Chapter Four: Bar Fight
George had been walking for hours, immersing himself in
Muggle life. The automobiles continued to fascinate him,
making him worry he was becoming more like his dad than he
would want, and he could not believe how many of the
four-wheeled carriages they fit into one small street. He
wandered through a variety of Muggle shops, including a
book store, a grocery store and even something called an
“electronics” shop.
Something to do with batteries, he surmised, after
wandering the rows of shiny boxes that produced either
music or moving pictures when certain buttons were pushed.
His father had a rather large collection of Muggle
batteries and, from what George understood, those little
cubes or cylinders somehow made these boxes work.
Now, it was getting to be late in the day and he felt pangs
of hunger rising in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten, really,
since breakfast in Diagon Alley – which, according to his
map, was a good hour hike away from him – so he figured he
should start looking for a place to eat.
He walked to the intersection of another road and looked
around. Automobiles whizzed past him, or didn’t, according
it seemed to the colour of the light showing on the post
above him, and the number of people who pushed, sidled or
swarmed past him made him feel a little bit dizzy. Every
day in Muggle world, it seemed, was a crunch of people,
much like the Quidditch World Cup final had been four years
before.
A long, green sign caught his eye. “The Fox and Hound” it
read and, from the looks of the establishment under it,
George figured it was some kind of Muggle pub: a Leaky
Cauldron for the non-magical set. He allowed himself a
smile, then waited with the crown on the corner until the
strange light facing them changed to green. Then the
automobiles passing in front of them came to a stop,
creating a narrow laneway for people to walk to the other
side.
George stepped from the brightness of the outside world
into the relatively dim interior of the Fox and Hound. He
had guessed right: inside, it bore a close enough
resemblance to the Leaky Cauldron for him to feel
comfortable in his choice. Even here, however, the number
of people took him by surprise.
He saw an open seat at the bar and made his way through the
crowd to it. It felt good to get off his feet for a moment
and he glanced around the place before the barman
approached with a menu, a smile and a small, square piece
of thick parchment.
“What’ll it be?” the broad, dark-haired barkeep asked in a
brusque tone.
George felt suddenly at a loss. Fire whiskey? Butter beer?
He really wanted a pumpkin juice to cut into his thirst but
would a Muggle bar serve pumpkin juice? Or fire whiskey,
for that matter?
The barman stared at him and George offered a smile.
“Sorry,” he said, “been walking around so much I’m in a bit
of a daze.”
The man nodded. “I’ll come back,” he said, and turned to
serve three other young men who had come forward.
George listened to what they asked for – it sounded like
“pinetuhginess” to him – then watched as the barman drew
three large mugs of a dark, frothy liquid from a tap in
front of him and hand it over to the young men. That
doesn’t look bad, he thought, and he mouthed the word to
himself as he looked over the menu. At least this offered
some things he’d heard of. He settled on chicken curry and
a “pinetuhginess”.
The barkeep came back, raising one thick eyebrow in his
direction.
He smiled again winningly. “I’ll have the chicken curry and
pinetuhginess,” he said, putting as much confidence into
his voice as he could muster. “Nothing better than
pinetuhginess on a hot day!”
The barkeep nodded, his eyes a little wider than before,
took the menu from George and wandered back to the same
tap. He poured out more of the thick, dark liquid, leaving
a perfect layer of foam on the top, and slid it onto the
bar in front of George.
George nodded, raised the glass and smiled again,
winningly.
The man grunted in response, then headed back to serve
other patrons.
George took a sip of the drink and nearly choked. It was
thick and strong and tasted to George like he’d shoved a
sheaf of barley into his mouth. The small, dark-haired
woman on the barstool next to him giggled at him as he
coughed loudly, then turned her back and continued to talk
to her friend.
George wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and
tried again. He allowed just a tiny trickle into his mouth,
let it flow across his tongue, then into his throat. Much
better. Though strange, he began to find it quite tasty. He
took another sip, enjoying it even more, then set the mug
down on the bar and looked around again.
