In a turn of events that was neither unexpected, odd, nor alarming, it was raining in Scotland.

 Inside of the dry but empty dining room of The Three Broomsticks pub, a large, spectral brown bear was rampaging, pulling faces and bumbling around on two legs as though it had been trained for the circus. It was possibly the only bear that anyone was likely to see in the United Kingdom outside of a zoo, and its only spectator – the prickly but unsinkable barmaid extraordinaire Bethan Ellis - stood smiling placidly as she watched it bumble about, her mind elsewhere. It was easy to draw up a strong memory while standing in her current spot near the pub's entrance, where the rain splattered then dribbled down the window pane behind her, the sky murky. She was recalling that exhilarating moment of just a few weeks prior when she'd vanquished a dybukk while on the job, and could almost feel her heart bragging in her chest as she called up those triumphant feelings. She could remember laughing straight from her belly, nearly hysterical with joy, running purely on endorphins. Even just remembering that moment made her feel like a vault full of galleons. Every moment that bear continued to amble on was further testament to the talent and strength that the bloody ministry refused to acknowledge. She wasn't thinking about them now, however. She'd put herself in too good a mood.

There wasn't another living soul in the pub with her. Nobody wanted to be in Hogsmeade who didn't have to be there – not with dementors floating around the place like invited guests (not to mention attacking school children). In fact, Beth's own mother had tried to keep her home, but the headstrong witch wasn't having it. 'If I'd made it into the auror training program don't you reckon I'd be going in today?' she'd asked her, and the woman had to concede the point, reluctantly sending her youngest child off to make her living. Beth hadn't made her way down to the pub for her shift because she was hurting for gold, though. On the contrary, she was building up a comfortable savings, and her vault down at Gringotts could, at first glance, be easily mistaken for the vault of a responsible adult. It seemed like she could move out of her parent's place any day now, if only she made the effort.

It seemed foolish for the witch to keep herself trapped behind the bar while the place was so desolate, and it seemed equally foolish to do anything but practice her patronus charm with the sky looking so dark and pissed. That's what every periodical was suggesting, and there were a few cheery, strategically placed posters encouraging the same thing. If Beth was honest with herself, she was sort of hoping a dementor might stop by for a pint so that she could see if her dancing bear was as tough as she looked. She was focusing hard on maintaining the charm, however, so when the bell over the door tinkled to indicate that someone had entered the establishment, it was the last thing she'd been expecting. She spun around brusquely, wand pointed at the interloper, as the bear dissolved into a ephemeral wisp of pale smoke.

The unsuspecting miscreant was not a Dementor, but close.

Water trudged in from the poorly irrigated, cobblestone streets pooled around a pair of small but solid boots; the contradiction of their dainty sizing with the authoritative confidence in which they crossed the threshold the epitome of their wearer. 

The vacant paths and desolate shops of one of the few all-wizarding villages in Scotland was a testament to how dire the Dementor situation was and how seriously it was being taken even with the consoling propaganda and assurances from the Ministry that Level Two, including the Aurors, were vigorously involved in eradicating the situation. 

Promises her elite task force, frankly, could not uphold. In times of social upheaval and general panic, Ministers seemed to forget that Dark Wizard Hunters were more productive when actually left to doing their job, rather than being paraded around in imitation of it. There were tangible foes the Aurors could be chasing that she had to reduce priority on in order to make room for these patrols. The return of dementors to the streets of England was alarming, but there was little their current protocol could do little except happenstance be in the right place at the right time.

Yet, as frustrating as it was -- as much as the immensely petite witch might agree with the Aurors’ groaning and bemoaning about being flaunted around like overdressed attack dogs -- she still sent them out because, ultimately, she understood. Panic led to unrest and unrest led to loss of faith in the establishment. It was the entire premise of terrorism.

Which is why, in response to growing complaints from parents over the safety of their children, Tamis Raynor was here. In Hogsmeade. In person. Dressed to the nines from the red of her robes to the rank-declaring flash of epaulets on her shoulders – and staring down the business end of an ill-pointed wand.

