Vasily had been in Hogsmeade a few days now, and no, things hadn't gotten any better. Sure, he had family at Hogwarts, but they were all either home for the winter holidays or doing something far better than visiting their banished reprobate cousin. And who could blame them? Vasily Volkov was a black spot on the family tree - in front of elders, Valentina was just lovely, both of his parents, Mikhail and Lydumilla were beyond successful, and his great grandfather, Merik Storm, was a legend in the halls of Durmstrang. Vasily had disrupted a familial tradition, and with this disruption came great shame. At least, there would be shame if he wasn't so pleased with himself.

Despite Vasily's resistance to getting on the straight and narrow, his parents had sent only a handful of galleons to support him. The Volkovs had money, and plenty of it, but depriving Vasily of the usual wealth was only a branch of the punishment. In order to get a few extra beans in the bank (rent was due), Vasily had been job-hunting. They needed farmhands on a wizarding estate a few miles out, but the owner's comment of "you Slavs will be good at all this manual work" was taken the wrong way, and Vasily was ejected from the place cussing, screaming and clutching for his wand.

Hogsmeade was so sleepy; nobody needed any more employees. And why would they? Apart from the gaggle of students that periodically visited, the village was slow, peaceful and worst of all, painfully boring. Vasily's luck increased however, when he enquired at the local pub. He wasn't so sure if it was a wise choice; his temper was bad enough without throwing Firewhiskey into the mix. But a job was a job, and if it meant more money, then Vasily was all ears.

It was an informal interview, the kind of which tried a little too hard to be casual. The landlady (at least he presumed this was the manager) was a hardened old witch. Her fashionable and gaudy robe would've given the impression that she was in her late twenties at best, but behind the cosmetics and powdered cheeks, Vasily caught sigh of burgeoning cracks and crevasses around her eyes. Mutton dressed as lamb.
"You ever poured a pint, son?" she asked, leaning back on a stool and eyeing him suspiciously. He was the first Ukrainian she'd ever come into contact with.
"Only for myself," he said with a shrug. There was no use lying about an array of previous bar jobs he'd possessed; he looked far too young to have a back-catalogue of employment, and when she saw him fumbling around behind the bar, not knowing what spirit came in a 'Pumpkin Pixie Puncher', the game would be up.
"But you're willing to learn, right?" she asked, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.
"As much as the next man."
"You a drinker yourself, lad?"
"Occasionally, but I wouldn't get lashed on the job if that's what you're worried about."

The landlady paused, sighing in concentration as she looked him up and down. Vasily wasn't too hopeful. He was by no means jolly-looking, nor approachable, and his grades were non-existent. Why would she ever take a chance on a brutish, uneducated young boy with no work experience whatsoever?
"You can do a few afternoon shifts, see how you go," she replied in her gruff voice, walking over to the bar. Vasily looked up in surprise, as if attempting to repeat the statement in his head.
"Seriously?" he asked, getting to his feet to join her, eyes-wide. This was probably the closest thing Vasily had ever come to enthusiasm.
"Course I'm serious, do I look like the joking type?" she sternly snapped, writing down a few numbers on a corner of torn parchment. "Besides, our old barmaid decided a job in Barcelona was far better than working in Hogsmeade." The witch looked up, catching his eye. "Snooty little cow, she was."

Sliding the piece of paper over to him, a purple painted fingernail stabbed it aggressively. That disinterested glare never left her face.
"I want you here Monday, Tuesday and Friday afternoons, twelve until six. No point you working when its too busy when you're learning the ropes." It sounded as if she smoked at least forty cigarettes a day.
"Uh sure, I'll be there," Vasily answered, still at a loss as to why he had the job. The woman said no more, and he realised that this was his cue to leave. Taking the note of working hours, Vasily headed to the door. He'd be working very, very soon. A job that didn't involve racketeering or smuggling or gambling.

Placing his hand on the door handle, Vasily turned once more, confusion written all over his face.
"I don't mean to push my luck, but why have you hired me?" he asked, smiling a little at her generosity of employment. The woman didn't even look up from the bar, organising her accounts.
"Professor Austerlitz said you can pack a punch. The riff raff will stay out of my pub that way."
Vasily nodded slowly, trying to hold in a laugh. Obviously his past wasn't that hard to shake off.