It was a small place, maybe half the size of the Leaky
Cauldron, but there must have been forty or more Muggles
crammed in at the time. Most of them seemed to be near
George’s age, perhaps slightly older, and most wore what
George figured must be some kind of work uniform: dark
slacks, dark jackets and light-coloured shirts. The only
difference he could see between the men and the women was
in the shoes – the women generally seemed to wear shoes
with taller, narrower heels – and in the presence or
absence of a strip of material (usually dark but sometimes
surprisingly colourful) that hung from their collars down
the front of their shirts. The men had the strips; the
women did not.
Many of the Muggles sat or stood with their attention
focused on a box with images on it (like the ones he’d seen
in the “electronics” shop) that was hung from the wall
above the bar. On it, what looked to George like some sort
of sporting match was playing itself out and the gathered
crowd oohed and aahed and sometimes shouted in response to
the action in the game.
George watched the match for a moment, then searched his
mind for the appropriate term. “Football”, he finally
muttered to himself. That’s what it was called. A very
simple game involving a single ball and two teams using
their feet to propel it around the pitch. He watched the
game for a moment, then turned his attention back to his
pinetuhginess, which he found a great deal more
interesting.
Something or someone banged into his shoulder, causing him
to spill some of the liquid onto the bar. He turned, a
smile on his face, to see what had hit him. He found two
tall, oafish looking young men staring over his head at the
box on the wall.
He shrugged and turned back to his drink. The barman
brought over a plate with his chicken curry, wiped up the
spill without comment, and went back to the other end of
the bar. George tucked in.
It tasted pretty good. He hadn’t realized he was so hungry
and made quick work of it, the thick liquid washing the
food down. He was just finishing the last of the rice when
something hit his shoulder again. He turned, his smile
tighter this time, and looked at the two young men.
“Wha’ you lookin’ at, ginger?” the taller of the two, a
large, blond man with a scratchy moustache, barked at him.
“I’m looking for the git who can’t keep his hands off me,”
George said, an edge in his voice.
“Who you callin’ a git?” the other man barked, tearing his
eyes away from the game to glare down at George.
“I’m calling whoever goes around pummeling people without
so much as a “sorry there mate” a git,” George said.
The young woman on the seat beside him turned, her eyes
wide, and gave her head a small shake toward George. “He’s
just funning ya, Collin, honest he is?” She sent an
imploring look at George. “Aren’t ya, funnin’ him, havin’ a
laugh?”
She nodded tightly at him, her eyes still wide.
“’s he with you then, Katie?” the one named Collin barked,
staring from George to the girl and back. “Need a bird to
defend ya, do you mate?” He let out a laugh.
“Don’t know her, don’t need her with the likes of you,”
George retorted, his heart now pounding in his chest. He
felt a fury rising inside him, sending fear and good sense
out for a walk.
The shorter of the two men scowled at George. “Watch yer
mouth, there mate, or we’ll be shutting it for good,” he
said, his eyes flashing.
George thought about Fred, who should be backing him at
this point, and felt the fury rise even further. “Back off,
laddie,” he said, “and keep your elbows to yerself.”
He turned again to his drink but a large hand on his
shoulder stopped him from enjoying the last gulp. He felt
himself being turned.
“Not in ‘ere!” shouted the barman. “Not in ‘ere, Collin.
Take it outside if ya can’t keep yer fists in yer pockets!”
The other patrons had already backed away to create an open
space around George and the two men. George got slowly to
his feet. The girl called Kate stood beside him, fear in
her eyes.
“Now, lads,” George said into the suddenly quiet pub, “you
don’t want to start something here you won’t be able to
finish.”
If it was quiet before he spoke, falling pins could have
been heard afterward. Kate gasped silently beside him, her
wide, dark eyes still imploring him to be quiet. George
ignored her and slid his hand into the pocket of his jeans,
where his wand waited patiently for him to call it into
action.
