that he had originally forgotten, and his wand was somewhere within all the rubbage in his trunk. He resorted to shuffling forward, hands straight out and eyes straining to adjust to the darkness. He banged his shin against something hard. Bending down, he found that the top was soft and fluffy. He sat down, rubbing his hurt leg. Once more, as he had not for many months, he recalled clearly why he had left the wizarding world. But, as he stared around a room he could not see, he failed to recall why he decided to return.
Return by Potters Redhead
Chapter Notes: Disclaimer: Characters and world belong to JK Rowling, of course.