Fred and George walked steadily up the cobblestone street toward the Hogs Head. The door groaned open as they came near, expelling its unpleasant, earthy smell and revealing the discrete interior. They stepped inside, and their eyes quickly adjusted to the dim, golden light from the few lanterns that hovered above them like neglected ghosts. The barman, Dumbledore's brother, was drumming his fingers on the varnished counter. His cagey glower met them from beneath strings of grey hair, and the twins concluded that they very well could have made a mistake in coming. He would know, better than anyone, that they were skiving lessons. So the boys were quick to hide their faces and redirect themselves to the worn octagonal card table at the rear of the unwelcoming inn.
With a single glance at the four people playing cards, Fred and George realized that Zonko had failed to describe Iscarion Spital. Three of the players were men, and all had a rather beguiling appearance.
The first was noble looking, with a doughy, owlish face and tiny eyes. He had gold glasses, gangling arms, and a very obvious wig that bulged from beneath his bowler hat. He smiled richly at the six cards in his long-fingered hands. The man beside him was bald, except for a few wisps of white hair. He had a shapeless body, a squished face, very little neck, and jowls that were so pronounced they seemed to fold into his many chins. He saw the twins looking at him and flashed a crude frown, before returning to his cards, a great breath escaping his stubby snout.
The third man was seated in front of them. And although he was unkempt, not much else could be seen beyond the scaly, crocodile skin traveling cloak that made him appear almost reptilian in the grimness of the inn. The sleeves of the cloak were rolled up to reveal a set of indistinct black and orange tattoos. They snaked menacingly up his arms, a few of them animating beneath his coarse black hair.
The boys tried not to notice the haggard looking, hunch-backed woman at the table, as they tiptoed into the shadows. Her head was covered in a black shawl, but they could see her sunken, skeletal cheeks and baggy eyes through the draped lace. More unnerving was her veiny, paper-like skin and bloodthirsty gaze, as she admired the cards in her hand, flicking at them playfully with a cloudy, yellow fingernail.
The game of Woolthwaite was difficult to comprehend for the twins. As the players reached their turn, they dealt from a personal stack of soiled, triangular cards, laying one up at a time, somehow using their judgment to either win the hand or to avoid losing one of their stronger cards.
"Are you following this at all?" whispered Fred.
"What should we do?" asked George, as the shapeless man hissed at them.
"Well, we can't stand here all day, can we? Excuse me!" Fred interrupted, taking a daring step toward the table. The inn went deathly silent. "Which one of you is Iscarion Spital?"
The wizard in the crocodile skin cloak lowered his head, before flipping a card and placing it beside the others. Realizing that he was the one they had come to see, the twins looked more carefully at the man. He had lank hair and black stubble along a swarthy, deeply lined face. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his thin mouth hung in a permanent snarl. Yet there was something spellbinding about him. As he calculated the strength of the cards on the table, his steady hazel eyes seemed to glimmer in the recollection of many great and awful things.
When play came around to his side of the table again, George called out, "We're supposed to mention Wonky."
The man sighed, quibbled for a moment, and played his hand.
"Are we sure that one's in the Dark Force Defense League?" said George, under his breath.
"Looks more like the Dark Force Offense League," Fred muttered.
The emaciated witch cackled unexpectedly. She thwacked a triangular card onto the others and began raking the small pile to her chest before anyone had time to judge the loss. Iscarion slammed his fists to the table. He pulled a hip flask from his cloak, shook it frustratingly, then snapped his head at the twins and stormed off to the bar. To Fred and George's amazement, the little of his stack that remained soon left the table to trail magnetically after him. One by one, the cards glided into the pocket of his slick, murky-green cloak.
There was just enough time for the twins to see the losing cards fluctuating, as the scraggy witch shuffled her winnings into a new stack. Tracing along the edge of each card was an incomplete row of tiny stars. From the end of the row, on every losing card, there came a spark. It flamed momentarily, until a new star arose in its place, flickering and glowing like a dying candle.
"How unfortunate," said Fred guiltily, wearing a grimace. "We may have been the cause of that, George."