“He’s got a knife, Col,” the taller man hissed.
Collin was faster than he looked. He grabbed George’s arm
and pinned it to his side. “Outside with ya, tough guy,” he
said, his meaty hand clenching vice-like around George’s
bicep.
George winced. Okay, he thought, this is different. This is
painful. For the first time, fear rose in his gut but the
fury rose even higher. He found himself propelled through
the crowd and out the door, into the dazzling sunlight.
Collin kept a tight grip on his arm until he had dragged
George into a nearby alleyway and, once there, flung him
hard against a brick wall.
Pain shot through George’s arm and shoulder as he hit the
wall but he managed to keep his feet. He turned slowly, his
hand still in his pocket, holding the wand. The man named
Collin stood about five feet away from him, a long, narrow
blade glinting in the sliver of sunlight that reached the
alley. Behind Collin stood the second, taller man, a metal
tube in his beefy hand, and behind him a small crowd of
curious people stood in the mouth of the alley, Kate in the
front, staring wide-eyed, the crowd blocking them from view
of the road.
His mind raced as he and Colin stood there, sizing each
other up. He wasn’t to do magic in front of Muggles, except
in life or death situations. Was this one? If he didn’t do
magic, he thought, he was as good as dead. Unless he could
talk his way out of this.
“Look, mate,” he said, forcing a cheery tone into his
voice, “we’ve gotten off to a bad start. Let me buy you a
drink and we can laugh this off.”
He fingered his wand, watching Colin carefully. The man
spat on the ground.
“Not so tough now, are we Ginger?” he growled. “Come on,
pull your knife and let’s get to it.”
“Look, lad,” George tried again, “I don’t want to fight you
but you won’t like it if I do.”
Colin’s mate laughed out loud. The crowd tittered
nervously.
“Go on, Col,” the mate barked. “Give ‘im what for.”
George watched Colin carefully, saw the eyes widen, the lip
stiffen, the shoulders tense. He saw Colin’s lunge even
before it started and stepped forward. He twitched his
wand, still in his pocket, and whispered “Stupefy”, even as
he swung his own fist toward the man.
Colin crumpled to the ground, unconscious. The crowd
gasped. Colin’s mate shouted and jumped at George, swinging
the metal object at George’s head.
George stepped back this time, twitched his wand again and
whispered “Stupefy”, once again swinging his free fist
toward the attacking man. Colin’s mate, too, crumpled and
fell.
He stepped back, even as the gasps of the crowd reached
him. He removed his hand carefully from his pocket and then
bent down to retrieve the weapons. He tossed both the knife
and the pipe into a pile of rubbish nearby, then took a few
steps back toward the street.
“Wow, Ginger,” Kate said as he approached, “two punches,
two knockouts!”
George offered a tight smile and felt a little bit sick.
The crowd backed up to let him through and he went back
into the pub.
The barman looked up at him in surprise. “Wha?” he said, as
other patrons in the pub also turned to stare.
“He knocked both of’em out,” cried a small man who had
followed George into the establishment. “With just two
punches!”
The barkeep flipped a towel over his shoulder. “You some
kind of professional fighter, then lad?” he said.
George smiled, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “Naw.
Just lucky.”
The barman nodded, not believing a word of it. “Colin’s no
easy mark,” he said, “nor is Charles, his mate. You must
have some kind’a luck, then.”
George reached into his jacket pocket. “I came to pay for
my curry,” he said, surprised to hear the tremor in his
voice. “What do I owe you?”
The barkeep shook his head in wonder, then went back to a
strange box behind the bar and began punching buttons.
“Seven-pound fifty, all told,” he said, “but ya coulda
walked away. None around here would’a tried to stop ya.”
