Hogsmeade is an amusing little village, no matter how you look at it.
Moving under a light Notice-Me-Not charm with our deep hoods pulled up over our heads, Daphne and I navigated through Hogsmeade, gradually approaching its outskirts, where it was just a stone's throw to the Hog's Head—only about three hundred meters slightly uphill to the top of a small mound where the tavern stood. Yes, exactly a tavern—it's incorrect to call this establishment a pub.
Anyway, what was I talking about? Ah, right, Hogsmeade is an amusing village. There are quite a few different little shops here where you can buy absolutely anything. Some might think the village survives solely on this—making money off students eager to part with their ringing coins. However, such people would be wrong. Yes, the village earns money from this, but it's more like a hobby, nothing more. It's full of working wizards or elderly folks living out their days. So thinking that students are the only source of income for the village is a major misconception.
"What do your folks say about all this commotion?" I asked Daphne, who was walking beside me, as we left the clearly defined boundary of Hogsmeade and moved up the hill, fighting a light breeze that kept trying to blow sharp but quickly melting snowflakes under our hoods, turning them instantly into slush beneath our feet.
"I have no idea."
"What do you mean?"
"For a week now, all forms of communication have been monitored by the Ministry. Only Ministry-approved letters get through, so I only know my family's official stance. As I understand it, no one outside Hogwarts has received any information about the actual state of affairs."
"That's unfortunate. What about flying home? Or taking the Floo from Hogsmeade, for example?"
"Same story—monitored or blocked."
"And Apparition?"
Daphne turned her head toward me, though the only sign of it was the shifting of the hood on her head.
"Even among adults, few have mastered that skill. Speaking of information, by the way, word around the house is that a couple of people have gotten detentions with Umbridge."
"From your house?" I was genuinely surprised.
"Yes."
"Unexpected. The result?"
"So far, just scratches on their hands—or so they say. Apparently, they even tried to provoke her, but Umbridge cleverly plays with words, leaving no room for unambiguous interpretation."
As we almost reached the tavern, completely unremarkable in appearance and completely unchanged over the past two years, I couldn't help but voice an observation:
"You are taking the 'Umbridge case' very seriously."
"She annoys everyone. But if it were only that... Her presence here brings nothing but downsides, problems, and injuries. Things don't escalate to such injuries even at home during punishments, and believe me—some parents are more than capable of coming up with creative methods."
We approached the front door of the Hog's Head. Senses told me—no unnecessary magic. I don't even know why I've become so suspicious. Though, maybe it was because during my walk through Diagon and Knockturn Alleys with Mrs. Malfoy, I kept hearing that phrase out of the corner of my ear: The Hog's Head?
The door yielded easily, albeit with a faint creak, and we stepped inside.
The first thing that caught the eye was the gloomy and slightly unkempt-looking interior. Everything was in gray tones; the stone floor and even the rough wooden furniture had long lost their color, becoming a "gray" filler for the space around. The only non-gray things here were the flames in the fireplace and a white-and-brown goat that importantly clicked its hooves as it walked from the bar counter deeper into the room. The bartender, a large, burly man—who, while not young, seemed decrepit only at first glance—looked at us with displeasure as he wiped his counter with a thousand-year-old rag. At least, that's what it looked like. But here's the funny thing—the longer I spend in this world, the more I realize the illusory and deceptive nature of appearances. Take that rag, for instance—it looks like it should have been tossed in the trash a hundred or two hundred years ago, yet I clearly sense that I couldn't find a more sterile object around, and it cleans perfectly. Not visually, but factually, guaranteeing "safety," so to speak. And this bartender strikes me as an extremely powerful wizard, although I wouldn't have been able to say that about him during our first meeting in my third year.
By the far window sat two figures in dark cloaks with deep hoods pulled over their heads, hiding their faces in shadow. In a far corner near the hearth sat a witch, slowly sipping something from a mug, and judging by the angle of her hood, staring out the window. Perhaps even staring thoughtfully. Though what one could possibly see through it, given the amount of soot on the glass, Merlin only knows. However, Daphne and my true attention was drawn to the students sitting at the very farthest table. Hermione, Ron, and Harry.
"Looks like we're the first ones here," I smirked.
"They aren't even under privacy charms," Daphne shook her head disapprovingly, and we moved toward the table where the trio sat. Who, by the way, immediately tensed up, which wasn't surprising.
"Hello, conspirators," I smirked, slightly revealing my face from under the hood. Daphne pulled a similar trick. All of this was strictly to show the trio who exactly had approached them, without revealing it to the rest of the room.
"He—" Hermione was about to express her surprise, but I cut her off with a wave of my hand, and instantly, a slightly distorted dome of a complex privacy ward snapped into place around the table. Even Daphne gave me a respectful glance. "—ctor?"
