Andromeda stood in the crowd. Her fingers gripped her wand. She was feeling nervous. It was good to see the Leaky Cauldron again. She was very happy to know it was back. But she was worried. What if someone attacked again? They could never rest. They could not be complacent. The last 6 months were awful. Andromeda wished she could enjoy this. People around her were smiling. She felt fake when she smiled. She was watching other people. Watching for anyone acting wrong.

Somebody whooped. Andie was pushed sideways. She bumped into people.
"Sorry." She said to them[1].

1.

Anyone

Minerva McGonagall was a stately witch. She had been deemed thus many years ago, and she'd never really minded the term - used almost like a title. On most days, Minerva McGonagall felt stately, as a testament to her life and her story. Today was not one of those days. Today, if someone were to call the elderly witch thus, she would simply turn them to face where her bleary eyes were glued: to the magnificence of the oldest bar in London. The weather could not have been more exceptional, it was warm, inviting. A bit of cloud coverage helped to shield from most of the direct sunlight, and Minerva's wide-brimmed witches hat helped when the clouds weren't enough.

All in all, it was a lovely day - even as reporters and photographers snapped away at her. Being the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot meant that every public outing was a reported one - at least until people got used to the news and she finally had peace again. Her robes were of deepest emerald, her hat matching, and as she stood looking at the magical view before her, she remembered her first time visiting the Leaky Cauldron. She remembered how awe-inspiring the event had been, and she had lamented the loss of the pub like the loss of a dear friend. How many young witches and wizards would have to grow up without the memory of the bricks behind the pub opening on their own? The reopening made her heart swell with joy, and even the endless chatter of reporters questioning, and people bustling about couldn't mar her good spirits.

The Headmistress wasn't often one to drink, being on duty always meant always having a clear head - but tonight she might just let her hair down and have a glass of red wine or two before heading back to the castle and her duties. This day was a day to go down in history and though it was a rare sight for most people, a slight grin couldn't help but form on the witch's face as she glanced around at the crowd gathered. One big happy family, reunited at a place that was truly an institution, a place worthy of the title stately.

Niobe was dressed smartly, in a well structured suit jacket, layered skirt and boots. She had her piled up in a colorful scarf and wore big shimmering earrings. Her fluffy black quill hovered just above her notebook. She'd been on the political beat for the Daily Prophet for months, and the Leaky Cauldron was no soft human interest assignment. It was a rousing victory for the magical community and it was all hands on deck, all voices heard.

"Chief Warlock McGonagall. Professor! Good morning!" 

The Hogwarts Headmaster and old war hero was easy to spot. She always stood out in a crowd although Niobe was certain she rarely meant to. She looked over her shoulder. Was she the first reporter to approach her?

"Comment for the Prophet? What does this day mean to you? Have you ever experienced anything like it?"  She couldn't hide her smile at addressing the famous witch, who she'd admired for many years, on such an auspicious day.

He was here today, not as Stoney Bird, but as Jin-Sun. Other reporters had either signed up or been assigned to this opening event-- and he was glad for the privilege to sit back and watch with the eyes of a participant. Despite that privilege, it was easier said than done. Hands placed casually in the pockets of his robes, his dark eyes quickly scanned the crowd. Minerva McGonagall was here, and his oh so beloved coworker, Niobe, was there with her handy quill drawn. Like all coworkers who knew his identity, she was sworn to secrecy. But he wasn't sworn to not be a pain in their necks.

With a slow-growing grin that was equal parts smug and mischievous, he meandered through the crowd only to stop at Thursby's side. Jin-Sun loved inconveniencing his coworkers in ultimately harmless ways.

"Things have barely started and reporters are already casing the--" His gaze fell onto Minerva's face, "celebrities for the latest scoop." Like vultures, except McGonagall wasn't dead yet. He shrugged a bit too casually to be innocent.

Niobe turned her head slowly to show Jin-Sun how awesome it was he'd come to bother her. Professor McGonagall was not a celebrity. She was a national treasure, and he knew it.

Only a select few would recognize that Jin-Sun Park was a fellow journalist, so his little interlude would look to bystanders as a personal call, not professional tit-tat. Normally she'd agree that comments from notable figures otherwise uninvolved in the event at had was fluff, but this wasn't like that at all. This was huge. This was about the whole country.

"I'll deal with you in a moment, Park," she said sweetly, on her best behavior. "I'm speaking with Madam McGonagall. This is a big day."

Dressed in an appropriate mix of demure, luxe, and eccentric detail— the last befitting their reborn bastion of a pub— Augustine was stood dead center in a line of officials, clinging to a pair of gilded scissor that must have weighed at least half of the actress herself. Despite the burden, her teeth glittered for gathered crowd, every bit the theatre-trained, red-carpet-ready smile. She knew her angles, even with the lethal anchor weighing her down.

