September 23rd, 1895 — The Hog's Head Inn, Hogsmeade
The cool autumn morning made the Hog's Head feel less like a tavern and more like a relic. The silence carried the weight of too many secrets, as if the walls themselves remembered every word spoken within them. A thin breath of crisp air slipped through the warped windowpane, stirring the faint smell of damp straw, spilled ale, and smoke. The heath held only the ghost of last night's fire, a few smoldering embers coughing faint wisps into the room, painting the air with a sharp, acrid tang. Dust floated in the shafts of pale light that pierced the grime-streaked glass, turning the common room into a dim haze of gold and gray.
The bar was cluttered with the debris of the previous night, with half-drained tankards, a crusted plate or two, and a scattering of straw tracked in on muddy boots. The floorboards creaked with every shift of the building, as though the inn itself were groaning awake. Behind the counter, bottles stood in crooked lines their labels faded, and their contents catching the light in shades of amber and green. It was quiet for now, save for the occasional caw of a crow outside or the low scuffle of a mouse racing across the floor.
Jackson had awoken moments before, and came down the narrow, groaning stairs with the slow tread of a man who had seen far too many mornings like this one. His beard was tangled, with a few strands of gray beginning to make themselves known. His eyes were bloodshot, wary, and narrowed at the pale light of the morning. He couldn't say he'd slept well the night before, of course he couldn't really say he slept well at all. Without a sound, he crossed the empty common room, boots crunching through the scattered straw, and moved behind the bar into the cramped little kitchen that shared the storage room.
He pulled a single cast-iron skillet from the wall and placed it roughly on the hob with the kind of familiarity born of habit, not comfort. A thick slice of bacon hit the pan with a loud hiss, followed by a cracked egg whose shell he tossed aside with careless precision. The smell of sizzling fat quickly filled the room, mingling with the aforementioned old and stale scents. Jackson worked in silence, without so much as a grunt or whistle. Only the sound of his fork scraping the pan broke the stillness at all. His movements were rough but efficient, like a man too stubborn to waste time on patience. Of course, that wasn't to say that Jackson was a bad cook, his food was passable—if not enjoyable.
He leaned on the counter as the food cooked, his massive arms folded, eyes flicking toward the doorway as though expecting some fool to stumble in early and disturb his meal. The skillet spat and popped, and he muttered something low under his breath—half a curse and half a sigh. A quick jerk of his fork flipped the bacon once again. Breakfast at the Hog's Head wasn't meant to be shared, and Jackson looked every bit the man who preferred it that way. The silence was remarkably pleasant, though Jackson's eyes lingered with a certain watchfulness, as if he and the inn were both holding their breath. He waited while he cooked for the day's first patron, or its first troublemaker, to break the uneasy calm and immediately make him contemplate the finer points of manslaughter.
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