The ethereal haze of the Patronus Charm had not quite snuffed from existence by the time the bell above Raynor’s head stopped chiming. The door snapped shut on the miserable weather, trapping the two would-be opponents in the rustic lighting of the pub. Gray eyes caught the motion in their peripheral as they otherwise remained steady on the brandishing young woman -- though she would swear the dissolving smoke had just moments before been mid-cartwheel.

Minus the boots, the Head Auror was completely dry and entirely unimpressed.

“While a vast improvement in customer service,” she allowed in recognition of the theatrics, her hand just brushing the wand at her hip, wordlessly casting expelliarmus, “you might want to reconsider the Final Act.”

They'd always called Bethan trigger happy – a phrase whose origin she was quite familiar with given her mixed heritage. She'd been a formidable opponent back in Hogwarts' duelling club, if only because she seemed to posses the uncanny ability to have her wand drawn constantly.  Subtlety  had not been her strength then and, less than a year later, it was hardly her strength now. She embraced the idea that, in the right hands, a wand was, at once, a powerful weapon and a tool of peace. In her experience, however, the peace was easiest to obtain when the path to achieving it involved blowing the bad guy's head off. In her own mind, she was always the good guy. Thus, when she found herself staring down an auror, dressed to the nines in the whole kit-and-kaboodle, it took her less than a second to casually reach her other hand up and scratch at her neck, as if that had been the intention all along. It seemed that, as much as she adored them, revered them, wanted to be them... she still labored under the belief that – at least occasionally – aurors were idiots.

Though, in this case, Beth knew better – or should have. The face of this auror was a familiar one, and she didn't look so much unlike the pictures she'd seen of her in the Prophet. Tamis Raynor was the epitome of a bad ass Lady Auror, and she'd regarded the petite woman (whose vertical challenges were roughly equivalent to Beth's own) as something of a rolemodel back in school. The auror had been appointed to her current position right around the time when Bethan was discovering that what she wanted more than anything was to become a member of the elite herself, and seeing that witch's face splashed across the papers had been enough to convince her that it was possible. If only she'd managed to hold onto her patronus charm for another two seconds then she might have pulled off a first impression of competence as opposed to... well, idiocy at best. She grinned an overindulgent, sheepish grin, rocking on her toes for a moment as her wand clattered to the floor with a pathetic plink, plink, plink that could barely be heard above the sound of the fire in the floo and the rain on the windows. There was no possible way to save her pride.

“Well, alright,” she remarked, sighing bull-like through her nostrils, admitting defeat, “Wasn't exactly my best moment, isn't it?” she grinned. Merlin, if she could have left her wand on the floor she would have, but her wand hand was already itching from its absence, and the apron pocket where it was normally kept felt too light without the weight of it. She was going to have to – ugh - bend down and pick up her wand. There was nothing more humbling in the world. She wanted to be grumpy about it, really and truly, but the auror's presence alone was exciting and she didn't quite have it in her to start getting worked up. She crossed the distance and squatted quickly to snatch it, springing upward in the same motion. She deposited it right into the pocket. “Should've seen the patronus I'd been casting, though. Might've been the best one I've ever done. I reckon it could've fought off a dementor easy,” she spoke, a little too much confidence in her voice considering she'd just been wordlessly disarmed by the Head Auror on her own turf.

“Any out there, by the way?” she asked, untying and retying her apron strings behind her back, “Dementors?” She turned her head, glancing at the gray sky through the windows. Sometimes it was difficult to tell the difference between dark magic and the weather in Scotland. “And, oh, right, can I get you something, like?”

The inside of the Pub was darker that the streets beyond it, but it was warmer. Shadows clung to the unoccupied corners and encroached upon desolate tables, but the fire roared in hearty defiance and lamps and candle-lit chandeliers offered a warm, muted glow. It was mid-day, but the grey gloom and dark rolling clouds shrouding the village made it feel like it was well into the evening. The rain stamped out any flickering cheer of Spring, but it still felt colder than it should have. Raynor was welcome for the respite, even if it was less hospitable than she had anticipated.