Somewhere, eventually, Hercules Mulligan would see the photographic proof of Augustine’s devotion to her endurance training, and pride would strike his heart.

The less entertaining part— her speech— was over. Elegant as could be managed, Tine pulled apart the comically large hoops of the scissors. The crowd waited with bated breath (or so the witch imagined). And for a moment, there was no sound. Like a shark’s jaws, the blades snapped together over a bright red, ceremonial ribbon thicker than half the political elite stood on either side of her. The ribbon’s strands blustered apart immediately, their dance in the wind preceded only by an eruption of rainbow hued bubbles of all sizes.

The effervescent, subtly butterbeer scented bubbles globules made any hoppy ale's proud head look sad and lacking as they overtook the Ministry types in their no-nonsense robes. Augustine caught glimpse of herself in one of the gossamer mirrors, tilted her head this way and that, and silently breathed a sigh of relief that her lipstick still looked flawless. She heaved the pair of scissors unceremoniously into the arms of the man beside her. Whomever the unlucky soul, he had temporarily taken Dosia’s place. (Her sister was presently back at Fortescue headquarters, their chic like row house in the mews, putting together the last minute details of the Ghost Ball. The actress had spent weeks painstakingly organizing the event— also via her sister— and was thus anxious to get back to the progress. But the press carpet called, and she could not very well abandon her responsibilities to the community. The Leaky was a Diagon staple.)

And then, absorbing the energy of the crowd as it oohed and aahed over the bubbles, Tine smiled brightly and stood on tippy toes to pop a pastel pink one the size of her head with the tip of her wand. The flash of a paparazzi’s camera blinded those behind and beside her.

She posed, limbs twisting slow and chameleon-like to accommodate the cameras. “We couldn’t have picked a lovelier day, could we?” she asked the crowd, voice carrying expertly with the aid of a Sonorous Charm. It was a reiteration of what she’d already promised them— how honored she was to reopen her favorite childhood stomping ground. “I hope you’ll all join us for a drink now.”

Minerva McGonagall had never been one to truly enjoy being interviewed. In her opinion, reporters were placed just above career politicians in her list of honest jobs. Though she would have much rather stood stoically and silently, enjoying the day as it was, she couldn't very well deny a conversation with someone she placed above her own position (as a career politician now). The first voice spoke her name, causing Minerva to close her eyes for a moment, just to save the feeling of peace in her mind. When she opened them again and turned her attention, a small smile played across the elder witch's features. Niobe Thursby was one of the last few good journalists left. Of all those that could have taken her words and twisted them to their own means, Thursby wasn't one of them. Reading her work was the Chief Warlock's favorite part of reading the morning paper.

Thursby lost a bloody finger for a story, if that wasn't dedication, Minerva didn't know what was.

Though Minerva had been prepared for an interview, she hadn't been expecting those questions. Most reporters started with questions about current affairs, Hogwarts, criminals - those topics she would have been prepared for. Questions about the actual topic at hand, and questions on a such a personal level, she had not been. Being a woman of few words, it took the Headmistress a moment or two to collect her thoughts. As she opened her mouth to reply, Minerva realized that those couple of seconds had been too many. With the bystander's random, and honestly quite rude comment, the elder witch was, twice in one interview, struck completely speechless.

Thankfully Niobe spoke up again, as Minerva quickly closed her gaping maw. In that moment an idea occurred to the witch, and the small smile returned to her face once more. "Ah, not at all, Mr.- Park, was it?" she asked, "As Miss Thursby just commented we're talking, this isn't an interview, just a group of witches and wizards sharing memories and celebrating this most glorious day. Would you care to join us?"

She certainly would get to Niobe's questions, but asking this man to join in meant that she'd have a few more moments to figure out what she wanted to say, and also because she truly didn't enjoy when people cast her as a celebrity. She was a witch just the same as any other.

Rascal had been there when the Cauldron had exploded... and worse, even, he had predicted the third blast that had sent so many to their doom and injury. But he had no nerves about returning to hallowed ground. It had happened. It was no longer happening. There wasn't a point in reliving that hurt.

The author - resplendent in his velvet, ochre robes - applauded with the general public as Augustine Fortescue opened the event. Smashing! Good actress. Well cast for the historic event. Flashbulbs stuttered and went off in the crowd. He turned to mingle with his fellow lobsters.

People were still healing from the events of last bonfire night, underneath their physical wounds. Some bore it easier than others. Rascal passed his old Headmistress in conversation with lesser beings, moving instead in the direction of a familiar face in the throng.

Why, it was Ceph's sister! She'd just bumped into a particularly rotund gentleman who seemed on the verge of saying something incoherently drunk.

