Chapter 9: The Three Broomsticks

The once radiant, biblical yellow light that formerly embraced the little town of Hogsmeade had faded into a deep orange of dusk. The drapes of nightfall were indeed closing in upon the canvas of blue, and within hours the summer light would come to a halt. The town that was once bustling with life felt still, oddly tranquil in these meagre hours.

Few civilians walked upon the trampled hay-like grass, preferring to keep to themselves in the comfort of their own homes, though that didn't stop the stray few stragglers who ventured out under the guise of the sun's dying radiance.

Men and women alike found themselves drawn to one particular place, one lone building that stood tall, almost defiantly against the setting sun. The boisterous sound of laughter and jeers still echoed out of the well-lit locale, the voices of the few that lingered there acting as a sort of beacon to attract more of their kind, those who did not fear the night but instead saw it as an escape from their mundane lives.

And it was by this lighthouse of depravity that something mystical, miraculous even to the standard wizards of Hogsmeade, was begging to take place, for against the chill dusk air loomed a shapeless mass, a ball possessing a multitude of distinct colours, from blue to black, to silvers and even browns. It was an oddity the likes of which the secluded wizards had never seen before. It blended in with the setting sun with an uncanniness that many would find oddly disturbing and eerie.

Though the ball did not linger for long, in fact, it was merely ephemeral in nature, like a mirage caused by the sweltering heat. By the time one managed to fix their focus upon it, it was already gone, and in its place appeared two figures that looked as if spawned from the void.

One was tall, while the other was short. They wore drapes and garments that clearly indicated their status to be worlds apart, with the former being embraced by a divine dress of blue while the latter wore what appeared to be a trimmed wolf's pelt. Yet, despite the apparent disparity between the two individuals' class, the former did not look down on the latter, whose figure now appeared hunched over against dying light, a grotesque trail of what appeared to be saliva hanging loosely from his agape mouth.

*Hugh, ewugh,* The child known as Herne gagged. His stomach hurt, while his head felt light, as though placed upon the clouds with little more than the consistent pain that riddled his body serving as an anchor to prevent it from drifting further away from him. Herne detested this sensation with a fervent passion. He felt useless, weak in his own body, a frail creature that wouldn't be able to survive even the most placid of nights.

Still, Herne knew his current ailment to be only temporary. After all, he had experienced it before, not even half a day ago, and yet, for some odd elusive reason, Herne felt infinitely worse this time around than before.

His eyes continued to topple in their sockets for what appeared to be minutes as opposed to seconds, while the soft bite of dusk felt like a chilling stab that pressed against every inch of his exposed flesh, a feeling that contrasted with the scorching heat which burned with an undying fervour in both his mind and stomach. Still, Herne suppressed the lingering tipsiness that plagued his psyche for but a moment to focus upon the woman that dominated the side of his view, hogging up every inch of his available attention.

Rowena stared at the boy with apparent pity in her void-like eyes. She knew he couldn't handle apparition. No child could, especially not after experiencing it for the first time even a day prior, but Rowena just had to use it. She had to distance Herne from the abhorrent children that lingered by the front of Ollivander's shop, not for her sake but for his. She wouldn't let him experience such verbal abuse so soon, at least while she remained by his side.

"Are you ok? You're handling it pretty well, for it only being your second time ever apparating." Rowena curiously asked, her wand in hand on the odd chance that Herne's saliva morphed into something viler. A precaution the boy deemed unnecessary as, with a forced smile and a thumping heart, he raised his head to meet the woman's stern gaze.

"I'm fine," Herne stated, ignoring his body's numerous signs of protest, for he wished to move to find out why Rowena had brought him to the other side of town. "Where are we?" Herne curiously asked, his hollow brown eyes fixed upon the gargantuan building that stood defiantly before him.

"The Three Broomsticks, it's where you'll be staying the night," Rowena hurriedly explained, yet her words couldn't have proved to be more useless, for Herne had already found himself lost to the building's numerous charms.

Calling the Three Broomsticks large would be an understatement. The building was simply colossal, with more than five floors, all of which had ceilings as high if not higher than a two-floored house; it appeared to stretch infinitely into the fading light as though attempting to merge with the curtain of night itself.

Orange lights sporadically flickered through dusted windows and every minute crevice the building possessed, like knives, the warm glow cut through the umbral veil of Hogsmeade, spilling out onto the streets and acting as a compatriot to those that wished to traverse through the ebony dusk. Raucous laughter and cheers of drunken men and women alike echoed from within the den of sin with little regard for any stray passerby. Yet, their calls did not feel threatening to the young Herne but strangely welcoming, for their words did not contain even a trace of venom or spite.

A rickety wooden sign swayed gently in the chilling dusk wind, partially illuminated by a beam of stray orange light that seeped through a particularly wide crevice in the thick oak wood door. Herne couldn't read it all, but he could still make out a few words from the distance he had placed himself in, 'ee Broomsticks Inn,'

'This is the three Broomsticks, this is where I'll be staying the night!' Herne inwardly exclaimed as a rush of energy unbefitting the time of day befell his entire being.

