Hogsmeade, the Three Broomsticks.
Upstairs, the Quidditch World Cup final was playing on repeat. Every die-hard fan had crammed into the second-floor booths. Even though they already knew the score, they still cheered like maniacs every time a highlight reel hit. The floorboards shook from the noise.
Downstairs, the place was practically a ghost town.
Tacklow sat alone at the bar, nursing a pint and turning his top-box ticket over and over in his hands. He couldn't wipe the smug grin off his face.
Where the hell was Malcolm? He wanted to shove this ticket right under his friend's nose.
He shifted on his stool, glanced at the door for the tenth time, picked up his beer, set it down again. The smile faded into impatient fidgeting.
After nearly half an hour he was about to give up when Malcolm finally came down the stairs—with a whole group of wizards in tow.
All regulars at the Three Broomsticks. Not as tight with Tacklow as Malcolm was, but still old drinking buddies from the same neighborhood, same graduating class.
Tacklow didn't even bother complaining that Malcolm had shown up without him. He just jumped off his stool, ticket held high, and announced, "Take a look at this, boys! World Cup final ticket!"
"Top-box seats. Best view in the whole damn stadium. There aren't many witches or wizards in Hogsmeade who can say they sat there."
The group had known him for decades. They didn't need Malcolm to speak first. They rolled their eyes in perfect unison and started ribbing him.
"You should've seen the atmosphere!" Tacklow dragged them all to the bar, signaled Rosmerta for a round on his tab, and launched into full storyteller mode. "The Veela blew me a kiss at the opening. The players were right there—maybe fifty feet away. I could see Krum's nose hairs! And Lynch—after they won, he walked past me carrying the Cup…"
He was waving his arms, spitting more than the beer foam, but even he seemed to realize he was laying it on thick. He finally smacked his lips and added in a fake-modest voice, "The only downside was the campsite security. Two riots in one night. Scared the kids half to death."
"I saw the Prophet report," Malcolm said, nodding. "Security really was a mess."
The others chimed in:
"Yeah, a couple of tents burned down."
"Some guys made total fools of themselves in front of the Veela. Ugly stuff."
"Stan Shunpike on the Knight Bus, right? I saw that too—hilarious."
Tacklow's eyebrows drew together. These were supposed to be serious Quidditch fans. Why was nobody talking about the actual match? Shouldn't they be jealous of his top-box ticket?
They were drinking his beer and the conversation kept drifting. He was starting to feel genuinely annoyed.
Malcolm noticed and, out of pity for the free round, threw him a bone. "We watched the whole thing on the Mirror downstairs. Same result, same plays—actually clearer than being there because of the replays. No ads interrupting the good bits."
"It's not the same," Tacklow insisted. "The atmosphere, the live energy, ten thousand fans roaring all at once… you can't get that from a screen."
Rosmerta happened to be refilling glasses and chimed in, "We had plenty of roaring right here. Nearly brought the ceiling down."
Malcolm grinned. "Bet you made a killing on drinks that night—even if they'd torn the place apart."
Rosmerta laughed and shook her head. "We made a little. The real money went to the companies whose ads ran during the broadcast."
"Tell me about it," one of the friends said. "Twilfitt and Tatting's and Madam Malkin's both stayed open half the night. You could hear sewing machines humming till dawn."
"Quidditch boutique street was packed—everyone asking about Firebolt prices."
"Honeydukes had so many owl-order forms they blocked their own chimney. Central Owl Post had to reroute half their birds just for their sweets. I had to borrow an owl to write my aunt in Devon."
"Don't you have your own owl?"
"Yeah, but I couldn't use him…"
The conversation wandered further and further from the match. Nobody even picked up the ticket to look at it. Tacklow's big moment of showing off had completely flopped. He stared miserably into his beer.
Just then the brass bell over the door jingled. Mr. Flume walked in still wearing his Honeydukes apron, covered in sugar frosting and jam.
Compared with the usual crowd of loafers, the candy-shop owner was a famously busy man. He almost never came to the pub except on Hogwarts lockdown nights for a quick pint.
Showing up at midday was unheard of.
Rosmerta hurried over to greet him. The whole bar fell quiet, watching the rare sight.
"Ambrosius, what brings you in?"
"Shop's been nonstop. My wife and the staff haven't had time to make lunch, so I came to grab some fish and chips to take back."
"We heard the owl orders blocked your chimney."
Flume smiled. "All thanks to Professor Levent."
Tacklow glanced sideways at Malcolm. His friend gave him a sympathetic look. Tacklow slowly lowered his head, expression complicated—equal parts embarrassed and regretful.
…
The Dartmoor campsite looked a lot emptier.
After all the chaos, many fans who had come just for the match had already left. Others were treating Britain as a proper vacation. They weren't in any hurry to go home. Magic tents were far more comfortable than cramped wizard pubs or troublesome Muggle hotels, so a fair number of visitors decided to stay on.
The huge stadium hadn't been torn down. Instead, construction sheds now surrounded it.
