Tired Souls

A Thursday night was not The Three Broomstick's prettiest night.

It seemed that the people who flocked to the bar on a Thursday night were the unemployed, the hardcore party-goers who reeked (metaphorically, though some did smell) of drugs and venereal disease, and the so downtrodden that they did not mind taking the company of the unemployed and diseased. I was on a rainy, Thursday night that Claire joined this mixed bag of companions at the Three Broomsticks pub, blending in well with the downtrodden.

Claire, despite her prissy exterior and ultra-professional demeanor, did not mind being surrounded by people who were considered lesser in society's view. Growing up, Claire had often ditched the trappings of the upper middle class to stroll the streets, where poverty and depression littered the crowded streets. She had made these strangers her acquaintances, offering water bottles to the homeless, pausing to scratch the ears of stray dogs. No one would expect it of her now, in her tidy outfits and well-manicured look, but Claire Bishop had always had a large heart for those who could not provide for themselves.

So, it was with relative comfort that she sat at the bar of the Three Broomsticks, nursing her second glass of wine. Her reasons were good enough as any. Fred Weasley was an asshole, her best friend was ditching her soon for a vacation, Fred Weasley was an asshole, the pressure was on at work, and Fred Weasley was a horrendous asshole. With the knowledge that she was soon to be alone again, navigating the wonderful waters of betrayal, Fred Weasley’s cruel words from days prior had done nothing to ease her already frayed nerves.

So, after work, she had just… gone to a bar. Because, at home, Elsie was bouncing about, calling her contacts in Florence and Athens and Madrid to inform them of when she would be seeing them. And at work, she was getting more and more owls from Gordon’s office, asking for more and more information that she was too uneasy to disclose. So she needed somewhere in between. And she needed a glass of wine. So this seemed right.

And it was raining. The scene was set.

She had unbuttoned her coat and droplets of water fell from the buttons and the sleeves. Her hair was drying in the warm air of the pub, and her face looked tired and withdrawn as she swirled her drink, staring into the rich, burgundy depths of the wine. She was the one who needed a vacation.