Grey eyes finally adjusted to the new lighting, they tracked the new acquaintance silently, but curiously as she, abashed, bent to retrieve the disarmed wand.  No longer swathed behind the bar counter, the petite Auror’s eyebrow twitched a flicker of surprise when the young woman – not much older than Hogwarts aged – flounced across the room. The blonde was either not much taller than herself or equal in height, though slightly sturdier in build. That did not happen very often.

And she was brimming with personality.

From the flaring nostrils. Huffed breaths. Energy radiating off of her like a puppy that had not had enough time romping outside but was trying to be on its best behavior.  It was a self-righteous, wand-happy restlessness Raynor most often saw in new recruits, grumpily disillusioned that they were not spending their every waking moments chasing dark wizards through the streets of London.

And she talked. A lot.

“Tea,” the Head Auror supplemented when prompted, finally catching up to the conversation as the young employee disappeared back behind counters that met both of them at about chest-level. “Black.”

Raynor did answer the inquiry about the presence of the dark creatures immediately. Aurors often forgot mastery of the Patronus Charm was not common. It had been a requirement for acceptance to the Training Academy for as long as Raynor had headed the office. It simply made sense, given the line of work, and their adopting of the Order of the Pheonix’s method of communication. The brief glimpse of aerobatics had been an impressive level of command, but...

She found the boasting curious. As if the bartender was hopeful one would show up and end the monotony of her shift. Which led Raynor to question if,

“Have you ever had fought a Dementor?” she asked, curious and not intentionally patronizing, shifting onto a stool at the bar. The Auror did not relax much further than removing her gloves, selecting a seat that kept her back to the far wall and in full view of the door.

Beth could get tea started wordlessly, and did so with a quick, almost bored flick of her wand in the direction of the kettle. It was a popular order around noontime, at least on a typical weekday, so the water was ready to go, and sat tepid, ready to be heated. “Tea. Alright,” she commented as she fussed with the tea things, adding the tea itself to the pot, speaking only because she couldn't stand the uncomfortable silence. It was one thing to stand around in silence when she was alone in the pub, but quite another when she had company. “That'll be up any minute,” she remarked, waiting for the tell tale whistle that would let her know she could begin steeping the tea. Anything else she could have whipped up in an instant, but tea seemed to take forever by comparison. “Don't reckon you can be drinking anything much harder than that on the job, isn't it?” she commented, her eyes falling jealously on the auror's epaulets. There wasn't a single cooler uniform in all the world, she thought. She wouldn't drink another drop as long as she lived if it meant earning herself a set of those robes.

There was one thing that consistently killed the tedium of waiting for the kettle to boil... and that was the opportunity to talk about herself. It was no secret that Bethan's favorite subject in the world was Bethan. When asked if she'd ever fought a dementor, the barmaid's rather bored expression immediately transformed into a cockeyed sort of grin. If the head auror had intended to belittle her even a little bit, she hadn't taken the bait. “Never a dementor – not yet, anyway. I did vanquish a dybbuk, though, didn't I? It was back in January, about a week after the new year. We had aurors in here and that, but there wasn't much for them to do but clean up. I left them to it. It seemed about right – I did their job so why shouldn't they do mine?” The young witch was pleased as punch with herself, her grin expanding to eat the rest of her face. There was a reason that memory was strong enough to summon a bumbling brown bear in all its glory. Before she could say another word, however, the kettle began singing out its shrill tune and she turned to pour the water over the strainer. “Give it a few minutes,” she said, setting the pot to steep, “Reckon you like it strong.”

The barmaid glanced toward the windows again, where the rain was still obscuring her view of the empty streets and gray skies. “Last I heard the case got handed to the Department of Mysteries. Sounds right. We sure as hell didn't learn about dybbuks in school,” she mused, continuing on with the story she'd been telling before the kettle so rudely interrupted. “Least with a dementor I'd know what to expect.” She'd more or less forgotten that the petite auror hadn't answered her question about whether or not she'd spotted any dementors herself that day.