Bryan had no intention of staying for the carefully prepared dinner at the Malfoy residence. He knew from the start that he wasn't a welcome guest. However, Narcissa's 'elaborately designed' spoon portkey did amuse him somewhat.
Bryan had always thought highly of Lucius Malfoy. Despite his checkered past and many ideas that conflicted with Bryan's own, there was no denying that Lucius Malfoy was a clear-headed, intelligent man.
Although he had worked for Voldemort in his youth and was once deeply trusted by him, Lucius was different from the infamous, deranged Death Eaters imprisoned in Azkaban. Bryan could see that in Lucius Malfoy's heart, family and lineage were far more important than loyalty to Voldemort. It was just that he now found himself in a difficult position to find a way to extricate himself without losing everything.
The bonds of his past choices, the expectations of his pureblood peers, and the looming shadow of Voldemort's potential return all were combined to keep Lucius ensnared in a perilous balance.
As Bryan contemplated these complexities, he felt a sense of reassurance. Dealing with intelligent individuals, even those with whom one disagreed, always made negotiations smoother. He was confident that Lucius, despite any initial resistance, would not cause trouble regarding the matter of Remus.
Bang!
"Sorry, Fawkes, you're not suited for appearing in crowded places—" Fawkes fluttered, trying to land on Bryan's shoulder, but was blocked by Bryan. Fawkes' ruby-like eyes showed clear dissatisfaction.
Bryan couldn't help but smile at the bird's almost human-like display of emotion.
"Why don't you find some amusement for yourself?" Bryan suggested with a light smile. "There's no need to rush back to Hogwarts just yet."
With a soft whoosh of displaced air, Fawkes took flight, its magnificent tail feathers trailing fire-like embers that quickly faded into the night sky. Bryan watched the phoenix disappear into the distance. Then, with a small shake of his head, he turned his attention back to the task at hand.
Carefully, Bryan surveyed his surroundings. The narrow alley gradually gave way to the more open expanse of Diagon Alley. The cobblestone street stretched out before him, lined with varied array of shops that catered to every magical need imaginable. Despite the lateness of the hour, a few witches and wizards still wandered along the street, window shopping or hurrying to complete last-minute errands.
Across the way, the famous Leaky Cauldron stood as it had for centuries. Its battered sign creaking gently in the evening breeze.
Fortunately, the attention of passing wizards was focused on the bustling Diagon Alley, and no one noticed that the renowned Bryan Watson was among them. However, this tranquility ended as soon as he entered the grimy hall of the Leaky Cauldron.
Tom, the nearly bald innkeeper whose wrinkled face bore resemblance to a shriveled walnut, was in the midst of a conversation with a short elderly wizard wearing an oversized top hat. Several unsavory-looking old wizards sat in the corner, sipping sherry from small glasses. One of them, with a long pipe, was filling the hall with smoke.
The innkeeper glanced casually at the customer entering through the back door. His jaw dropped, and his rheumy eyes widened to an almost comical degree. Without a word of apology to the small wizard he'd been conversing with, Tom practically vaulted over the bar, his wrinkled hands trembling with excitement.
"Mr. W-Watson!" Tom exclaimed, his voice cracking with emotion. He looked as though he might faint from the sheer honor of Bryan's presence. "What an extraordinary pleasure! How may I be of service to you this fine evening?"
The effect of Bryan's arrival rippled through the pub like a stone dropped in a still pond. Conversations ceased mid-sentence, jugs were set down with soft thuds, and all eyes turned towards the entrance.
In the corner, the group of rough-looking wizards seemed to shrink into themselves, lowering their heads one by one as Bryan's gentle yet penetrating gaze swept over them. The wizard with the pipe even hastily stuffed the long-pipe into his sleeve.
