Rabastan Lestrange was a shadowed figure hooded and hunched over the ratty wooden table in the corner seat of the pub, watching with a curious detachment of interest and growing irritation as the Mrs. Barber's son and his fellow troop of the morons made a fool of themselves by being a general nuisance to the pub's patrons. Luckily for them, they were forcedly removed from the premise by the hulking bartender before Rabastan decided to take matter into his own hand and shut the brats up for good.
With the sky darkening, the pub gradually emptied, and, save for a game of Snapping Dragon in the back-room, and the noise level was reduced to faint whispers and hushed words between cloaked men discussing crooked deeds. Rabastan took another drink of his beer, now flat and stale, but he was never here for the alcohol, but rather for the ambience and the environment which allowed him to be in public but go unnoticed. Such holes in the wall were generally good places to be just another nameless face in the dark corner.
Just as he placed his flat drink back down, the door slammed open and six men pile drove in, pushing back another ill placed bloke back into the pub as he was exiting. The commotion was enough to catch the attention of the leftover guests, including Rabastan who raised his gaze toward the entrance, and frowned darkly as a jet of bright green light shot throw the ajar door and across the room, splintering the wall where it hit. He recognized one of the six of men, Lucas Rán, a local druggie and troublemaker, and judging by the noise outside, there was trouble. Another green light shattered the pub window, causing a few patrons to duck for cover as shards of glass went flying, and streaked across the open air before hitting mere inches away from Rabastan's head.
Rabastan lifted his glass with steady hands and took another drink.