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HP: Fairy Tale Wizard - 167
🕑 Added 2025-11-09 18:18:51 +0000 UTCChapter 167: The Tavern
Sterling, wrapped in a thick black robe, pushed open the door of the tavern bearing the sign “Esley Cotton” with affected ease.
This was the tavern from Lockhart’s memory, a wizarding pub near the Thames. Like the Leaky Cauldron, it was warded with a Muggle-Repelling Charm.
That also meant business was not particularly lively.
Witches and wizards preferred their own turf—wizarding enclaves. The area around the Thames was unmistakably Muggle territory, and most wizards had no interest in lingering here.
As for why there had been so many people when Lockhart came yesterday, perhaps it was simply luck.
Sterling sat by the bar. Counting himself, there were only three patrons seated separately inside the tavern. Including the proprietor, that made four.
“Mr. Esley, your business seems a little quiet.”
Thankfully, the Animagus disguise could still alter his voice. Sterling tried to match the tone to his “Andersen” identity, but he seemed to have overdone it, ending up with a mature, gruff baritone.
No matter. As long as it wasn’t his usual child’s voice.
Esley, polishing a glass, sighed helplessly.
“Can’t help it, not when the Thames went and had an incident out of nowhere. I’ve had this old place for nearly ten years, and Aurors searched me three times just this morning. Who’s in the mood to come sit here after that?”
His voice didn’t match his name or his face. “Esley” sounded like a woman’s name, and his face and build gave little away. But the moment he spoke, the rasp of a cantankerous, out-of-work Londoner came through.
“If you ask me, instead of making trouble for an honest barman like me, those Aurors ought to try tracking the Dark wizard. Not that—oh, of course not—that they have the ability.”
“What they’re best at is hassling ordinary witches and wizards. If they actually ran into a vicious Dark wizard, perhaps the elite Aurors would charge in. The rest, if they didn’t surrender on the spot, I’d call it conscience.”
Esley tossed the towel he’d been using into the sink and gave Sterling a weary look.
“So, stranger—what can I get you? A glass of Fire-Dragon Blood Whiskey? Or a white wine from France?”
“You truly have Fire-Dragon Blood Whiskey?”
“...Alright, no. But I do have the white.”
He spread his hands without shame. Fire-Dragon Blood Whiskey was the sort of thing money couldn’t buy. Dragon-related ingredients weren’t rare, even dragon blood was relatively cheap—but a spirit infused with dragon blood, yet not turned into a potion, was one in a million.
Perhaps the Leaky Cauldron—that “highest mountain and longest river” of English pubs—kept such a bottle on hand. This little hole-in-the-wall could not.
“In that case, I’ll have a bottle of Butterbeer.”
Esley’s expression soured further. How many Sickles could he make off a single Butterbeer?
Merlin’s beard. Shouldn’t a robed figure who looked suspiciously like a Dark wizard be so rich that a money pouch fell out with every step?
He’d thought this was a big spender. Ha. The other two had already spent more than this one. At least they’d ordered mixed drinks.
Great. Why did all the robed weirdos this week come to buy beverages (Butterbeer)?
“Fine, fine—consider it adding to the pub ambience. But I’m striking Butterbeer off the menu starting tomorrow.”
He grumbled, but his hands moved quickly—he pulled out a large glass and a bottle of Butterbeer, poured it, dropped in an ice sphere, and finished with a clover leaf on top.
Much more presentable than the Butterbeer Andrew had drunk in Lockhart’s memory.
“Four Sickles.”
“So cheap?”
Sterling raised an eyebrow. Food and drink in the wizarding world were generally inexpensive, productivity being what it was.
According to Robert, a bottled Butterbeer in Hogsmeade costs three Sickles. With Esley’s delivery and decoration, this was only one Sickle more.
Practically at cost.
“It was seven. But now it’s three off—consider it compensation. The Aurors are back.”
He jerked his chin toward the door. Sure enough, two figures in light grey followed a figure in purple toward “Esley Cotton.”
An elite Auror and two trainees.
“See? The trainees aren’t here to ‘find the Dark wizard behind the magical exposure.’ They’re here to make life difficult.”
For all his grumbling, Esley plastered on a sunny smile, came around the counter, and personally held the door for the purple-clad figure.
“Auror, sir, this is the fourth search today. The sun is about to set—”
“No. We cannot rule out the possibility that the Dark wizard returned while we were gone. And the Thames bank has only one wizarding establishment—yours.”
“I’m responsible for the safety of the wizarding world. Please understand.”
Esley longed to knock him flat with one punch and ask which Dark wizard would be foolish enough to return to a place searched three times.
Responsible for safety—with what? An “elite” Auror who hadn’t even kitted up properly, and two trainees who looked fresh out of Hogwarts?
With a lineup like that, Esley would bet that if they actually found a Dark wizard, they’d pretend not to see. Otherwise, they wouldn’t get away.
“Of course, of course—”
He produced a few Galleons from somewhere and discreetly slipped them into the Auror’s hand. The Auror’s eyes lit up. He hefted the weight, then spoke in righteous tones.
“Naturally, given Mr. Esley’s caution, I doubt he’d make such a minor error. A quick look will suffice. Momocha, Kelly—go check.”
The two trainees approached the other two patrons. The elite Auror himself walked over to Sterling.
“Oh—an unfamiliar face—”
As promised, he merely glanced, asked nothing, and left with the trainees.
Outside, Kelly tugged the elite Auror’s sleeve.
