Diagon Alley, The Leaky Cauldron.
Hermione and Loren entered the pub side by side, looking around curiously.
The pub's waiter was a new face, a tall, skinny young man loafing in a corner. He did not greet them even when he saw customers enter, and he vaguely resembled Old Tom. Behind the counter stood a slightly plump middle-aged woman mixing drinks with brisk, capable movements.
During those tense days, this filthy little pub had closed down for a while. Now that it had reopened, it was noticeably cleaner.
Several elderly Witches sat in a corner, slowly sipping Sherry from small glasses. One of them smoked a long pipe, its choking fumes drawing curses from the others. The old Witch did not care about being scolded. She smiled as she took another puff, wisps of smoke spilling from her shriveled lips.
"Merlin's stinking pipe! Old Tom, aren't you going to do something about it?"
The short wizard in a top hat grumbled loudly.
The pub owner, who happened to share a name with the Dark Lord, said nothing. He lounged against the window, almost completely bald. Brilliant sunlight shone on his gleaming head, making it somewhat blinding, like a dried old walnut.
He slowly turned a page of his newspaper, squinting as he read. Every so often, he let out a hoarse chuckle.
For some time now, newspapers had focused on only one subject: Voldemort's complete downfall.
For the first few days, wizards celebrated through the night. Once they calmed down, they began carefully reading the details of what had happened. They discovered that the newspapers and magazines were still referring to Voldemort as the Dark Lord, so they suspected this downfall might be no different from the one sixteen years ago. They quietly worried that Voldemort would rise again.
Not