Ministry workers were long gone. A few wizards who called themselves "Terror Tour" employees were directing house-elves. Large enchanted tarps hid the work, and tall fences with "Keep Out" signs had gone up days ago.
The secrecy only made people more curious.
Tens of thousands of witches and wizards had poured into Britain for the final. Even after it ended, a decent chunk remained—some from across the ocean, a few from the other side of the planet. Quite a few foreign travelers had pushed back their return dates just to see what on earth "Terror Tour" was turning the stadium into.
Construction went on for a full week. By the time Hogwarts was about to open, the fences finally came down and new signs went up:
Terror Tour & Mirror Club
Haunted House – Soft Opening: 50% Off Tickets
"Does the Daily Prophet get press passes?" Hermione asked, holding up her shiny new intern badge at the ticket counter. She stood at the end of the dew-damp forest path, looking hopefully at the witch checking tickets.
No Cecilia, no photographer partner—just her and an eight-year-old girl with the same wide, eager eyes.
Hermione Granger, soon-to-be fourth-year at Hogwarts, had finished her internship the day before. Thanks to Mr. Goode's friendship with Professor Levent she could have stayed until the end of August and collected two full months' pay.
But school started in less than a week. The supply list had already arrived at the house in Hampstead. She didn't want to spend the last precious days of summer buried in files and ink. So she'd brought Bastian to check out the brand-new magical haunted house.
She'd paid for the tickets with her own internship wages and was hoping to save a little if she could.
"Daily Prophet?" The ticket witch gave the girls a gentle smile and said sweetly, "No."
Hermione wasn't surprised. It had been worth a shot. She tried again. "What about a child ticket?"
The witch's smile never wavered. "No child tickets. All minors require a signed permission slip from a parent or guardian. No exceptions."
Hermione's face fell. She glanced quickly at Bastian.
For the past two months she had barely been home—early mornings, late nights at the Prophet. She'd missed most of Bastian's summer, even the day the Obscurial treatment finally cured her. The little girl had been braver than anyone expected, but she still deserved something fun before school started.
This haunted house—built with Professor Levent's involvement—had been the perfect plan.
Now they were standing at the gate and it looked like the trip was over before it began.
Bastian's lip trembled. Her eyes glistened.
"Permission slip? I've got experience with those…" a cheerful voice called from behind them.
"Sirius? Harry?"
The Granger sisters turned. There stood the tall, lean wizard with his neatly trimmed gentleman's beard, wearing a plaid shirt and casual trousers. The Muggle outfit looked completely natural on him—unlike the awkward wizard attempts most people made.
"Sirius Black—legal guardian for these kids. I'm taking them in." Sirius plucked the permission forms from Hermione's hand, signed them with a flourish, and paid for all four tickets before anyone could protest.
"I'm Hermione's friend," he told Bastian, offering his hand. "Sirius."
"Hello… I'm Bastian." The little girl shook it, still dazed, and suddenly found two tickets in her other hand.
Before Hermione could refuse, Sirius gave her an easy out. "It's not for Harry. Consider it thanks for coming to warn us at the tent that night."
Hermione thought it over, couldn't find a polite way to argue, and the next thing she knew Bastian was tugging her up the steps into the park.
The tickets looked like colorful plastic cards—jet-black with faint, shimmering Dementor patterns sealed under a glossy film. They looked far too slick to have been made by wizards.
Another wizard-Muggle joint venture, Hermione thought. She'd seen the reports about the Paris magical theme park while she was at the Prophet.
"Why does Harry look so down?" she asked as they climbed the marble stairs. The stadium hadn't changed much on the outside, but the golden walls had been repainted a gloomy charcoal gray.
Harry had barely said hello when they met. Ever since, he'd been staring at the ground, clearly not excited about the haunted house.
"Don't mind him," Sirius said, waving it off as they walked down the corridor. "He lost his wand the night of the final and still hasn't found it."
Hermione gave Harry a sympathetic look. "I remember Mr. Ollivander telling me the same thing when I bought my first wand—every wand is unique and chooses the wizard."
Harry muttered, "Can we not talk about it? I'll look again after we're done here."
The others chuckled softly.
They reached the end of the hallway and stared at the dark opening ahead.
The stadium had sat on flat ground deep in the forest, big enough for several football pitches even before the Undetectable Extension Charm. Now the seats and boxes were gone and the interior had been completely rebuilt.
Hermione was certain that on the night of the final there had been no narrow, dimly lit passage like this one—only faint gemlight set into the walls.
It reminded her of the Hogwarts stone corridors in the old haunted-house stories.
Harry glanced at her, a trace of resentment in his eyes. Back in first year he'd followed Quirrell through all those terrifying traps while she and the professors had watched from safety.
Hermione thought he wanted an explanation and offered one. "Professor Levent told me this kind of dark corridor is classic stage design. It messes with your sense of space and heightens the immersion—"
A cold, damp draft drifted from the opening. Harry stared into the darkness and felt an odd, familiar dizziness. For a second he could have sworn he heard a woman's voice wailing in his ear.