"It's been quite some time, Tom," Bryan responded warmly, his voice carrying easily through the now-silent pub. "I'd like a private room, as I'll be meeting someone to discuss important matters later. Of course, I might need something to eat before that—"
As Bryan spoke, his mind drifted back to the summer when Sirius had escaped from Azkaban. At Fudge's insistence, Bryan had taken up temporary residence at the Leaky Cauldron, apparently to keep an eye on Harry, who had run away from his Muggle relatives. During that time, Bryan had become quite familiar with the ins and outs of the old pub, and with Tom himself. However, he noted with some amusement, the innkeeper's eagerness to please him had increased exponentially since then.
Every pair of eyes in the pub followed Bryan and Tom as they made their way towards the private rooms. The gathered witches and wizards watched with a mixture of awe and barely concealed curiosity. Many seemed to be wrestling with the desire to approach Bryan, to shake his hand or engage him in conversation. But there seemed to be a 'repelling aura' around Bryan Watson. Even until Bryan disappeared from view, no one dared to act on their intentions.
Almost in the blink of an eye, a knock sounded at the door of Bryan's private room. Tom entered, balancing a tray that was piled precariously high with variety of drinks. Surprisingly, there was hardly any food to be seen amidst the bottles and glasses.
"Oh, Mr. Watson," Tom began, his voice quivering with barely contained excitement. "These are all from the patrons in the pub. Everyone out there is clamoring to buy you a drink!"
Bryan had encountered similar situations before and had developed a graceful way of handling them. He skillfully reached into his robe and pulled out a handful of gleaming gold Galleons placing them on Tom's tray with a gentle smile.
"Please convey my heartfelt thanks to them all, Tom," Bryan said, his voice filled with genuine appreciation. "However, I can't accept such generosity without reciprocation. These Galleons should be enough to provide everyone in the hall with a glass of your finest Firewhisky. My treat, as a token of my gratitude for their warm welcome."
Tom's eyes widened even further. He bowed so low that his nose nearly touched the tray he was carrying. "You're a true gentleman, Mr. Watson!" he exclaimed, his voice thick with respect. "Such generosity! I'll see to it right away, sir!"
With practiced care, Tom backed out of the room, closing the door with a soft click. Moments later, the muffled sounds of wild cheering penetrated the thick wooden door, bringing a genuine smile to Bryan's face.
When the clock hanging on the mottled, grayish-white wall of the private room showed one minute to seven, the sound of hurried high heels clicking on the wooden floor suddenly came from the corridor outside. Bryan picked up a napkin and dabbed at his mouth; just as he made the mess on the table disappear, there was a knock on the door.
Without waiting for a response, the door swung open, revealing a figure that could only be described as a riot of color and extravagance.
"Oh, Bryan Watson!"
Rita Skeeter swept into the room like a tropical storm. Her choice of attire was, as always, flamboyant that bordered on the outrageous. A robe in the most vivid shade of banana yellow clung to her frame, its brightness almost painful to look at in the dim lighting of the private room. Her long nails were painted a dazzling pink, her eye shadow a riot of colors, and her hair still in elaborate curls.
Of course, Rita Skeeter would be incomplete without her signature accessory – the crocodile-skin handbag that was as much a part of her persona as her Quick-Quotes Quill.
It was clear that Rita had completely disregarded – or perhaps conveniently forgotten – the events surrounding the Greyback incident. Her face showed no trace of the animosity or fear that one might expect given their last encounter. Instead, she beamed at Bryan with an expression of utter delight, as if he were an old friend she'd been longing to see.
With a curl, Rita slammed the door shut behind her, Her gaze locked onto Bryan, filled with an almost predatory gleam of anticipation.
"Good evening, Rita," Bryan greeted her, his voice calm as he gestured towards the chair opposite him. "Please, make yourself comfortable. We have quite a variety of drinks, courtesy of the generous patrons in the main hall. Although," he added, "I'm afraid your quill won't be necessary for our conversation this evening. Perhaps it's best left tucked away."
A flicker of annoyance passed through Rita's bright green eyes, but she quickly masked it behind a practiced smile. She tucked her oversized handbag beneath the table, out of sight but certainly not out of mind. Then, leaning forward, she extended her hand across the table towards Bryan. Her fingers with numerous flashy rings, seemed almost man-sized in their size.