"Yeah, sis," I pulled out a chair for Daphne, and once she sat down, I took the seat next to her. "Didn't they teach you how to cast basic privacy and silencing charms?"
"I guess I got nervous," Hermione admitted guiltily, but seeing that the job was already done, she didn't fuss.
Taking a quick glance at the trio, dressed in standard warm autumn clothes, I wondered to myself: "I really wonder where all this is going to lead?"
"What are these snakes doing here?" Ron indignantly demanded, glancing at Daphne without much approval.
"If I hear one more insult," I said without visible aggression, my voice completely calm, "your words will be shoved right back into the place they have the unpleasant habit of flying out from. Along with your teeth."
"Hector!" Hermione gasped in outrage.
"And you," I smirked at my sister, ignoring Ron's disgruntled huffing and Potter, whose look made it clear he was ready to defend his friend. "Did you really not tell your friends that you invited Slytherins too? Well then, I will gladly watch how you handle potential conflicts if anyone else from the snake house shows up."
"Hey!" Ron protested. "So you're allowed to call them snakes, but I'm not?"
"Depends on the context and the intent behind the words. I can call you a redhead, but depending on how I do it, I've either insulted you or simply stated a fact."
"Knock it off, will you?" Potter exhaled tiredly, looking at us through his round bicycle-wheel glasses. "Things are sickening enough as is."
"Did something happen?" I politely inquired.
"We have a problem with teachers," Potter nodded.
"And I keep telling you," Ron turned to his friend, using the excuse to sit sideways to us and avoid unpleasant topics, "that you need to teach us. Look at last year—how many spells did we learn just to spy on Durmstrang?"
"Yeah," Harry nodded. "But we still got our asses handed to us."
"With enviable consistency, it's worth noting," Hermione smiled, and Daphne and I exchanged a glance.
"Let's just hope," Daphne spoke up, smirking with the corner of her lips visible from under her hood—neither she nor I was in a rush to take them off—"that having come here for knowledge and skills, we don't end up having to become the teachers ourselves."
"Oh, please..." Ron wanted to keep complaining, since that was his favorite pastime, but at that moment, the front door opened.
"Looks like," Potter stared dumbfounded over our shoulders, "we have company."
I didn't need to look; after a whole year of Quidditch training, my sensory awareness of objects around me had essentially become my sixth, or seventh, or whatever number sense, which was constantly active. Simply put, there were a lot of people out there.
The kids filed into the tavern one by one. The bartender frowned, seeing their sheer numbers. The patrons by the window quieted down—the mild irritation from the loud chatter, which strongly contrasted with academically pure proper English, vanished. Potter's and Ron's eyes widened in surprise, and Hermione even looked embarrassed.
"Two or three people, yeah..." Ron drawled. "You, my friend..."
"I'm not your friend," Hermione cut him off.
"But I apologized! So many times."
"A lot of good that did. You shouldn't have just apologized; you should have changed."
"Bloody hell..."
"What's wrong, Ron," I smirked as the crowd of students grew behind Daphne's and my backs, rushing to approach us, looking for places to sit, and generally expecting some sort of action already, for Merlin's sake! "No one left to copy homework from?"
The redhead didn't answer. With an imperceptible gesture, slightly twisting my wrist, I expanded the privacy dome so that everyone was inside it, even grabbing a bit more space. Although... the "dome" was just a factual designation of the coverage area. If you looked from the outside, you'd have to squint to see the slightly shimmering border of this area—like hot air over asphalt on a blistering summer day.
"Well, look at this," a familiar voice, familiar intonations, lazily drawled words. "Professor Weasley, Professor Potter... what an honor has been bestowed upon us all."
"Malfoy..." Ron groaned, and for a second I thought a very specific Russian expletive characterizing total collapse and inevitable disaster was about to escape his lips.
"And why not Professor Granger?" I turned to the newcomers.
"Oh, you're here too," Draco smirked, taking off an expensive fur hat and brushing nonexistent snowflakes from his black coat. "Because that was irony."
"I suppose," Hermione started fussing, "everyone needs a place to sit."
"We'll sort it out," a few of the guys nodded and quickly began bustling about arranging seats—dragging tables and chairs together.
"Hi," Hannah waved to me; all the Hufflepuffs from our year were standing next to her.
"I see you all decided to come here," it wasn't a question, but a statement of fact.
"Well, it's interesting, and quite important," Ernie nodded with a smile. "Though, I do have a couple of questions about the situation..."
"As do I..." Zacharias nodded without any joking around, untying a scarf in our house colors.
---------------
Give me Powerstones if you like the story.
If you want to read 60+ advanced chapters, you can do so on my Patreon.
Patreon(.)com/TheRedSpell