If you’ve never been there, forget everything you’ve ever heard about The Leaky Cauldron.

Seriously. Wipe every bullshit, romanticised notion from your mind and listen closely.

Yes, the Cauldron was a pivotal location during The Second Wizarding War. During that time, it was a source of rumormongering and intel gathering for both sides; the place played its part in the atrocities that occurred throughout the nineties. You may have heard stories from wizarding folk who claimed to have ‘been there man’. Some of them may even be true.

That was The Cauldron of the past.

Gone is the dark, shabby, yet cosy bar room of ages past. No longer will you see the matching sturdy oak furniture so familiar in muggle and wizarding bars the world over. Only shadows of that Cauldron now remain.

The Cauldron has had a turbulent time since the defeat of You-Know-Who (I know, but you can never be too careful). It was all but destroyed after several attacks prior to the end of the war. The ministry promised funds would become available in order to restore it to its former glory; however, the truth is that the department of the preservation of wizarding heritage was spread so thin (Hogwarts taking precedence over all other rebuilding projects), it would be decades before The Cauldron would see any funding. For the best part of five years ‘The L.C.’ as it was fondly known, became little more than a checkpoint for wizards and witches visiting Diagon Alley. The entrance wall was one of the first restoration projects completed due to the high risk of muggle transgression and breaches of the international statute of secrecy. It should be noted at this point that the one remaining constant throughout The L.C’s history was its ever faithful landlord, Tom.

Nobody really knows how long Tom has been serving the thirsty and hungry patrons of ‘The L.C.’ Some say that he is an alchemist and is in possession of a philosopher’s stone. It would certainly explain his first-rate ale. Suffice to say, the stout and affable landlord remained with the bar throughout these darkest of days. He would welcome visitors with a smile, often trading stories and gossip with those willing to stop (such is the unwritten role of barkeeps everywhere). At one point, he even managed to set up a single cask of his homebrewed ale and would sell his precious elixir; dipping tankards directly into the barrel whilst polishing any flat surface with an old rag, regardless of whether it needed cleaning or not.

It was around this time that a glimmer of hope emerged for The L.C. Herman Wintringham, lute player for the band ‘The Wyrd Sisters’, teamed up with Irish international seeker, Aidan Lynch to restore ‘The L.C.’ to its original splendor. For a time, the wizarding world was ecstatic. Tom was back in his rightful place, and it seemed like it would be business as usual

It was not to last.

The part owners decided to turn the ‘The L.C.’ into a theme bar but couldn’t decide on a theme. Wintringham wanted a music theme for the establishment, whereas Lynch was dead set on a Quidditch theme. The dispute resulted in a duel the likes nobody has seen before or since. Merchandise and memorabilia was thrown around the bar accompanied by permanent sticking charms. Both wizards decided to walk away from their investment but continue to be credited for laying the foundations of the rebirth of ‘The L.C.’

Over the course of the next decade, ‘The L.C.’ seemed to go through different investors and incarnations on an almost weekly basis (rumours of a curse are yet to be proven). The once again busy bar room attempted to cater for a variety different clientele. One such entrepreneur, seeing the steady influx of commuting goblins on their way to Gringotts each day, decided to lower the furniture and the bar to accommodate their needs. Tom (who continued to act as landlord) complained of a bad back and most of the lowering was restored. Another plucky young wizard, inspired by his first predecessors decided to give the place a muggle theme complete with such baffling accoutrements as a pool table and a carry-o.k. machine. The latter resulting in several brawls, when, visiting patrons were subjected to some particularly bad renditions of Celestina Warbeck’s greatest hits. ‘Wizards of the future’; ‘Wizarding’s dark past’; ‘The Salem Saloon’ (dedicated to our cousins across the ocean); ‘The L.C. Eatery’ and even cabaret have been tried, tested and failed in the popular pub.

Today, the pub looks like the room of requirement has thrown up in it. A mish-mash of soft furnishings and memorabilia adorns the room, and the furniture is as mismatched as the clothing of a newly freed house-elf. However, two things are always assured. One is that it continues to thrive and the other is that it’ll always serve the best ale in the country. Which begs the question – why bother changing it at all?

