April 1992
In the north of England, Wiltshire had shed its winter chill. The weather was warming, spring was in the air, and the small village of Sefton glowed with scattered lights under the night sky. It wasn't as bustling as a big city, but it had the simple charm of a countryside town.
A gentle evening breeze carried the rich scent of hyacinths. Carefully trimmed branches, not too dense but elegantly arranged, hung lightly over flowerbeds lining the streets. At the end of the road stood a pub with a sign out front: The Oak Barrel.
Like many wizarding pubs, the second floor offered lodging while the ground floor welcomed drinkers. Laughter, shouts, and the clinking of glasses echoed faintly from inside.
"Down it, mate!"
"Chug it, sweetheart!"
"Who's the boss now, huh?"
The spacious room was brightly lit, and at a round table in the center, a scruffy middle-aged wizard held up a glass of Firewhisky. His face twisted in hesitation, but under the watchful eyes of the surrounding patrons, he tilted his head back and gulped it down.
The crowd's cheers grew louder and rowdier.
As the fiery liquid burned its way down his throat, the wizard's face flushed red, his bushy beard unable to hide it. A loud belch sent a dazzling ring of fire bursting from his mouth. Unable to hold on any longer, he dropped his glass and slumped drunkenly onto the table, ignoring the jeers of the witches and wizards around him.
This was Old Wil's Limping Leg Pub, home to the fiercest drinks in all of Britain. Their signature offerings—Madcap Malt, Thunderstorm Brandy, Phantom Champagne, and even Firewhisky—were stronger and more potent than anywhere else.
The pub erupted in another wave of laughter.
Near the bar, a dozen wizards crowded around a massive enchanted mirror, which was replaying a recent Hogwarts Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. The Boy Who Lived was making his second appearance on the pitch…
The game was thrilling, the footage expertly edited from different angles—mostly wide shots from the spectators' and commentators' perspectives, giving a clear view of the entire pitch but zooming in on the Quaffle and Bludgers. When the players clashed, the mirror switched to a first-person view from the players themselves, immersing the audience in the action. The intense visuals made their brains crave alcohol and ice. Occasionally, an overly excited wizard would shout and buy a round for the whole pub.
The patrons and servers were used to this scene. A single night like this brought in as much business as half a month's worth on normal days.
In a corner, a few Ministry of Magic officials sat around a round table, still wearing their Ministry uniforms under their wizarding robes. Each held a glass of the pub's signature fiery liquor, sipping cautiously and savoring the taste.
Ludo Bagman, the organizer of this gathering, was joined mostly by members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the department head, Amelia Bones; the head of the Auror Office, Rufus Scrimgeour; and the leader of the Hit Wizard teams, Piers Thicknesse.
Barty Crouch from the Department of International Magical Cooperation had arrived late, caught in the Ministry's lift and roped into joining them. For reasons he didn't care to share, he wasn't in a rush to get home and had reluctantly agreed to come along.
"What a hit! I knew that girl would score! The Weasley boys are killing it on the wings!" Ludo Bagman's gravelly voice boomed as he downed half his iced beer, letting out a long, regretful sigh.
If this were a live match, he could've placed bets and made a fortune. Too bad it was a recording—anyone in the know already had the results, and no one was foolish enough to open a betting pool.
Piers Thicknesse, nursing a cherry cordial, wasn't much of a drinker and lacked the willpower to handle the stronger stuff without embarrassing himself. Seeing a colleague also sipping a lighter drink gave him some comfort. "Barty, how's things going on your end? Is India still pushing to sell their flying carpets?"
Crouch gave a noncommittal hum. In his younger days, he might've been more talkative, but after the last Wizarding War, he had little love for Aurors or Hit Wizards—his son, after all, had been a Death Eater.
Amelia Bones and Scrimgeour exchanged a glance but said nothing.
Across Europe, the flying device trade was monopolized by a handful of pure-blood families: the Ollerton brothers' Cleansweep Company in Britain, the Cage and Horton families' Comet Trading Company in France, the Ellerby and Spudmore families' Black Forest Company in Italy, and the Nimbus Company, backed by several artisan wizarding families. Every year, these companies donated hefty sums of Galleons to magical governments for broomstick production and sales permits.
