Hogsmeade is the only all-wizarding village in Britain, completely free of Muggles. It resembles a bustling commercial high street, packed with a variety of magical shops, restaurants, and taverns.
Today was a Hogsmeade weekend, and many students and teachers were eager to enjoy their time in the village. Hogwarts regulations stipulated that only third-year students and above were allowed to visit, provided they had a permission slip signed by a guardian.
Hogwarts allowed the free use of school owls, so Damian had sent his permission slip to his aunt to sign the day before.
Geralt crossed his arms, rubbing his shoulders briskly. "It's getting a bit cold."
He was dressed rather lightly and didn't feel like making the trek back to the Slytherin dungeons to add more layers.
Jerry shot him a sideways glance. "And who was it that said not to wear too much just five minutes ago?"
Damian gave a light smile, drew his wand, and gave it a gentle flick. He cast a localized Coldproof Charm over them.
Geralt blinked in surprise, feeling the sudden, comfortable heat. "It's not cold anymore. What magic is this? They definitely didn't teach this in class."
Damian explained, "It's a Coldproof Charm I found in an ancient text. It's an improved version of the Hot-Air Charm. Compared to the Hot-Air Charm, the Coldproof Charm is significantly easier to control and sustains itself longer."
Jerry nodded thoughtfully. "The Hot-Air Charm really is tricky to manage. You can easily burn your own robes if you aren't careful."
Geralt looked incredibly pleased that he wouldn't have to suffer the Scottish chill anymore. "As expected of our resident genius—the erudite Black!"
"Do you guys need to buy anything?" Damian offered. "If you do, I can pick it up for you. Why don't you head over to the Hog's Head Inn and grab us a table first?"
Business at the Hog's Head was always surprisingly brisk on Hogsmeade weekends, and finding a seat could be tough if you arrived too late. As for why they weren't going to the Three Broomsticks—which had a vastly superior atmosphere—those tables had been claimed hours ago.
"Get me a Self-Spelling Quill from Scrivenshaft's," Geralt requested. "And grab me some Fizzing Whizzbees and a Butterbeer from Honeydukes, too."
"Get me some as well," Jerry added. "I want Coconut Ice and a box of Fizzing Whizzbees."
Damian nodded. His two roommates were massive sugar fiends. The mountain of candy he had received for his birthday had already been "helpfully" consumed by the pair of them.
After parting ways, Damian first went to Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop to purchase the Self-Spelling Quill. However, when he arrived at Honeydukes, a massive line of students was spilling out the door. It was going to take entirely too long to get inside.
Spotting a younger student, Damian handed him a few Sickles as a delivery fee. "Wait in line and buy these sweets for me. Wait right here until I get back."
Once no one was paying attention, Damian slipped into an empty, secluded alleyway.
He pulled a flask of dark, muddy potion from his robes. It was Polyjuice Potion, brewed using hair he had discreetly collected over the past few weeks. Damian's expanded pockets stored a variety of identities: men, women, old, and young.
He had come to Hogsmeade today specifically to purchase a restricted batch of potion ingredients. To avoid drawing any unwanted attention from the Ministry or the school, he needed a solid disguise.
He only needed the transformation to last for a short window. Calculating the exact dosage, he swallowed a mouthful of the potion. A pungent sensation burned down his throat, quickly fermenting into a nauseating taste reminiscent of overcooked cabbage. It was truly awful.
In an instant, his face scrunched up in agony. Something seemed to bubble beneath his skin as his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears shifted, his entire face melting and re-forming.
Then, his bones began to stretch and crack, emitting a series of sickening snaps throughout his body.
A moment later, Damian had transformed into a tall, thin, blond man—the perfect disguise of an unremarkable adult wizard. He poured the remaining Polyjuice Potion into a discreet wineskin so he could refresh the transformation if an emergency arose.
Damian headed straight for Slug & Jiggers Apothecary. It was a well-known chain that had expanded from its primary branch in Diagon Alley.
The apothecary's walls were lined with cabinets displaying hundreds of rare ingredients. Behind the main counter sat a plump, bald man. As Damian entered, the man was bent over, deeply engrossed in a leather-bound book as thick as a brick.
"Sir, what can I get for you?" The bald man noticed a customer had entered, but he didn't bother looking up.
"I need to buy a bulk batch of ingredients." Damian listed off a series of components along with the required weights.
The bald man immediately shut his book and stood up. A highly practiced, friendly smile spread across his face as he subtly sized Damian up.
"Thank you for choosing Slug & Jiggers. We have all the ingredients you requested—except for the Golden Dewdrops."
Damian frowned slightly. "You don't sell Golden Dewdrops?"
The bald man's smile tightened. "Slug & Jiggers is a strictly legitimate establishment, sir. Golden Dewdrops fall under the 'Prohibited Items for Sale Ordinance' issued by the Ministry of Magic due to their explosive nature."
Damian's frown deepened. Golden Dewdrops were the primary catalyst for brewing the Blaze-Burst Potion, a highly volatile concoction with immense destructive power against large magical creatures. He vividly remembered the dangerous forest of Dragon-Serpent Trees he had encountered when he first arrived in the wizarding world, and he needed the firepower.
Seeing that Damian was a serious buyer, the bald man furtively glanced toward the front window. "Sir, if you really need it, go to the Hog's Head Inn. Look for a man named Greene at the second window on the right."
He discreetly slid a small piece of parchment into Damian's hand. On it was written: I have what you want. Beneath the text was a faint, magically printed identification mark.
Damian pocketed the card and nodded. "Pack up the rest of the ingredients for me."
"Right away, sir." The bald man quickly retrieved the materials from the towering cabinets behind him, expertly weighing and packaging them. "Thank you for your patronage. That will be 168 Galleons in total."
After leaving the apothecary, Damian took a small sip from his wineskin to maintain his disguise and headed toward the Hog's Head Inn.
A tattered wooden sign hung from a rusted iron bracket over the door, depicting a severed, bleeding boar's head. Whenever the wind blew, the sign creaked and groaned dangerously, looking as though it might snap and crush whoever was walking underneath.
The inside of the inn perfectly matched its exterior—filthy and dilapidated. The windows were caked in a thick layer of grime, making the already dim interior feel positively gloomy.
However, the tavern was surprisingly bustling. Because it was a Hogsmeade weekend, the overflow of students who couldn't get into the Three Broomsticks had come here for a drink.
Monopolies really can get away with murder, Damian thought to himself in amusement. In the Muggle world, a health hazard like this would have been shut down years ago.
There were only two real taverns in Hogsmeade. The owner of the Hog's Head was Aberforth Dumbledore. Damian had seen him before; the grumpy barkeep bore a striking, albeit much rougher, resemblance to Hogwarts' amiable Headmaster.
Damian quickly scanned the room and spotted Jerry and Geralt sitting at a sticky table on the far left. He completely ignored them, turning his path toward the right side of the pub.
At the table by the second window sat a lone wizard. He wore a heavy traveling cloak with the hood pulled up. His face was weathered and cast in shadow, giving off a cold, gloomy aura that perfectly fit a Muggle's idea of a Dark Wizard.
The man took the parchment card Damian handed him. He gently ran his thumb over the magical watermark and spoke in a slow, gravelly voice.
"What do you need?"
Damian lowered his voice to a murmur. "Fifty ounces of Golden Dewdrops."
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