"You're quite the busy man. I remember the last time I saw you was a year ago."
"That massive batch of dittany essence nearly killed me. What brings you here this time?"
After the brief chaos subsided, Old Tom finally regained his composure and began chatting with Tommy in a resigned tone.
Tiger sat nearby, forcing down his sandwich while trying to suppress the burning, cloying sweetness in his throat. His gaze toward Old Tom remained distinctly unfriendly.
Unless the old bastard produced that whiskey from behind the bar.
The Leaky Cauldron wasn't merely in the pub and inn business—it occasionally operated as a broker as well.
A blackboard hung on the interior wall, covered with various notices and jobs awaiting wizards desperate for Galleons.
So Tommy qualified as a substantial client. The previous dittany essence purchase had earned Old Tom quite handsomely.
"Nothing particularly pressing."
"Tiger received his Hogwarts acceptance letter. I've brought him to Diagon Alley for supplies."
Tommy spoke with characteristic flatness.
"Merlin's beard!"
Old Tom couldn't suppress his exclamation, and even the surrounding conversations diminished considerably.
Everyone stared at Tiger with incredulous expressions.
The Shelby Family's peculiarities were documented in St. Mungo's medical textbooks—precious few remained ignorant of their reputation.
"Well, well, well..."
Someone suddenly rose, speaking with the affected cadence of aristocracy, his malevolent features twisted with mockery.
He strolled leisurely toward the bar, an ornate black wand spinning between his fingertips.
"Look what we have here—refuse from the Shelby household. Didn't you lot become Muggles? What brings you crawling back to the wizarding world?"
Tommy's expression immediately darkened.
Tiger also set down his unfinished sandwich, regarding the newcomer with cold indifference.
"Flint, you'd best avoid causing trouble here." Old Tom delivered a warning glare.
The man paid no heed whatsoever. Instead, he approached Tiger's side with frivolous arrogance:
"Hey, boy, did your mother ever mention you don't actually bear the Shelby name..."
CRACK!
Before he could complete his sentence, Tiger exploded into motion, seizing his hair and slamming him brutally against the bar counter.
The sudden, violent impact made every patron's heart skip a beat.
The cacophonous noise ceased instantly, all eyes riveting on Tiger.
His amber gaze blazed with fury and madness, as though he intended to murder Flint on the spot.
"You little... bas—"
Pain and vertigo contorted Flint's features as he struggled against the restraint.
But Tiger's grip locked like iron pincers, followed by several more devastating blows.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Amid the dull pounding, the sickening crack of bone became audible. The pub's patrons snapped from their stupor.
"Bloody hell!"
"Has this child gone completely mad?!"
"Old Tom, stop him!"
"Merlin's beard!"
Realizing this boy genuinely intended murder, Flint endured the agony and disorientation, mustering his final reserves to secretly raise his wand.
Damn bastard, die!
His bloodshot eyes bulged with desperation.
"Diffin—"
The wand's familiar weight vanished from his grasp.
Tiger accepted the weapon from Venom's writhing appendage, his smile becoming nightmarishly savage as dual voices—hoarse and crystalline—spoke in unison.
"Son of a bitch, go to hell!"
As the words fell, Flint watched in collapsing terror as the ebony wand tip drove viciously toward his temple.
"Expelliarmus!"
A powerful magical surge struck suddenly. Venom immediately enveloped Tiger's form.
The deflected wand pierced Flint's cheek before embedding itself savagely in the tabletop.
A piercing shriek erupted.
The next instant, Venom seized the butterbeer mug and smashed it brutally against Flint's skull. The agonized screaming cut off abruptly.
"Christ..."
"What in hell is that thing..."
Witnessing Venom's grotesque, terrifying manifestation, every patron scrambled upright with expressions of pure horror, preparing for immediate flight. Many drew their wands.
"Bloody hell, Tommy..."
"What is that monstrosity?!"
Old Tom's wand trembled violently in his grip, eyes wide with terror, cold perspiration streaming down his weathered features.
"Easy, Tiger."
"I warned you this place crawls with bastards. You'll adapt eventually..."
Though Tommy yearned to eliminate these parasites, family safety took precedence. The current Shelby organization couldn't withstand Ministry of Magic retaliation.
Venom receded like black tide.
Accompanied by a thick glob of spit landing on Flint's face, Tiger delivered a crushing kick that sent him sprawling.
"Bloody dog bastard."
Surveying the room and noting everyone's terrified, wary expressions, Tiger flashed a grin.
"Don't worry—I'm a good person."
Merlin's triangular knickers!
What absolute rubbish are you spouting?!
You look about as far from "good" as humanly possible!
Hearing this declaration, the patrons grew even more agitated. Those who hadn't drawn wands now did so, pointing them with trembling hands at Tiger.
"I'd advise maintaining your composure." Tommy curved his lips with meaningful menace.
"My brother is an Obscurial. Headmaster Dumbledore has personally examined him."
What the bloody hell?!
It was like suddenly discovering a ticking time bomb in their midst—one that could detonate at any random moment.
Soul-rending screams nearly burst from every throat. Faces drained to parchment-white appeared throughout the establishment.
"Lower your wands!"
"Everyone lower your wands!"
"Marvin! Lunett! Damn it, didn't you hear me?!"
"You lot as well!"
"Right, right! Lower your wands!"
"All of you!"
A cacophony of frantic persuasion echoed throughout the pub.
Regardless of allegiance, everyone feared some fool's mishap might trigger the Obscurus.
"Tommy..."
Old Tom's sagging jowls quivered violently, his hammering heart threatening to burst from his ribcage.
Moments earlier, he'd cast Expelliarmus at Venom. If the Obscurus had been provoked, that spell could've been renamed "Expel Your Life"...
"Something else troubling you?" Tommy turned with what might charitably be called a smile. "Old Tom?"
"If... if... you could possibly leave the establishment immediately..."
Observing Tiger's dangerous expression, Old Tom stammered with trembling terror:
"This round's complimentary... I'll throw in a bottle of whiskey!"
With that declaration, Old Tom frantically retrieved whiskey from the rear shelf, placing it before Tiger before retreating several hasty steps.
"Brilliant..." Tiger regarded Old Tom with genuine appreciation. "Old mate, you're a decent sort."
"I'll definitely frequent this establishment."
Please don't.
Old Tom's smile resembled a death mask.
As one of The Sacred Twenty-Eight, he'd weathered countless storms over the decades. Even when Voldemort visited his pub, he'd smiled, bowed, and welcomed return patronage.
He'd believed that encounter represented his closest brush with death.
He'd been catastrophically wrong. Today marked his nearest approach to the grave...
"Old Tom, you understand."
"I lack a wand..."
Hearing Tommy's voice tinged with dark amusement, Old Tom managed a brittle, bitter smile.
"I'll... provide one..."
The story isn't over...
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