   ***

As I ventured downstairs to the bar that morning, was as it should be. Tom, silently polishing the same spot on the bar that he always seemed to be polishing. An amorous couple of young wizards sat, sprawled out in the indent of a giant quaffle that now acted as a seat. Several members of staff flittered about behind and around the bar area each of them sporting a black top personally modified, presumably, to reflect their personalities. The only vaguely uniform thing about these tops were the words‘CAULDRON CREW’spelt out in a simple sans serif font. Above the entrance, a large arm protruded, holding a torch that seemingly burnt forever and, if my suspicions were correct, dimmed and brightened to the mood of the general atmosphere. Words surrounded the torch. Words that I could recite from memory. I'd seen them so many times.

                                                                         Give me your tired, your poor,

                                                           Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

                                                             The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

                                                           Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

                                                                     I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

Despite being a tacky ploy to entrance our American cousins, I always felt a certain affinity with the words. It was one of the reasons why I chose ‘The L.C.’ as my home in the first place. I quickly looked away as I realised Pint Pot sat by the door glaring at me. No doubt considering the most unpleasant way to evict me. I looked around at the assortment of seating scattered around the place; stools, sofas, ottomans, bean bags, pods suspended from the ceiling. Even a hammock or two. I decided upon my usual spot. A battered red leather Chesterfield that was positioned next to a pillar to the side of the bar. It was discrete enough to remain anonymous yet well placed so that I could view everything going on. I flopped down into the chair, pulled off the ridiculous tie and tucked it into the pocket of my black dragon skin jacket. Lix would be here soon, and I needed a plan.

 “Drink for wot ails ya Mr. G?”

Before me, was a buxom, round faced witch with bow lips and a cascade blond ringlets; she broke into a smile that oozed charm, and she wore the familiar ‘Cauldron Crew’ top. She had cut off the sleeves, and it seemed a fraction too tight, enhancing her more than ample assets. I rolled my eyes and placed my chin in my hands giving her a look of mock exasperation.

“I’ve told you before Gail, drop the tavern wench routine. Save it for the tourists”

“Right you are Mr. G!” Her exaggerated east end accent even more pronounced. It set my teeth on edge. She shook her mop of ringlets, which seemingly shrunk back into her head. Her breasts deflated before my eyes, and her face became far narrower and angular. Her clothes seemed to shrink adjusting to the contours of her body (no doubt a charm of Madam Malkin’s creation). In the place of the wench stood a lithe witch; a lock of light mousy brown hair just covering her eye and running down the length of her jaw line stood out in an otherwise neatly clipped pageboy cut. Her pale slender arms resting on her hips as she gave me an expectant look; as she spoke, the mockney accent was gone and in its place was a hard, well-spoken Home Counties intonation.

“Better for you Mr. Gibbs?”

I broke into a wry smile. “You know that’s the face I fell in love with Gail.”

She instantly relaxed and reached behind the bar grabbing two glasses and a bottle of firewhisky. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could say anything she had placed the glasses and bottle on the table in front of me and collapsed into an equally battered old admiral’s chair.

“Nicholas, be a darling and pour for this tired and worn out wench” She propped a pair of sturdy black calf length boots up onto the table.

She was the only person who ever called me ‘Nicholas,’ and I knew that she was coming to the end of a twelve-hour shift. I willingly obliged. She clapped her hands with girlish glee and proceeded to absent mindedly play with the ring that adorned her nose.

“You know Gail; for a posh bird, you don’t half drink like a bitch.” The barmaid waved her hand regally and inclined her head in a mock bow

I’d first met Gail Butcher six months after moving into ‘The L.C.’ she’d come to my rescue in a small pawnbrokers at the entrance of Knockturn Alley. At that point, I was even poorer than I am now and in a fit of desperation, I found myself pawning my grandfather’s old scrying mirror.  Gail happened to be in there at the same time and managed to talk the grizzled goblin, who ran the place, up from nine galleons to double that amount. Afterwards, feeling flush, I’d treated her to a butterbeer and she had told me that she had just moved to London and was looking for work.