He wished to rush over, to take the lead and push open the hefty oak wood door that barred his entrance into the unventured land, yet before he even could, he felt all the vigour that once rested within his soul dissipate, replaced entirely with an unbecoming sense of drowsiness and debilitating fatigue. Herne's eyes felt heavy, like two boulders rested upon the lids he could barely keep them open. He wasn't drowsy, per se, but more exhausted. It was odd. Had he not been filled with infinite vitality not even seconds earlier, where had all his will gone? Herne was confused.

However, the boy would have no time to mull over his confusion as upon seeing the formerly invigorated form of Herne, Rowena took to moving towards the great oak wood door, her steps calm and filled with purpose as opposed to Herne's drowsy meanderings.

The boy could barely keep his head upright. It now possessed a weight too heavy for him to bear, to the point where Herne wished for his prior lightheadedness to return to free him from the odd burden, yet, no matter how much Herne prayed for a miracle, no such grace would ever befall him.

Upon reaching the excellent oak wood door, Herne could spot a few odd protrusions glinting from the corner, reflecting the warm orange candlelight from within. Strange metallic markings lined the outskirts of the door, hinges that possessed a rusted exterior yet a silver interior, cleaned from the abundant wear and tear the door must have experienced. It was from this cleaned hinge that the door swung upon.

A fierce gale of new stimuli brushed against the child's every sense. From his nose, he was assaulted with the pungent stench of aged alcohol and sweat. The smell was unpleasant, but not to the point where it managed to evoke a visceral reaction from the child, for he quickly adjusted to the odd aroma. Smoke wafted through the expansive room from a fireplace that crackled softly in the distance, adding to the brew with its dingy odour.

Herne felt warm, though the warmth was not unbearable like the sensation that plagued his body and forced him to sweat. No, this warmth was more…homely, welcoming. It did not carry with it any adverse effects, at least none Herne felt.

The tavern's patron's previously raucous, yet bearable yells now appeared deafening to the small boy. He couldn't even hear his own thoughts amidst the mass of ambient wails and cheers, though with time, he would surely adapt to the inn's heightened volume. It was only after having little more than every sense punched by the realm's strange atmosphere that Herne's eyes finally got around to observing the expansive space.

Dyed in the brilliant orange light of flame, the room had indeed won its battle with the ever-growing forces of the night. Tables upon tables littered the enormous land, Herne didn't know what wood they were made out of, but he could see that such a fact need not matter, for they all possessed the same sickly brown texture that could only appear when sodden and festered with spilt alcohol. Men and women alike all sat around the many tables, their faces a brilliant shade of scarlet while their gaze appeared unfocused, as though they weren't truly looking at the world that lay before them but rather an idealised view.

A fireplace shimmered in the background emitting a soft crack every now and then as though to reaffirm its place amongst the mass of noise. At the same time, a middle-aged man draped in mundane clothes spouted stories by the hearthside to a pack of enraptured children who hung onto his every word with a focus the boy could only wish to possess.

From the right stood many barrels that oozed a mysterious brown liquid shielded by a sole desk that separated them from the eager patrons that desired to ransack them for all they held dear. A gruff man with a scraggly beard streaked with grey stood behind such a table, with a countless number of thick mugs wrapped around his finger, all of which were filled with the odd brown liquid that splashed about in retaliation to the man's sudden movements as he placed mug after mug upon the table before him with force so hard one might think it would split.

Yet despite his stern appearance, an undaunted cheery smile remained permanently plastered upon his pink lips. His atmosphere appeared infectious as all those who bore witness to it began to smile and live merrily, from the couple that collected their glasses with a beaming glint to an old man whose sour face must have never split once in its life, even they found themselves lost to the man's lively aura.

The room's ceiling looked like an arc, with bridges so high one was prone to vertigo just looking at it, planks of wood contorted to an unnatural angle to accumulate such a structure while at the back of the room and plastered against the space's charmed white walls was a countless amount of skulls. From deer to wolf, to even some magical creatures with names Herne wasn't sure he could even pronounce, all of them, despite possessing unique places amongst the natural hierarchy, were equal when dead and fixed as ornaments.

Still, though the light allowed Herne to see the expansive land, it, too, cast a shadow over his face. It illuminated his appearance for all to see, and what greeted them was a boy that could be labelled anything but fine. His skin, which could be considered sickly even at the best of times, now appeared snow white, almost devoid of colour in its entirety. It wasn't the beautiful hue of Rowena's but rather the unhealthy tone of one on the precipice of losing themself.

His hollow brown eyes looked sunken, as though fused with the very back of his skull with two thick black bags of exhaustion to act as a substitute. His body dazedly swung in tandem with…well…nothing. It was as though merely standing proved to be an effort for the child. All in all, he appeared anaemic to anyone with even the slightest knowledge of the ailment, though he had lost no blood nor possessed the sickness.

Exhausted beyond words, it was a struggle for Herne to remain conscious, a fact Rowena quickly picked up on, for upon a mere glance at the child, she immediately deemed it unfit to have him join her on her path to the desk. Instead, she opted to find an available table for the boy and led his barely lucid self there.