George handed the man a ten-pound note. “I wasn’t raised
that way,” he said, his eyes twinkling. He turned on his
heel and left the pub, leaving the barman with a hefty tip.
Colin and Charles had not yet stirred as George passed the
alleyway and he was happy enough just to disappear into the
early evening.
“Hey, Ginger,” a woman’s voice called, “wait up a minute.”
George turned to find Kate following him, her dark brown
eyes sparkling. He stopped and waited for her to catch up,
taking in her dark slacks, dark jacket and light-coloured
blouse. The uniform, he thought.
“Can I help?” he asked, feeling some of the tension that
followed his confrontation with the two men starting to
drain away. She was pretty in her way, with plump cheeks
and a pleasant, round body.
“Just thought you might like a little company is all,” she
said, catching up to him. They turned and walked along
together. “Fancy a drink somewhere?”
He glanced down at her and saw the deep brown of her eyes
and the little smile that played there. “Sure, where to?”
“I know a place,” she laughed, then slid her hand under his
elbow and directed him down a nearby side street.
The place was a small, dark restaurant with a curtained
window peering out into the street. The strong smell of
spices hit them as they walked through the doorway,
followed by the sound of strange, light music. Inside,
eight small tables, four of which were already occupied by
quietly chatting couples, greeted them. His companion
guided him to a table in the back corner, then shrugged
herself out of her jacket and sat down.
George took up the seat opposite and gazed at her,
wondering.
“I’m Kathleen,” she said, her voice soft, like velvet,
“though most people call me Kate. Nice to meet you.”
She held out a plump hand for him to shake.
“George,” he said, shaking the hand.
She smiled. “So, George, that was some performance you just
gave,” she said as the server came by with glasses of water
and menus.
George offered a smile and a “t’was nothing” shrug and
waited some more.
“Very impressive. And you did it all with a couple of fake
punches, two flashes of green light, never taking your
right hand out of your pocket!”
He tried not to gag on the water he was sipping. “What are
ya talking about, darling?” he said, injecting as much
casualness into his voice as he could muster. “I’m just
good with my fists, that’s all!”
She laughed, then reached across and grasped his hand.
“Hey, Georgie, don’t worry about it. It’s cool,” she
whispered. “I know all about you people. I’ve got a cousin
who’s one of you.”
George glanced quickly around the place but no one seemed
to be paying them any attention. What could he say now? he
wondered. He chose silence – any response, he figured,
could get him in deeper.
“Strange girl, she was, growing up,” Kate continued, her
eyes never once leaving his, “with strange stuff always
seeming to happen to her or around her. One time, the
neighbour’s dog somehow ended up on the roof, just when it
was lunging at her. Or then there was the tantrum she threw
when my auntie made her sixth birthday cake with vanilla
icing – “Chocolate!” she screamed, “I wanted chocolate!”
And then, what do you know, the cake comes to the table and
the icing is now chocolate. My auntie nearly had a heart
attack!”
George offered a weak smile. “Yeah, that’s strange,” he
said.
“Nuts,” the young woman said. “Nothing strange about it,
when you’re a witch! When she was 11, she went off to a
“boarding school” – I saw her a couple of summers later and
she said it was a place called “Hogtails” or some such
thing. A special school for kids who could do magic.”
She sat back in her chair, triumphant. “You’re one of’em,
aren’t ya?”
George took another sip of water and simply gazed at her,
not saying a word. How do you respond to this? he thought.
She smiled. “It’s no big deal,” she said after a moment,
patting his hand. “I’m not gonna out you or anything. I
just wanted to know.”
George continued to gaze at her, his mind whizzing. She was
a pretty girl, with a nice smile and lovely dark brown
eyes. He liked the way her lip curled when she laughed and
he liked the sound of her voice. He liked the way her
blouse clung to her as she leaned forward and he liked the
feeling of her hand on his.
This is really dangerous, he thought. I can’t tell her
anything about the wizarding world and yet she seems to
know all about it.