“What is it, Kelly? Do you want a cut of those Galleons? Not happening. When you’re a full Auror, you can accept a few—ah—charitable contributions.”
“But I can buy you both a Butterbeer at the Leaky Cauldron later. Watching that fellow drink made me thirsty.”
“No, Mr. Shafiq—”
Kelly’s voice was very small. She ran a few paces, dragging Shafiq to a far corner of the street.
Shafiq was furious, hands on his hips and ready to put on a show of seniority—until Kelly shattered his plan with a single sentence:
“Mr. Shafiq, the man you just inspected is the same Dark wizard Mr. Kingsley told us about this morning—the one who wields Fiendfyre.”
Kelly’s face had gone white. She was one of the two trainees who, with Kingsley, had witnessed Sterling stepping out of Fiendfyre.
Inside the bar, Esley spat venom at their retreating backs.
“I knew it! Scums in Auror robes!”
“Mr. Esley, are Aurors all like that?”
Sterling was a little surprised. The wizarding papers were unkind to Aurors, but the upper-year students living in the wizarding world generally spoke of them favourably.
“No. The current head of the Auror Office is a ‘good man,’ and most Aurors under him truly protect us. The problem is, the three batches—no, four batches—who came today were all this sort of scum!”
He scrubbed at two tables. The other patrons had lost their mood after the search and left quickly after finishing their drinks.
Esley jabbed his wand so hard it was a wonder the table didn’t crack. Judging by his expression, he was imagining the tabletop was that Auror’s head and the Cleaning Charm was the Killing Curse.
“Honestly, I don’t understand. Last night’s incident was clearly serious. And the Ministry sends these sacks of lard—do they actually think this lot will find anything?”
“I heard the first ones were true elites, but some high official recalled them immediately and replaced them with this garbage. Dimmer than a troll’s toe.”
Seeing Esley grow more heated by the moment, Sterling searched for a way to nudge the conversation back toward what he wanted—Andrew.
The last memory he’d pulled from the black clock hand had yielded a bizarre scene—a basilisk slowly dying.
As it died, human screams came from its mouth, and a pool of pitch-black liquid oozed out. Strange, certainly, but with no apparent connection to Andrew Duplicate.
So he could only pin his hopes on this place—where Andrew had, at the very least, been seen.
Lockhart’s inner monologue at the start of the story came back to him. Lockhart had come to this tavern because he’d heard there was someone here with a face “full of stories,” who loved to drink.
At least that proved Andrew was a regular.
Which meant Esley might know something about him. Of course, the best outcome would be for Sterling to run into Andrew directly—and then he’d have the chance to show his foster father what he’d learned over the past year.
But that seemed unlikely. Esley’s tavern closed at seven, and it was already near six.
Sterling would settle for getting a few more leads—and pay a price for them if he had to.
A sheet of paper, hovering between illusion and substance, drifted onto the table.
It was his improvement on The Author’s Witness. Summoning a whole book in one go drew too much attention. A single sheet was far less noticeable and easier to write.
“Esley Cotton—bold fellow to put his full name on the sign. There must be a hundred curses tied to true names. Or perhaps he’s simply too foolish to understand the importance of a true name.”
“Esley Cotton decides to talk about the other Butterbeer drinker he saw yesterday.”
The cost in stamina was negligible. After all, this was entirely plausible—not like a rewind or teleportation—a “miracle.”
“Those dung-heaps for stuffing into Egyptian pyramids—oh, right. What do you think of my Butterbeer? Better than the other pubs’, isn’t it?”
Esley swerved mid-rant, albeit not because he wanted to.
Sterling, of course, played along.
“Yes. It’s richer, smoother.”
A lie—his first Butterbeer. But Esley didn’t know that. He nodded, pleased.
“I think it’s the ice sphere that does it. To be honest, you aren’t the only one who likes my Butterbeer—”
“He’s been in here every day the past few days. Pity he didn’t come today. Otherwise, you two could have had a chat.”
Indeed—“a chat.” Sterling nodded. With the door open, it was time for information.
“Maybe he’s just late today?”
“Unlikely. That guest is punctual. Every day around half five, he orders a bottle of Butterbeer. When he finishes, he orders another and keeps going until closing. A valuable customer.”
“Oh? Drinks that much. Butterbeer doesn’t get you drunk.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Esley wagged a finger. “Drink enough of even the weakest spirit and you’ll get drunk. Besides, that guest doesn’t hold his drink.”
“He always starts rambling after five or six bottles. ‘Don’t give up on me,’ ‘I can do it, I just need to wait a bit longer,’ ‘Maybe it’s only late, wait a bit, it will be delivered’—”
“Round and round, the same lines. He wasn’t loud, so I let him be. Even if he had been loud, I’d still have let him be. He pays handsomely—and tips.”
“I see—hm? Mr. Esley, what is it?”
Sterling had hoped to draw more out, but Esley suddenly stood up, eyes wide.
He stared past Sterling, out the door. Sterling followed his gaze.
A mass of purple and dark grey.
They wore small dragonhide chest guards and clustered behind a wizard who looked like an old lion. He moved with a predator’s limp, but his stride was still long and forceful.
Scrimgeour raised his hand, and the Aurors behind him drew their wands in unison.
“Dark wizard inside—hear me. You are surrounded!”
Sterling and Esley exchanged a look.
Are you the Dark wizard?
I don’t think I am. Are you?
I don’t think I am either.