"Andromeda!" Rascal exclaimed cheerfully to intervene, a contrast to her withdrawn manner. "How are you this weekend? You've got your serious face on but I don't think I've committed a crime to earn it...." he drew next to her so that they had a view of the busy pub. "Yet."

If Niobe could have known Minerva McGonagall's internal exposition just then, she'd have flushed pink and wilted with pride. But alas, Niobe was obliged to observe a wordless reaction from her role model and an invitation for Park to join them. She forced a smile.

"Lovely. Well."

The sudden shift from on-the-job interview to 'just a group of witches and wizards sharing memories' wasn't an easy pivot, but Niobe saw the merit. As long her Verbatis Quill was at attention, she was working. 

Memories, though. Niobe didn't like talking about herself, but the memory was hard to forget. She couldn't remember her first time in the Leaky Cauldron, but she did remember an All Hallow's Eve her family spent there. It had been a perfect night. She was 10. She absolutely snuck out of the pub, down Diagon, and into Knockturn. She smiled thinking of it.

"There's simply no place like the Cauldron."

"Ras!" Andie smiled. Rascal Rosier was a friend. He was also a celebrity too. Perhaps he was right. She was being too serious. "You best be good." She warned him. "I do not know. I can not help but be on edge. Times like this. You expect something to happen." She shrugged. "Bad of me. This should be a happy time." Andie made a face at the fat guy. She moved closer to Rascal. "Did they ask you to cut the ribbon? Or did they ask someone safe?"

Andromeda finally cracked a smile in greeting, and it was a relief because most people looked much better when they smiled. Especially when they didn't know it! Rascal glanced innocently at the ceiling as he was told to be good, hands going behind his back in mock naivety. Him? Why, he was being nothing but good  today! Within reason.

His grin softened a bit at her anxiety. "If something did happen, it would be a cliché," he told the Auror. "So I doubt anything will happen."

Whoever had destroyed the Leaky Cauldron in November had an eye for storytelling but not for conventionalism.

          "Did they ask you to cut the ribbon? Or did they ask someone safe?"

A dramatic sigh cut into her question and Rascal flung a boney arm across Andie's shoulders, as if though he'd been struck in the chest by bow and arrow. He made a showy gesture towards the front of the pub with his free arm.

"Safe! They want everyone to feel safe don't they?" his eyebrows went up, more in excitement than ruefulness. "The ribbon would have turned into something more shocking than bubbles if I'd cut it," the author tutted at his own imagined behaviour. "Now, what are drinking? Should we surprise ourselves and ask the bartender for their least popular order?"

Rascal didn't drink alcohol, a well-known fact, but there was always more to the Cauldron than being inebriated.

"Nothing feels that shocking lately." Andie said. "You need to bring the mannequins to the party." Rascal made some march down Diagon Alley once. "Gurdyroot? Yuck. You would really drink that?" Andie asked. She swallowed. They were inside. "Wow everything." Andie said. She looked up. "I mean. Everything is how it used to be. But... better?" Andie cringed. "I am an auror not a wordsmith. What say you Rosier?"

"I'll try anything once!" Rascal exclaimed in response to his friend's dislike for Gurdyroot - it was so foul a drink but surely there must be someone out there who liked it, for the thing existed after all! The author followed Andie into the pub and felt the smile on his face widen in recognition.

Home! Home away from home, and just like home it never feels the same every time you return. He took the witch by her arm so that they could break through the throng at the bar without being separated.

            "What say you Rosier?"

"Oh, I don't know..." he murmured pleasantly, winking at her so briefly that it could have been missed. "Wow seems apt, if you ask me."

They found themselves wedged between two groups of young wizards with high-pitched voices, each calling out to the bartender for all manner of drink. Impatient little lobsters! But Rascal was in no hurry to drink or to be anywhere else, so he continued his chat with the auror in a casual way.

"Let's see. We could say, I suppose, that it is everything we lost coming back to us? Or is that love I'm thinking of?" he mused with a flippant frown. "No. We should go with phoenixes. They burn and are reborn and their tears - hello, barman, two pumpkin juices with a surprise syrup if you'd please! - and their tears are healing."

Rascal grinned, laughing to himself. "How's that? Good enough?"

"Yes. A phoenix. Perfect." Andromeda said. She nodded. "Phoenix tear syrup?" She suggested. Of course it was not real. "Perfect." She said again. She laughed with him. "Of course you are good enough." Rascal Rosier was perhaps the most clever person she had ever met. He saw the world differently. Swift before he could she paid. Pumpkin juice was not expensive. But she was happy for good company. In a crowd you could still be lonely. She gave Rascal his drink. "Cheers! To phoenixes, to the Leaky Cauldron." She drank. "Huh, what is that he put in?"