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After thirty-seven years of barkeeping at the Biers, Ankh-Morpork's finest oddball establishment, Igor was convinced that he'd seen it all. Oh, there was variety, of course; the clientele had changed quite a bit lately, which allegedly had to do with L-space and the flapping around of loose strands of Narrativum, but the overall routine always stayed the same. Igor didn't particularly care where his patrons came from; since only the kind that fit in was able to find the Biers in the first place, they were all equally welcome as long as they stuck to the rules. Some only stopped by once, others became regular patrons; Igor served them the drinks they couldn't get anywhere else in the city (or sometimes not even anywhere else on the Disc), sighed when they ignored the things on cocktail sticks he'd put into their glasses, and otherwise occupied himself with the most important duty of barmen everywhere in the multiverse: listening.
It was a warm spring evening, with dusk just settling over the narrow streets of the Shades; not the time of day and year when most of the creatures who formed the Biers' regular clientele would go out for a drink. The bar was quiet; old Mrs Gammage had just left after her usual gin-and-tonic, a black-haired, sallow-skinned man in dark robes was nursing a glass of something golden at a small table next to the door, and a murmur that sounded like a low growl was coming from a table in the corner where a blonde woman was sitting with two male companions.
The only person at the bar – apart from Igor, of course – was a bespectacled boy in his late teens with unruly black hair. That one was a regular; since Igor never bothered with the names of his customers, he thought of him as Scar Boy because of the small white scar that was half-hidden by the kid's fringe. It wasn't impressive – not by the standards of the Biers, where half the patrons looked as if someone had played noughts and crosses on their skin with a chainsaw. Still, Igor liked the curious lightning-bolt shape, and he'd already made a mental note to try it out as a stitching pattern someday.
Scar Boy was well into his third drink when the door opened and another young man entered. This one was bronze-haired and sickly pale, with a strong smell of aftershave and hair gel coming into the room in his wake. It took Igor just one look at him to put down the glass he was polishing and reach for the trapdoor that led to the chilly cellars where the stash of easily perishable liquids was stored; the newcomer didn't wear the customary badge, but Igor knew a Black Ribboner when he saw one.
"What would you like, thur? We've got dog, cat, cow, goat, and thome very fine deer. Thorry I'm out of rat, but the whiny French monthieur had the latht of it yethterday, and it'th hard to come by now that there are tho many dwarf rethauranth."
The pale young man wrinkled his nose. Like the rest of him, it was flawlessly perfect, and the small creases that appeared in his porcelain skin looked all out of place in such an angel-like face. The barman appreciated fine handiwork as much as the next Igor, but he couldn't help thinking that someone had really tried too hard with this bloke.
"You don't happen to have any mountain lion?"
Igor shrugged. "Afraid not, thur. It'th jutht too much haththle to thtitch my fingerth back on afterwardth."
"Ah, well." Porcelain Boy – it never took Igor long to take the measure of a new customer – gave a long-suffering sigh and finally decided, "Deer, then. Hold the ice."
"Oh, I can thee you don't need it, thur." Igor produced a glass of ruby-red liquid and placed it in front of the newcomer, who seemed content to drink it right there at the bar instead of taking it to a table. Only now did he notice Scar Boy, who had been watching him with a slightly puzzled expression, and his finely chiselled features brightened in a way reminiscent of the sun breaking through the clouds. "Hi there, Harry – long time, no see."
Scar Boy didn't return the greeting. "You've got something stuck to your leg, Edward."
Porcelain Boy looked down with an unbecoming frown and twitched his leg as if he wanted to shake something loose; when Igor leaned over the bar to check just what he was getting on his floor, he spotted a girl, dressed all in black and wearing way too much eyeliner, who was clutching the boy's ankle with both hands as if her life depended on it.
"Oh no, thon, that won't do," he said pleasantly, but with a firm undertone. "You thaw the thign over the door when you came in, didn't you? Thith ith a Mary Thue-free ethtablithment, so pleathe take her outthide for the duration of your thtay."
Porcelain Boy sighed and bent down to pry the girl's fingers from his ankle. "Is there a place for her outside?"
"Jutht tie her to the rail next to the door," Igor supplied helpfully. "There'th thtill plenty of room, I'm thure. Only don't put her next to the redhead with the freckleth, that one biteth."
Scar Boy winced at this, but didn't otherwise comment.
Porcelain Boy had managed to free himself and was patting the girl's head. "Please wait for me outside, Bella," he said in a tone that made Igor wonder whether there was something wrong with the girl's mental facilities. "It's for your own good; I couldn't possibly put you in danger by keeping you near me in here. Hold on to the rail next to the door and don't let go until I come to get you, all right? Oh, and try not to fall over anything while you're at it."
The girl seemed about to protest, but obviously thought better of it when he flashed her a blazing look. She gave him a watery smile and then crawled towards the door on her hands and knees. It wasn't lost on Igor how she still tripped over the threshold; Porcelain Boy sighed again as he turned back to his drink and his companion at the bar.