What you have to understand about Gail is that you will NEVER understand Gail. She is a witch of many contradictions. She’s smart. Super smart. Beat you at wizard chess in the middle of a debate about werewolves whilst simultaneously disproving Gamp’s elemental law of magic smart. She could have any job she wanted but hates to be tied down to anything. She’s also fiercely loyal to her friends and I count myself lucky to be one of her closest.

“Sweetie you know I absolutely adORE you for getting me this job, but it really is wearing me down; the calibre of clientele really isn’t up to scratch, which is why you need to drop in more often.” Gail threw her head back and knocked the drink down in one, sucking air through her teeth and slamming the glass onto the table with a groan of satisfaction. “You know how a girl can get… terribly lonely surrounded by all these chumps.”  I snorted.

“You didn’t look quite so bored the other night when I saw you with that German couple. They couldn’t have been any older than eighteen.”  Gail pouted.

“Petra and Kurt were twenty, and merely looking for recommendations on places to have a good time." She grinned wickedly “and what better place than ‘Chez Butcher’? Besides they were artists, and you know I have a weakness for creative types.” I feigned hurt.

“And there I was thinking you only had eyes for me” Gail pinched my cheek and blinked hard; her eyes turned completely white, and in the centre where her pupils should be were tiny little red love hearts.

“Awwww…. Is Niccy Wiccy jealous?”

I knew where this was headed. Our flirtatious verbal sparring could go on for hours and we were both too smart to let it get in the way of our friendship (though I can’t deny that it’s come close a few times). Besides, I had pressing matters to attend to. “What’s say you put that metamorphmagic to good use and do a little work on the side for me?”

Gail’s grin broadened and she leant in conspiratorially. This had not been the first time that I had used Gail for information gathering, and she relished it. Despite occasionally going above and beyond the call of duty. “Oooo… what have you got for me?”

“What do you know about ‘The Wizards Folly?” She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Is that it? They’re just a bunch of wannabes, attention seekers. If you ask me there’s more myth than anything to those guys."

“I thought so too, but my client’s seem to think that they are very real and up to something – have you heard anything around here?”

Gail pursed her lips in concentration. “Sure I’ve heard things, but no more than rumor and speculation. Young witches and wizards bragging about how the Folly has something big planned and how they know the identity of the Falcon. But it never comes of anything. It’s just drunken bravado.”

“Well keep your ears open and let me know if you hear anything credible. If my source is correct, the Folly has been pretty active in the last few weeks and if any intel were to surface, then it’s bound to be around here. All I ask is that you be carefu….”

“HEY, skinny witch! We don’t pay you to sit on your arse and talk to the freeloaders, you’ve already been warned once.”

Pint Pot had clocked Gail and looked on the verge of having another blow up. Gail sighed and stood up, running her hand through my hair. “Let me see what I can do for my favorite squib, you want a coffee?” I nodded as Gail turned to Pot Pint and flipped him the bird with both hands before turning on her heel and heading back to the bar. Her tavern wench disguise slowly reappearing with each step she took. I turned to the little doorman:

“You know; you should really work on your people management skills.” Pint took a deep breath and drew a line across his throat before pointing straight at me. I smirked and shook my head just as Gail returned with what looked like a bowl of steaming hot black coffee. She gently touched my arm before mouthing ‘I’ll TWEET you later if I hear anything’.

I gazed around the room, curious as to what was taking Lix so long. Next to me, pasted to the support pillar, was an eight foot high, full-length picture of the wizard singer. Ziggy Stardust. I was a big fan. Ziggy was one of the few wizards to have ever broken into the muggle music charts and despite toying with his real name for a while, settled upon a more muggle friendly moniker during his years as a muggle entertainer. As was my custom, whenever I sat here, I raised my coffee cup to the figure and nodded to him in acknowledgement.

“Well Zig, here’s to another successful and hopefully profitable case.”

I swear this time, the picture smiled. 

Extract from 'New Colossus'  - Emma Lazarus 1883