Without greasing the right palms, India could apply a thousand times and still be banned from selling flying carpets in Europe.
Crouch took a sip of his mild cordial. "Amelia, it looks like Fudge is dead-set on making that Umbridge woman Undersecretary. What's your plan?"
"What plan could I have?" Amelia's eyes flashed with disdain at the mention of the witch. "I'll vote against it. She hasn't earned it. What right does she have to a promotion? The Wizengamot hasn't been dissolved, Dumbledore's still alive, and the Ministry belongs to Britain's wizards—not just Fudge and Umbridge."
Her blunt words cast a heavy silence over the table. Just then, a commotion erupted near the enchanted mirror.
During a break in the Quidditch match, the mirror suddenly switched to a video completely unrelated to the game.
"I'm certain a dark wizard is hiding at Hogwarts."
Harry Potter's face filled the mirror, his young voice clear and resolute. The camera pulled back to reveal the Great Hall behind him, his green eyes seeming to lock onto the audience through the mirror.
Every patron in the pub was hooked, their eyes glued to the screen, waiting for more. But the video offered no answers.
A rapid burst of drumbeats followed, and the scene shifted. Dumbledore stood at the center of the head table, announcing, "This year, we have two changes to our staff. First, let's welcome Professor Lewent, who will teach Muggle Studies… and Professor Quirrell, who has graciously agreed to fill the vacancy for Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Another burst of ominous drumbeats played as the camera lingered on the two professors' faces.
Professor Lewent was young and handsome, with a warm smile, but he carried a distinctly Slytherin air that made him seem untrustworthy. Professor Quirrell, on the other hand, looked nervous, his head wrapped in an odd purple turban, one hand clutching its trailing end, giving him an eccentric appearance.
"I must warn you all," Dumbledore's voice echoed through the Great Hall, "unless you wish to meet a most painful and untimely end, do not enter the corridor on the right side of the fourth floor."
With the clear creak of a closing door, the screen went black. The entire pub held its breath, hearts racing with questions.
Why was the fourth-floor corridor off-limits? That rule didn't exist when they were at Hogwarts.
Which of the two professors was the problem?
Why was a dark wizard hiding at the school?
The questions piled up with no answers in sight. The patrons stared at the mirror, unblinking, but the screen remained dark, and the sound grew muffled. If you listened closely, you could just make out two voices arguing heatedly in the darkness, though the words were unclear.
After a brief pause, a tense, soaring melody kicked in, accompanied by Celestina Warbeck's new album. Harry's voice returned: "What's hidden in that corridor? Someone's trying to kill me. We have to find out the truth."
The mirror flashed through a series of images: Harry wobbling dangerously in midair on the Quidditch pitch, his broom clearly cursed; a three-headed dog lunging with its jaws wide open; a troll swinging its club at students; young witches and wizards fleeing through the corridors at night, their screams echoing; in the depths of the Forbidden Forest, Professors Lewent, McGonagall, and a mysterious wizard casting spells.
"Oh no, the dark wizard's already making their move!"
The door to the fourth-floor corridor stood ajar, a trapdoor embedded in the floor.
"The professors aren't here. It's up to us to stop them!"
The final shot showed Harry resolutely stepping through a door wreathed in flames. In the bottom right corner, small text appeared:
"First Years Stay Behind, coming this Easter. Stay tuned."
A collective gasp rippled through the wizards as they processed the flood of information. Their alcohol-fogged minds struggled to make sense of it, and for a moment, no one spoke.
The wizarding world still lived like it was the 19th century, with adventure stories in newspapers and books as their main source of excitement. Quidditch broadcasts and alcohol had been the latest thrill, but this? This was something else entirely.
The trailer had hooked them completely, stirring curiosity, tension, excitement, and a touch of unease. Who was the dark wizard? What was hidden in the fourth-floor corridor? What was with the three-headed dog and the troll? Why was Potter walking into flames?