"So," he said conversationally, as if he were eager to gloss over the awkward moment when the girl fell flat on her face as she attempted to pull the door shut behind her. "How's it going? I –"
He didn't get any further, because he was interrupted by a cold, sneering voice. "Just what I needed to make my evening perfect – Potter and the glitter menace."
The voice belonged to the black-robed man who had been sitting next to the door; he was walking up to the bar as he spoke. "Igor, another Firewhisky, if you would."
"Right away, thur." Igor wasn't overly pleased; the Professor – Igor could spot a teacher at fifty paces – was quiet enough on his own, but there seemed to be some history between him and Scar Boy, which had already led to a few shouting matches in the past. Igor usually didn't mind shouting, but he found Scar Boy's tendency to yell in capslock a bit unnerving. There was something unnatural about a whole bunch of capital letters coming towards you all at once.
He handed the Professor his drink and hoped he'd go back to his table, but the man seemed to have some beef with Porcelain Boy as well. "What is a beauty like you doing in a dingy place like this? Did you take a wrong turn while you were headed for the Ritz?"
Porcelain Boy gave him a cold smile, showing off teeth which shone so brightly that Igor momentarily wondered whether there was a bit of troll in his ancestry. "Professor Snape, always a pleasure. How are your wives doing these days?"
The Professor scowled at him. "About as well as your moms, I'm sure. Have you got the hang of the baby naming thing by now?"
"Change of topic NOW, please." That hadn't come from Porcelain Boy, but from Scar Boy, who had hectic red stains on his cheeks. Porcelain Boy was eyeing him with sudden interest; he was so preoccupied that he didn't even seem to notice how the Professor left in a huff, robes billowing around him as he returned to his table.
"Do you have any idea how good you smell?" His voice had gone dark and sultry; he was beginning to lean in, and Scar Boy quickly backed away.
"Are you coming on to me again? I meant what I said about the restraining order last time!"
Porcelain Boy froze, and then hung his head. "I'm terribly sorry, Harry – I know, I'm just so weak when it comes to you…"
"Yeah, fine, forget it." Scar Boy reached for his glass, but Porcelain Boy was already inching towards him again.
"Oh no, you can't let this pass – I need to be punished for the sake of the little bit of purity I have left in my soul!" He paused for a moment and then, lowering his eyelashes, added in a completely different tone, "Pretty please?"
"The Hell you do." Scar Boy tried to shove him away, but Porcelain Boy didn't budge. Igor noticed how Scar Boy's fingers didn't even leave dents in his flesh, which he found extremely peculiar. Igor considered himself a bit of an expert when it came to the vitally challenged species, but he'd never heard that it was possible for vampires and golems to cross-breed.
Well, at least the fact that he was part golem explained the kid's personality. Igor found himself wondering whether the words in his head were written in loopy cursive on perfumed pink paper.
Meanwhile, Scar Boy was glaring at Porcelain Boy with an expression which indicated that another outbreak of capslock was looming in the near future. "How often do I have to tell you to fuck off? Go bite someone else's pillow and leave me alone!"
"That's easy for you to say!" Porcelain Boy wailed, looking for all the world like a sad Pierrot doll. "You've got thousands and thousands of people queuing up to fulfil your wildest desires, and I –"
"It's not my fault you don't have your fandom under control," Scar Boy interrupted him coldly. "Besides, what did you expect after behaving like a frigid Victorian spinster for three books?"
Porcelain Boy drew himself up. "How is it my fault that I would have crushed the stupid girl to death if I had given in to her lewd advances?"
Scar Boy rolled his eyes. "Look, mate, my author gave me Chest Monsters instead of hard-ons, but even I know there's more than just the missionary position."
Porcelain Boy's amber eyes grew round in astonishment. "There is? Why was I never told? How could the Creator in her wisdom keep such a thing from me?"
"I'm not totally convinced she knows either, actually," Scar Boy admitted; he sounded uncomfortable. Igor busied himself with his dishrag, since a good barman always knew when his customers preferred to pretend that he didn't hear every word they were saying.
"But – but that can't be true!" Porcelain Boy seemed deeply shaken. "This is blasphemy! The Creator is almighty, and all-knowing!
"Oh yeah?" Scar Boy was eyeing him with an mixture of exasperation and pity. "Out of curiosity, did she ever explain the pillow biting thing to you?"
"What is there to explain?" Porcelain Boy replied with what looked like honest bewilderment. It cost Igor some effort to keep a straight face, but Scar Boy merely sighed.
"That's just sad, mate."
"Sadness is a part of my existence from which I can never escape." Porcelain Boy threw his head back, and Igor half expected him to put a hand over his heart, but instead his expression changed completely, causing Igor to wonder how he managed not to get whiplash from all these sudden mood swings. "It seems there is much I still have to learn."
