open :: early morning at the cauldron
While Patrick didn't usually mind working the peak hours that stretched from early evening to early morning, this particular shift had been a hell of a long one. Two patrons had gotten into a messy, drunken excuse for a fight (an unusual occurrence in a place such as this one - they mostly catered to suits and ties and fashionably lush types, not the pub-going ale-and-brawl crowd), a gaggle of slinkily-dressed rich ex-wives had come in and distracted the majority of his busboys and waiters for a few hours, and they had tapped out their most popular ale within the first two hours of his shift (major drop of the ball by the previous evening's manager on duty).
The sun was just starting to rise when his replacement finally showed and Pat wasted no time pouring himself a celebratory doubleshot, swiftly knocking it back before slipping out the back door and leaving the mess of early morning shitshows to his poor successor.
This was normally the time where he would wander on home, feed his cat and try to get a few moments of attention from her before eventually falling into bed and conking out for a few hours. But as those early morning rays of light pink and orange started to shine and shimmer between buildings in the condensed skylight ahead of him, he found himself wide awake and following his feet across town to a familiar haunt.
While he had avoided the Leaky Cauldron and all other wizarding pubs for a long time after first moving to London, the place had become a bit of a favorite in the past few years. It was big enough to disappear in if you wished to come through unseen, and its clientele consisted of enough visitors and passerbys that no one ever raised an eyebrow at an unfamiliar face.
There was just something about the Cauldron, the way it stood right on the divide between the magical world and the world beyond, that unsurprisingly stuck a chord with him.
And more importantly, the place never closed. With the hours he usually worked, it was always nice to find a place that could serve you a pint or keep the shots coming (depending on the type of night it had been) at five, or six, or seven in the morning without passing judgement.
And this had most definitely been a liquor kind of night. Taking his usual seat at the far end of the bar, he greeted the late night/early morning bartender with a smile and raised two fingers, the now-agreed-upon-sign for a rough-night usual - a doubleshot of Firewhiskey and a pint of dark lager. And keep the shots coming.
As it was delivered, Pat promptly threw back the glassful of liquor, then went about slowly nursing his pint. He grabbed one of the freshly delivered copies of the Daily Prophet from the middle of the bar and thumbed somewhat carelessly through the pages as he sank into the comfortable warmth of combined exhaustion and alcohol, enjoying the quiet of his own company on the more undemanding side of the bar.
The sun was just starting to rise when his replacement finally showed and Pat wasted no time pouring himself a celebratory doubleshot, swiftly knocking it back before slipping out the back door and leaving the mess of early morning shitshows to his poor successor.
This was normally the time where he would wander on home, feed his cat and try to get a few moments of attention from her before eventually falling into bed and conking out for a few hours. But as those early morning rays of light pink and orange started to shine and shimmer between buildings in the condensed skylight ahead of him, he found himself wide awake and following his feet across town to a familiar haunt.
While he had avoided the Leaky Cauldron and all other wizarding pubs for a long time after first moving to London, the place had become a bit of a favorite in the past few years. It was big enough to disappear in if you wished to come through unseen, and its clientele consisted of enough visitors and passerbys that no one ever raised an eyebrow at an unfamiliar face.
There was just something about the Cauldron, the way it stood right on the divide between the magical world and the world beyond, that unsurprisingly stuck a chord with him.
And more importantly, the place never closed. With the hours he usually worked, it was always nice to find a place that could serve you a pint or keep the shots coming (depending on the type of night it had been) at five, or six, or seven in the morning without passing judgement.
And this had most definitely been a liquor kind of night. Taking his usual seat at the far end of the bar, he greeted the late night/early morning bartender with a smile and raised two fingers, the now-agreed-upon-sign for a rough-night usual - a doubleshot of Firewhiskey and a pint of dark lager. And keep the shots coming.
As it was delivered, Pat promptly threw back the glassful of liquor, then went about slowly nursing his pint. He grabbed one of the freshly delivered copies of the Daily Prophet from the middle of the bar and thumbed somewhat carelessly through the pages as he sank into the comfortable warmth of combined exhaustion and alcohol, enjoying the quiet of his own company on the more undemanding side of the bar.