The questions gnawed at them, refusing to fade. If Firewhisky burned the stomach, this trailer set their whole being alight with anticipation—and a restless itch for answers. The Quidditch match suddenly seemed far less interesting.
A sober patron muttered, "Sounds like we won't get answers until Easter…"
A half-drunk wizard immediately protested, and the pub filled with grumbling voices.
"No way, that's not fair!"
"Old Wil, get out here and explain!"
"Yeah, stop hiding!"
Rufus Scrimgeour's face darkened as he gripped his glass, mulling over the trailer's clues. He cross-referenced them with his own investigations and Dumbledore's words, half-convinced it was a Muggle-inspired drama, half-suspecting it was some elaborate scheme by the old headmaster. His mind was buzzing so hard it might as well have been smoking.
The other Ministry officials were deep in thought too, though none as intensely as Scrimgeour.
The pub was practically vibrating with discussion when Old Wil finally limped out, a smug grin on his face. He tilted his chin up. "Explain what? What's there to explain to you lot?"
"What was that video?" someone shouted.
"You wouldn't get it if I told you. It's a film—a more realistic kind of play, based on a true story."
The half-drunk wizard yelled, "What's in the fourth-floor corridor? What's with the troll and the three-headed dog? Is there really a dark wizard at Hogwarts? It's that new professor, isn't it? Looks like a slimy Slytherin to me!"
His words set the room ablaze, and the crowd erupted.
"What's that supposed to mean? Got a problem with Slytherins?"
"Yeah, what's wrong with us? Most of Azkaban's filled with Slytherins—how many of you lot are actually decent?"
The pub, home to Britain's fiercest drinks, was no stranger to drunken brawls. The surrounding wizards didn't intervene; instead, they cleared a space and egged the arguers on, hoping for a fight.
Seeing no useful information was forthcoming, Amelia Bones shot Thicknesse a look. He pushed through the crowd and pulled Old Wil aside.
"The dark wizard's not Professor Lewent," Wil said, sipping his Firewhisky as he explained to the officials. "The mirror can't just keep showing Quidditch matches. Even the best games get old. This is a new kind of entertainment—ticketed showings."
"How much are tickets?" Bones asked.
"Cheap. Just five Sickles—less than a bottle of Firewhisky."
"And how's the profit split?" Crouch, ever sensitive to such matters, chimed in.
Wil grinned. "Professor Lewent gets two Sickles, Hogwarts gets one, and the rest goes to the pub."
"Is that the deal with other pubs too?"
…
In a lavishly decorated private room at the White Ink Pub in Flagley, Wiltshire—a former publishing house turned upscale bar—Jack, a wizard with a silver-threaded eye patch, held a goblet as he explained ticket prices. Lucius Malfoy, dressed in expensive robes, lounged on a sofa, speaking quietly with a magazine editor, careful not to interrupt the pub owner.
The White Ink catered to cultured, high-status witches and wizards, and tonight's guests were mostly editors from magazines and newspapers. Given the Malfoy family's stakes in several publishing houses, Lucius was considered an industry insider and had been invited to the gathering.
The Malfoys' reputation wasn't stellar. If not for their generous sponsorships of various publications, they might've been ostracized long ago. Sponsoring newspapers and magazines wasn't a loss, though. The Malfoys weren't the only ones needing to keep a low profile—other former Death Eater families did too. The Galleons they paid out were recouped with a markup from families like the Notts, Goyles, and Crabbes, with a tidy profit to boot.
It wasn't extortion—those families were grateful for the connections, as they lacked the means to secure such sponsorships themselves.
Jack spoke evenly, explaining in detail. "I've set up a proper viewing hall. Prices vary by seat—the better the spot, the pricier. Even the cheapest corner seats cost a Galleon."
The guests weren't interested in ticket prices; they wanted to know about the film's content. But when pressed for details, Jack just smiled and shook his head, keeping his secrets.
…
Similar scenes played out in pubs across the country. Patrons discussed the trailer's hints, shared the news with friends and family, and spread the word. By the end of the night, the trailer's contents had swept through all of England.
Every wizard knew a film was coming out at Easter.