He lowered his voice and, leaning in once more, added, "Would you care to enlighten me?"
"For the last time, drop it!" Scar Boy was clutching at his glass as if it were a lifeline. "You're very much not my type! Perhaps nobody has ever mentioned this to you, but normal people don't have a building material fetish!"
Porcelain Boy took a step back. "Oh really? I could have sworn that I've seen the occasional alabaster reference to that blond boy toy of yours."
Scar Boy shot him a dark look. "Maybe, but at least he doesn't sparkle."
"Excuse me." The woman who interrupted the exchange was young, blonde, and very pretty, yet to Igor's utter lack of surprise she failed to make an impression with either of the two youngsters at the bar. Scar Boy gave her a quick once-over and then turned back to his drink; Porcelain Boy flinched away from her, and for a moment Igor was sure he heard him growl deep in his throat.
The woman ignored it. "Igor, another round of the same, please. I swear, if I don't get those two drunk enough to forget who they are soon enough, I'm going to rip out their jugulars."
Porcelain Boy twitched nervously at this, but Igor merely clucked his tongue as he filled the glasses. "Bad hair night again, Thergeant?"
"If only." She sighed and shot a dark look at the two men she'd left behind at the table in the corner. "Jacob is whining because he didn't get the girl he wanted, and Remus is whining because he did get a girl he didn't want. Believe me, the only thing that's worse than a moping werewolf is two of them. Why do I have to deal with this? Just because I grow fur at the full moon too?"
"Becauthe you're a kind and caring thoul, Thergeant," Igor pointed out while he handed her the drinks. She gave him a glare and then stalked back to the table.
The two boys at the bar exchanged a look. "Funny how being a werewolf sucks in pretty much every universe, isn't it?" Scar Boy asked, clearly grateful for the change of topic.
Porcelain Boy sighed and took a sip from his glass, tinting his mouth blood-red. Igor thought that the only thing he still needed now to be accepted into the Fools' Guild was a red nose, but of course he didn't say it – barmen were supposed to listen, not talk, after all.
"True enough. How are things going for you? I hear your author pretty much leaves you alone these days."
"There's no need to sound so envious, you know," Scar Boy said mildly. "I'm not the embodiment of my creator's deepest desires, after all."
Porcelain Boy's shining lips curled sardonically. "Oh yeah? What was that bit about her being married to you?"
"Okay, maybe I am just a little," Scar Boy relented. "But she's happy to share me, bless her, so I really can't complain overall."
"Bully for you," Porcelain Boy murmured. "Movies coming along well too, I suppose?"
Scar Boy gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Again, I can't complain. I didn't picture myself quite this pint-sized, but apart from that, I'm good. You?"
Porcelain Boy never got to answer, because at that moment the door flew open and the girl he had sent outside earlier stumbled into the bar. He managed to catch her before she hit the floor, but Igor noticed how she clutched at him when he tried to let go of her once she was back on her feet.
"Edward, I'm so sorry, but I couldn't take it any more! I need to be with you, you know that I'm nothing without you! Please don't send me away again, I'm begging you!"
"I think I'm going to be sick," the Sergeant's voice came from the table in the corner. Porcelain Boy ignored her, although Igor had the impression that he was a bit embarrassed.
"All right, Bella, don't fret, I'll come right away. Can you walk?"
"I can try," she replied with a brave little smile. "I – oops!"
"Never mind." Porcelain Boy picked her up and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of cement. "Sorry, Harry, I guess I have to go…"
Scar Boy was shaking his head. "Listen, Edward, I admit that I'm far from an expert in these matters, but why do you put up with her? I mean, what's in it for you?"
Porcelain Boy gave him a look that was pure desperation. "She just smells so good, you know – flowery, somehow…"
"Uh-oh," Scar Boy muttered under his breath, but he didn't say anything else while Porcelain Boy walked out of the bar, barely keeping the girl hanging over his shoulder from banging her head against the doorframe.
Scar Boy kept staring at the door for quite a while after it had closed behind the two of them; then he abruptly turned towards the bar.
"Igor, two Firewhiskys, please."
"You mean a double one, thur?" Igor asked, already reaching for the bottle; the kid looked deeply shaken, and it was only natural that he needed something to calm his nerves.
"No, I mean two glasses." He took them from Igor, drew a deep breath as if he needed to steady himself, and then approached the table where the Professor was sitting and watching him with a calculating expression.
Scar Boy put the glasses down on the table and pulled up a chair. Igor didn't hear what he said to the Professor (a good barman didn't eavesdrop, because people eventually told him anyway), but he had a feeling that there would be no yelling tonight, at least not of the capslock-y kind.
Igor smiled to himself as he started polishing another glass, which meant that he was doing his best to spread the grime as evenly as possible. He'd once heard it was because of the unstable nature of Narrativum that not all characters in stories could get a happy ending, no matter how hard their creators tried, but he reckoned that for one night, two out of three wasn't bad at all.