Got a bad impression from some bad advice, it's a
Cold cut from a hard knock life
27th October, 1894 — The Three Broomsticks
Aubrey was certain of few enough things in life nowadays, but he did know he liked the Three Broomsticks. It had been one of the first places he had visited as a man again; it felt safe, in a way other pubs did not. The food was better. It reminded him of Hogsmeade weekends, and by extension Hogwarts, maybe. He had made a habit it out of it now: on his half-days off, he could hole up here in a corner table by the fire for hours on end quite happily, savouring every last sip of a Butterbeer and keeping an eye on the stray cats he could see out back through the nearest window from time to time, just in case.
If this was peace to him, a familiar comfort, he was struggling to keep it today – there were a group of youths a table or two over from him today. Not young enough to be at school; maybe twenty or so. Something about them reminded him unpleasantly of Urquart. And either they had recognised him as that guy – Aubrey had tried to ignore their laughter, and their muttering – or they were just the Urquart kind of trouble, but they had found a new game. Flicking things at him, mostly; balled-up bits of bread and other bits of food tossed casually at the back of his head. They had landed one in his drink, and another at the nape of neck – he shook the crumbs from his collar, but didn’t dare look at them – and most of the scraps had landed, scattered, under his table and his chair.
One of the maids had come around nearby, sweeping. Aubrey’s face coloured as the broom came into contact with some of the mess. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “That, er – it wasn’t me,” he tried to explain: he might have made messes as a hedgehog, but never as a human. He’d not been in service for all his life and ever thought lightly of making mess someone would have to clear away. (He wished she would leave it, really, and he would clear it up himself, later, when the kids had gone and weren’t here to gloat.)
If this was peace to him, a familiar comfort, he was struggling to keep it today – there were a group of youths a table or two over from him today. Not young enough to be at school; maybe twenty or so. Something about them reminded him unpleasantly of Urquart. And either they had recognised him as that guy – Aubrey had tried to ignore their laughter, and their muttering – or they were just the Urquart kind of trouble, but they had found a new game. Flicking things at him, mostly; balled-up bits of bread and other bits of food tossed casually at the back of his head. They had landed one in his drink, and another at the nape of neck – he shook the crumbs from his collar, but didn’t dare look at them – and most of the scraps had landed, scattered, under his table and his chair.
One of the maids had come around nearby, sweeping. Aubrey’s face coloured as the broom came into contact with some of the mess. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “That, er – it wasn’t me,” he tried to explain: he might have made messes as a hedgehog, but never as a human. He’d not been in service for all his life and ever thought lightly of making mess someone would have to clear away. (He wished she would leave it, really, and he would clear it up himself, later, when the kids had gone and weren’t here to gloat.)
Formerly known as Davis, Elijah Urquart's pet hedgehog.