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]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

Yeah, that's more her Gram's territory.

Alexis just runs lines.

She grins back at him, "Magic is great. I mean, I'd be willing to bet that anything you're learning is about five thousand times cooler than anything I'm learning at school."

He laughs, shaking his head.

"I guess you sort of get used to it," he says slowly.

Because after a while, magic school just becomes a school you go to. "What do you learn in school?"

She blinks, wrinkling her nose a bit skeptically.

"Um, Chemistry this year, History and English?" she takes another sip of her float. "Nothing too exciting."

A shrug.

"We're going over Poe at the moment, if you know who that is. "The Pit and the Pendulum," actually. Since it's sort of Halloween appropriate."

He shakes his head, no.

"I've never heard of Poe. He's a ... which one is it? Chemist, historian or poet?"

Regardless, those subjects sound generally fascinating to him.

"Writer, actually. Horror stories and mysteries. Though there's some poetry too," she considers for a moment. "A bit of everything, actually."

She leans forward a bit, curiously, chin propped on her palm.

"Do you learn things like poetry in school?"

He shakes his head.

"We've got a sort of history class," he notes, pausing for a moment, "but I think that's the closest subject we've got to your muggle ones.

"But I would like to see what an English class is like."

"A lot of reading," she replies. "And then responses and discussion. You talk about what an author meant when they wrote something or why they wrote something."

Alexis is the daughter of an author. She's a bit nerdy in this area.

She cuts herself off, however, chin dipping for a moment, "It's kind of like a book club. But with your whole class."

"That sounds brilliant," he says quietly.

It so does.

"I love reading."

"Me too."

She grins back at him.

"Like anybody I might have heard of?"

He tries to remember the last few books he'd read. Most of them are definitely wizardly authors, like Newt Scamander and Quentin Trimble.

But there is one who writes about muggle royalty quite a bit, particularly those from places like Padua and Venice.

"Shakespeare?"

"Wait - wait, Shakespeare? As in Shakespeare was a wizard, Shakespeare? Or as in Shakespeare this weird, muggle author that you are, for some reason, forced to learn about?"

Please excuse the surprisingly familiar use of the term 'muggle' - though, hopefully, it'll get caught up in the sudden tumble of words.