A battered wooden sign hung from a rust-spotted bracket over the door. Painted on it was a severed boar's head, blood soaking through the white cloth wrapped around it—and under the effect of magic, the head actually looked fairly fresh.
Mr. Clearwater felt a chill crawl over him. In Muggle society, he had only ever seen places like this in American horror movies, and most of the college students who went inside usually did not live much longer. But seeing Xenophilius walk in as if he knew the place by heart, and even Lenn, from such a powerful family, follow naturally without showing anything strange, he sighed inwardly and could only go in somewhat reluctantly, doing his best to keep his body from touching the pub's door curtain, tables, or chairs.
The small, dark room gave off a strange stench of dust and drunkards' vomit that seemed as if it would never fade. Thick grime had built up on the bay windows, so little light from outside could get through, and a few candle stubs burned on the rough wooden tables.
The place did not look very busy today. Apart from them, there were not many customers; only a few patrons with their faces thoroughly hidden were talking in low voices in the bar.
Xenophilius led them with practiced ease to the shabby, filthy bar counter, which was scattered with sawdust. They sat on several chairs so high their feet could not touch the floor. Once they were seated, Mr. Clearwater found that the owner was an old man who looked eccentric and bad-tempered: a tall, thin old wizard with long gray-white hair and beard. He had a vague feeling he had met him somewhere before.
Only when Xenophilius called out the man's name, Aberforth Dumbledore, did Mr. Clearwater realize