milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The door opens, and the chatter on the other side of the door is almost similar to the chatter within the bar itself. (He'd been in the Great Hall.)

A young boy of sixteen lingers by the woodwork, staring with wide eyes. They're familiar eyes, for those who knew his father (and, as Albus knows very well, there is hardly a wizard or witch who hasn't heard of his father) - or better yet, his grandmother - and the jet-black, slightly messy hair is a another characteristic that bears a striking resemblance to the Boy Who Lived.

But on closer inspection, one can spot the differences. This young boy does not wear glasses. And he does not have the same air of confidence the Potters tend to have. (No Potter, for example, would hesitate by the doorside, contemplating slipping back out as if he'd never stepped in at all.)

Whether one recognizes the boy or not, the unmistakable 'I've never been here before, what is this place?' look is a familiar one for any regular patron of the bar.

[ooc: I meant to do this weeks ago, but did not get a chance. :( I really wanted to stick him in though, so here goes! This can totally be used for car keys, by the way! Should make it easier for some to tag. ;)

It is also subject to slowtime.

tiny!tag: albus potter]

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He lets out a laugh; it's mostly embarrassed, but there's amusement in there too.

"Possibly," he agrees, nodding. "No one really does it, do they? What happens if the rules are broken?"

"I've heard they have cells somewhere?"

Obviously she's not too much of a delinquent either.

Philosophically, "I guess it's kind of like the time-out corner at the end of the Universe. You stay in there for however long and think about what you did wrong."

"Does that work?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. Then he pauses and briefly glances around the space.

"Well. I suppose it must ... if everyone still comes and goes from here."

And there are kids.

Younger-than-him sorts of kids.

"I guess?" she ventures. "I mean, I haven't seen anyone get put in them. But I also haven't seen anyone breaking the rules so far, so I'm really not the best source of information."

New people shouldn't be allowed to introduce other new people.

It probably leads to misunderstandings and misrepresentation of the whole establishment.

A sheepish grin, "Sorry."

He shakes his head, apologetic too. It was probably a strange question to ask anyway.

"Oh, no," he says, fiddling still. He offers her a smile. "That's okay."

Her smile widens in response to his, eyes crinkling a bit at the edges.

"Want to get your first drink then?" she inquires, head tipped and glancing up at him. "You choose your method - waiters or Bar?"

Something about her tone of voice implies that, either way, it's going to be a learning experience.

A learning experience, indeed. He isn't sure which one to choose, especially in a place like this where anything is possible.

(Certainly makes a wizard feel utterly boring and normal.)

"Which one's - um. Better?"

(And what does that make being normal feel like?)

Her nose wrinkles thoughtfully, "Well, I guess you're going to have to get acquainted with Bar eventually. And I don't think that anyone's going to steal my textbooks if we take a quick walk."

It's like taking the scenic route!

Oooh. The anticipation and excitement of this little adventure is making him wonder just what to expect.

"'With Bar'?" he repeats. "That sounds to me as though you're implying - that um."

Her grammar is impeccable. The cosmos is just weird.

"It's a she - she's a she," Alexis laughs, hops down from her seat, and seizes his hand with a smile. "Come on, it'll make more sense if you meet her yourself."

He glances briefly down at their hands, then turns a beet-red.

But there is no time to be awkward or nervous, or pull it back (~~because a pretty redheaded girl is holding his hand!~~) because there is Bar to meet.

This whole place and this Bar is overwhelming. Overwhelmingly cool.

She tugs him along easily enough - her chair wasn't too far from the Bar to begin with, really, and people are generally polite about making room for one another - and only lets go of his hand when they're both settled at two available Barstools.

"You just have to ask her for whatever you want," she says, one hand patting the hardwood affectionately. "Easy as that."

"Really?" he asks, wondering just what the limits to 'whatever' may be.

He's guessing - not very many.

In any case, his hand is still warm from hers; and as is his face.

"The ... Bar." This will make him look terribly stupid, won't it?

Not anymore stupid than everyone else here looks on a regular basis.

"Yup."

She's pretty aware that he's a bit uncomfortable with the whole procedure. And it's fair enough, considering the fact that if she were to talk to thin air while at home, people would not only stare at her funny, but she wouldn't be getting anything to drink out of the whole deal.

"I'll order something too, if you want?"

"Oh - um. Okay."

He didn't mean to stare with such disbelief and conviction. It's just - this is really weird.

"Do I just ... talk to the table? Like ... can I have a butterbeer, please?"

Et voilà! Magically appearing beverages!

They tend to be at the perfect temperature too. And, you know, abnormally awesome. Not that she feels the need to complain about that sort of abnormality.

She grins widely (This whole process is still incredibly fascinating.) and murmurs out a polite request for a coke float for herself, "Pretty cool, huh?"

He doesn't jump half a mile out of his seat. He's pretty proud about that fact.

He does stare at the drink for a moment, though. Because. It just -

Just -

"One second there was nothing," he says, "and then one second later, there it is."

He sounds mightily impressed.

"I have no idea how it works at all," she replies, fingers absently toying with her straw. "But it's totally awesome. And delicious."

Unfortunately, her high-school education is sadly lacking in these fields of study.

"Bar's a genius."

"Indeed," he says softly, picking up his mug.

He holds it up to his nose and takes a sniff.

Then tentatively, he takes a sip.

"It's not poisoned, you know," she laughs, taking a large gulp of her own drink. "And, even if it was, there are poisons that don't smell like anything."

Her family's in the business of killing people for money. She knows this stuff.

"Though I think the Bar would be short on visitors if she was poisoning half of her clientele."

He laughs into his drink.

"I'm just ... being unnecessarily careful, I suppose," he reasons with a fair amount of amusement.

"Better safe than sorry," she allows, grinning. "Even if it would be a crime to poison a girl's float. You don't waste floats in that manner."

Wasting food is just plain wrong.

Her head tips, "So, where were you coming from? Back home, I mean."

Wasting food is wrong. It should never be done. Ever.

Unless there are possible fights involved.

"Oh - um. School," he replies, suddenly remembering the fact that there is - technically - a class to get to. "I came from a school called Hogwarts."

"Oh."

She didn't know that.

She really, honestly didn't know that at all.

This place really should come with a selective amnesia option. So that people don't make complete and utter idiots out of themselves. Or accidentally reveal things that they aren't supposed to know.

"Learning anything interesting?"

She's very, terribly good at pretending she doesn't have an idea about such things.

She should be an actress!

"Some things," he allows, smiling. "I'm a wizard, you see. Um. In case you didn't gather that before. So I learn magic at school."