Then she turned into an unremarkable side street where a small pub lurked near the entrance. A dilapidated wooden sign swayed from a rust-eaten iron bracket, depicting a severed wild boar's head with blood seeping through the grimy white cloth wrapped around it. As she approached, the sign groaned and creaked in the bitter wind like something in pain.
Harry stood by the entrance, shifting nervously from foot to foot as he scanned the empty street. Orli approached and gave him a gentle tap on the shoulder, making him jump nearly out of his skin.
"Orli?" Harry whispered tentatively, peering at the seemingly empty air around him with barely concealed hope.
"Bingo!" Orli pulled back the Invisibility Cloak's hood, her head materializing like a magic trick. "Let's get inside before we both turn into icicles. Have you been waiting long?"
The Hog's Head was infamous for its perpetual emptiness—respectable witches and wizards avoided it like dragon pox. Since Orli was cloaked in invisibility, they'd strategically positioned someone outside to escort her in, lest her mysterious entrance resemble a particularly theatrical haunting.
"Trust me, I'd rather stand out here and slowly freeze to death," Harry muttered, wrapping his arms around himself as another gust of wind cut through his robes. He pushed open the pub's warped door with studied nonchalance and stepped inside. Orli slipped in behind him like a shadow.
This establishment bore absolutely no resemblance to the Three Broomsticks with its welcoming warmth and polished surfaces. It couldn't even compete with Grimmauld Place's drawing room—Sirius had at least attempted to make that space livable with his eclectic collection of curiosities. The Hog's Head consisted of a single cramped, dingy room that reeked so powerfully of goats that Orli's eyes immediately began to water. Thick grime coated the bay windows like cataracts, transforming what little daylight managed to penetrate into a sickly yellow glow. What she'd initially mistaken for packed earth beneath her feet revealed itself to be stone flagstones buried under centuries of accumulated filth and questionable stains.
Candle stubs guttered on rough-hewn wooden tables, their flames dancing weakly in the stagnant air. Ron and Hermione sat huddled together in intimate conversation, their heads so close they were practically sharing the same breath. Now Orli completely understood why Harry would prefer hypothermia to witnessing this display of romantic tension.
"Oh, Orli! Finally!" Hermione exclaimed, her head snapping away from Ron's with suspicious speed as the door opened. The sudden separation looked so unnatural that Orli had to suppress a knowing smile.
"I brought you a maple cream tart from Honeydukes," Hermione said, patting the seat beside her while lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I rather suspected you wouldn't want to risk the local cuisine."
Orli accepted the pastry with profound gratitude and took a cautious bite. The pub's proprietor materialized from a back room like a grumpy specter—a cantankerous old man whose wild mane of grizzled gray hair and matching beard made him look like an irritated mountain hermit. Tall and skeletal, with grime embedded so deeply in his clothing it had become part of the fabric itself, only his piercing blue eyes showed any sign of life or intelligence.
Orli studied him covertly, searching for traces of familiar features. After all, he was indeed a Dumbledore—Aberforth to his brother Albus's headmaster. The family resemblance was there if you knew what to look for, though few people were aware of their connection.
"What'll it be?" he growled, fixing his glacial stare on the tart in Orli's hand before sweeping his disapproving gaze over the young intruders. His expression suggested he'd rather be wrestling a particularly ornery goat than serving customers.
"Two more Butterbeers, please, thank you," Hermione added hastily to their order, her voice bright with forced politeness. Perhaps this surly proprietor took offense at patrons smuggling in superior refreshments.
Aberforth bent down with obvious reluctance and retrieved two bottles from beneath the counter—vessels so coated with dust and grime they looked like archaeological artifacts. He slammed them onto the bar with unnecessary force. Hermione and Ron already possessed similar bottles, sitting untouched and looking thoroughly uninviting.
"Four Sickles," he stated flatly, his tone suggesting this was highway robbery and they should consider themselves fortunate he wasn't charging more.
"I'll cover it," Harry said quickly, fishing silver coins from his pocket with practiced efficiency. Aberforth's penetrating gaze lingered on the lightning bolt scar adorning Harry's forehead for several uncomfortable seconds before he grudgingly dropped the payment into an ancient wooden cash box that looked older than the pub itself.
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