"I must say, Watson, I was quite surprised to receive your letter," Rita began, her tone dripping with false casualness. "How have you been faring lately? Oh, and did you happen to catch my article in the Daily Prophet last month? The one speculating on the truth behind that dreadful attack during the Quidditch World Cup final?"
Bryan raised a glass of sherry, toasting Rita. "It was truly excellent," he replied, his voice laced with subtle irony. "I was particularly impressed by your objective portrayal of me as Cornelius Fudge's newly recruited henchman. Your depiction of mine alleged collusion with the Ministry was...."
Rita's heavily made-up face remained blank, showing no sign of embarrassment at Bryan's thinly veiled sarcasm. Instead, her eyes sparkled with an almost manic enthusiasm as she leaned in closer.
"Oh, you know how it is, Watson," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "The public loves a bit of intrigue. I simply thought that a wizard of your caliber should have some spirit of rebellion. It adds spice to your image, you see."
Bryan chuckled softly, the sound rich with amusement and a hint of resignation. "Thank you very much for your frank suggestion, Rita. Your concern for my public image is truly touching." His eyes suddenly flickered towards Rita's handbag, a knowing glint in his gaze. "Oh, and could you please ask your quill to stop its continuous fidgeting in your handbag? I'd hate for it to have an unfortunate accident later."
Rita's heavily powdered face froze for a moment, her practiced smile faltering slightly. She recovered quickly, but not before Bryan caught the flash of surprise and irritation in her eyes. With a forced laugh, she nudged her handbag with her foot, as if disciplining a misbehaving pet.
"Oh, this quill is getting a bit long in the tooth," she said casually, "Sometimes it doesn't behave as well as it should. I really must look into getting a new one."
Taking a deep breath, Rita seemed to gather herself. Her eyes, magnified behind her jeweled spectacles, fixed on Bryan intensely. The predatory gleam was back, her earlier discomfort forgotten in the face of a potential scoop.
"So, Watson," she began, her voice dripping with eagerness, "I was thinking we could have a little chat about that mysterious witch you mentioned. Cliodna, wasn't it? The public first heard this intriguing name from your lips, you know. They're absolutely fascinated."
Rita paused for dramatic effect, her eyes never leaving Bryan's face as she continued, "I mean, here's a witch as powerful as you, yet she avoids the limelight like you. It's all very mysterious, very alluring to our readers. You both belong to some secret organization, don't you?"
Her voice dropped to a staged whisper, tinged with implication. "There's a history there, isn't there? Between you two, I mean. The public is very interested in your... relationship." Rita's eyebrows wiggled suggestively. "Are you... oh, I don't know... lovers, perhaps?"
Bryan had anticipated this line of questioning. Unmoved by her probing questions and implications, he just smiled and snapped his fingers producing a crisp sound.
Bang!
A sharp crack suddenly sounded in the small private room, startling Rita Skeeter. She almost thought Watson had lost his temper in embarrassment, but as the echoes of the sound faded, nothing seemed to have changed. The room remained as it was, with no visible effects from Bryan's magical display. Rita's eyes darted around wildly, searching for some sign of what had just occurred.
It was then that a small, neatly folded piece of parchment materialized in mid-air. It hovered for a moment, as if suspended by invisible strings, before gently floating down to land on the table directly in front of Rita.
Rita stared at the parchment, her expression a mixture of confusion, curiosity, and lingering uneasiness. She made no move to touch it, instead looked up at Bryan with questions burning in her eyes.
"What's this?" she asked, her voice showing a hint of the fear she was trying to conceal. In that moment, it was clear that Rita Skeeter had suddenly remembered exactly who she was dealing with – not just a subject for her sensational articles, but one of the most powerful wizards of the age.
Bryan leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers as he looked at Rita with a calm, almost amused expression. "Why don't you read it and see for yourself?"
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