Regulus took one look and headed for the bar.
He stopped at the counter, his hand resting on it. The barman tilted his head back to meet his gaze, his eyes lingering on Regulus's silver-white hair and slit pupils.
He'd seen all kinds in his twenty years behind the bar—poachers, smugglers, hunters, the hunted. He could usually spot trouble at a glance.
But someone dressed like this, carrying that kind of pressure, was rare. And he clearly hadn't come for a drink.
The barman looked away and went back to wiping the glass.
Regulus leaned an arm on the bar and pressed forward a little. His voice came out low and rough. "Firewhisky."
The barman didn't look up. "Don't have it."
"Butterbeer, ale, water. That's it."
Regulus glanced down the row of glasses on the bar.
"Butterbeer? That's a girl's drink."
Behind the bar, the barman's expression darkened, but he didn't dare say anything.
Running a tavern out here meant a few bad tempers walked in every day. This one was clearly worse than every bad temper he'd seen today put together.
He shot a glance at Regulus, then dropped his eyes and kept wiping.
At the table on the right, one of the two wizards in heavy leather robes had a Butterbeer halfway to his mouth, glass against his lips.
A pair of cloudy eyes rolled up over the foam and landed on Regulus's back.
He took the glass away from his mouth and knocked it down on the table. Foam spilled over the rim and ran down the side.
The other one nudged him with an elbow and muttered something against his ear, very low. Probably talking him out of it. It didn't work.
The one with the glass shoved his chair back, wooden legs shrieking on the floor, and stood.
He was big. A full size broader than Regulus and half a head taller, shoulders thick as a door plank, stubble sticking out of his cheeks like wire.
His leather robe hung open, the shirt collar underneath black and shiny with grime.
He came over hard, floorboards shaking under him, every step a heavy thud.
He stopped half a meter behind Regulus.
"What did you just say?"
Regulus turned body first, grinding on his heel, shoulder coming around after.
His amber slit pupils looked up from below. There was a real height difference, and yet somehow looking up made him seem like the one looking down.
He bared his teeth in a grin, his tone sharper. "You a girl?"
Red crept up the wizard's neck and spread across his dirt-streaked face. His right hand went to his wand.
In the corner, the white-bearded old man glanced over through half-moon spectacles, his smile deepening.
The wizard barely drew his wand before Regulus seized his wrist, twisting it outward and forcing it down. His arm locked, leaving the wand pointed at the floor.
He opened his mouth to swear. Regulus's fist struck his jaw.
The wizard's head snapped back. His eyes rolled up. He staggered into the table behind him, sending plates and glasses crashing to the floor. Butterbeer soaked through his leather robe.
His companion sprang up, hand on his wand, then froze. He looked at Regulus, then at his fallen friend. He removed his hand from the wand, hauled his friend over his shoulder, and hurried out the back door without a word.
Regulus looked at the grime on his fingers. Orange-red flames flickered across them, burning it away in a wisp of gray smoke.
He shook out his hand and glanced at the barman.
The barman had retreated behind the counter, both hands braced against it, leaning away from Regulus.
"Ale."
He'd come all this way. He might as well have a drink.
The barman blinked, then shakily grabbed a bottle and poured a full glass before pushing it across the counter.
Regulus picked it up and crossed the tavern toward the corner. Everyone's eyes followed him.
Beside the empty table left by the two leather-robed wizards, an old man in a felt hat and a thin middle-aged witch watched him pass. Nobody approached. Everyone had seen him drop a man with one punch without drawing his wand.
Regulus pulled out a chair, sat across from Dumbledore, and set down the ale. He leaned back, one hand resting on the table.
Dumbledore's smile deepened. His eyes moved from Regulus's face to the ale, then back.
A new appearance, and a new way of dealing with people. Straight to violence, one punch, then annoyed about the grime on his hand.
Nothing like Mr. Black at Hogwarts.
Regulus met his gaze, amber eyes against blue, with tea and ale between them.
"Heard you're hiring."
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "That depends on what you can do."
His gaze dropped to the ale again, his expression tightening with mild concern.
Regulus had a bad feeling.
Dumbledore raised a hand toward the bar.
The barman nervously peeked over the counter. Dumbledore gestured.
The barman rummaged under the bar, then shook his head.
Dumbledore gestured again.
This time, the barman produced a dusty bottle, opened it, sniffed it, and grimaced. He poured a glass and carried it over.
Sparkling water.
It was cloudy and yellowish, with residue clinging to the glass and white specks floating on the surface.
Dumbledore pushed the ale to the corner of the table and looked at Regulus over his half-moon glasses.
"Ale is a little early for you."
Regulus stared at the sparkling water, then at the banished ale, then at Dumbledore's teasing smile.
The old man had confiscated his drink. He could hardly take it back.
Water was fine. Just not now. Drinking it now would be too undignified.
He pushed the water to the opposite corner, leaving it diagonally across from the ale.
Dumbledore watched him, clearly amused. Then he extended his hand.
"Dumbledore."
Regulus shook it.
"Geralt."
Dumbledore blinked, then smiled.
"I am hiring. Shall we talk?"
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