Thread; Gilderoy & Aberforth. Who: Gilderoy Lockhart and Aberforth Dumbledore. What: Gildy's seeking to purchase seedy protective objects from Abe. When: 14 May 1979, later afternoon when business is slow. Where: The Hog's Head.
Rating: PG-13. Status: Complete. Threaded.
Gilderoy sniffed disdainfully as he surveyed the small town. He hadn’t been in Hogsmeade since… well, since his Hogwarts days. The thought that the mere thought of a Hogsmeade weekend had cheered him up then made him feel incredibly uncultured. It had always been a little too quaint for his liking. Gilderoy walked past the cheery-looking shopfronts hastily, pausing only to brush a stray lock of wavy golden hair from his brow as he surveyed his reflection on the polished glass front of Honeydukes. He waved lazily as the proprietor’s wife began tittering unnecessarily. With that, he set off once more; his gait unusually harried and less… himself.
It was time for desperate measures. Gilderoy had to protect himself, dammit! Especially after the most recent spate of killings—all the bets were off. He turned off a side road towards the dingier part of the village, holding his pristine black robes off the filthy ground. One never knew what had been there and he’d really hate to have to ruin his most inconspicuous set of robes. Gilderoy had taken care to dressing for the trip: black everything. Even his paisley-patterned cravat was embroidered in black and shades of grey. It was imperative that he remained unnoticed. Invisible.
He held his breath as the distinct smell of goats wafted in his direction. The feeling of apprehension that settled itself in Gilderoy’s stomach grew uncomfortably worse. Was this really necessary? It was just so… common around the place. "No, Gilderoy, you need this," he told himself sternly before setting off once more. The pub’s sign swung ominously as he approached and, with a deep breath and settling for an expression of sombreness that would have been more appropriate for a funeral, Gilderoy entered the pub. Not stopping to exchange niceties with the other early pub patrons, he headed directly to the bar.
"Hullo," he said in what he hoped was a brusque manner, "I’d have a pint of butterbe—uh, mead, thanks." That’s what their sort drank, wasn’t it? He really would have preferred a lighter alcoholic beverage noting the time, otherwise, he’d have been perfectly happy with a glass of scotch. No matter, he told himself, it’s only to keep up appearances. He’d just have to stop by Diagon Alley later to wash off the taste.