"I am sorry, Minister," Rosmerta smiled warmly. "But I have no control over the conversations in my establishment. Hagrid alone has already told nearly everyone about Black breaking into Hogwarts on Halloween."
"That is unfortunate," McGonagall shook her head.
"Indeed," Fudge nodded. "Mr. Hagrid is too simple-hearted for such information."
"Do you think, Minister," Rosmerta leaned forward, "that Black is still nearby?"
"I am certain."
"The Dementors have searched my pub three times already. Scared off all my customers. Nothing but losses…"
The talk of Black continued, but then something interesting surfaced.
"…you do not know even half of it," Fudge said gloomily in response to Rosmerta's doubts about Black's guilt.
"What could be worse than murdering so many innocent people?"
McGonagall set her mug down.
"Do you remember who Black's best friend was?"
"How could I forget," Rosmerta scoffed. "James Potter. They were like brothers. Brothers in mischief."
"Exactly," McGonagall nodded. "You know that in those dreadful times, James Potter knew that You-Know-Who was hunting them."
"Yes."
"And they hid. Only Sirius Black knew their hiding place. He betrayed that secret."
McGonagall fell silent, looking at the shocked Rosmerta, and Fudge continued.
"Black not only led You-Know-Who to the Potters, but also murdered one of their friends. Peter Pettigrew."
"Peter?" Rosmerta looked between them. "Peter Pettigrew?"
"Yes," McGonagall nodded. "A rather unremarkable boy. Always trailing after Sirius and James."
"Yes, I remember him."
Fudge drained his mug in a few heavy gulps.
"Black is a monster," Fudge declared. "He did not just kill Pettigrew. He obliterated him. A finger." He emphasized it. "That is all that was left."
"Even if Black did not kill the Potters," McGonagall continued, while Rosmerta reeled from the revelations, "they died because of him. And he wants to finish what he started."
"How horrible. They were such close friends," Rosmerta stared into her mug.
"That is not even the worst of it," McGonagall waved it off.
Daphne squeezed my hand slightly harder. I felt the heart of the intrigue approaching.
"What could be worse?" Rosmerta leaned forward, horrified and curious.
"There is," McGonagall looked into her mug, then raised her eyes. "Sirius Black was, and still is… Harry Potter's godfather."
A heavy silence fell. Then the door flew open. No one rushed to close it. Daphne and I quietly moved toward the exit.
"Well, that is something," we heard Rosmerta say near the door. "And who was eavesdropping?"
"Potter," McGonagall said firmly. "We had to tell him somehow."
"Directly?" the Minister reproached. "Such Slytherin games."
"As you can see," McGonagall spread her hands, "I am here, not speaking to him directly."
Just as quietly as we entered, we left the Three Broomsticks, turned the corner, and I dropped the invisibility.
"That is…" Daphne looked stunned, snow settling on her black hair, making her resemble an offended kitten. "I have no words."
"Indeed," I nodded. "Very interesting information."
"So what do we do now?"
She quickly composed herself, her usual expression returning, save for a faint, sly smile.
"Nothing," I shrugged. "Interesting to know. The problem is not ours. Still, without knowing the past, you cannot build the future."
"No, no, we need to think. Too many questions. This could be useful. And…" Daphne glanced at our hands. "You can let go now."
"I could, but I will not. Come on, let us buy something."
As we walked, I thought about the oddities around us, about the strange twists life could throw. Betrayal was not new or original. I would even call it boring. But there was a foul scent of inconsistency. What kind of pressure could make someone betray their closest friend, like a brother? I hoped the issue would be resolved soon.
That evening after Hogsmeade, a festive feast took place in the Great Hall. The house tables groaned under the variety and splendor of dishes. Everything was decorated beautifully, and the enormous tree erected in our absence sparkled with lights and ornaments, as did the hall itself. The enchanted ceiling showed a wonderful moonlit night with falling snow. The children were happy, anticipating the holidays. And the next morning, we boarded the Hogwarts Express, after a sleigh ride across the frozen lake. Well, suburban London, here I come.
The measured clatter of train wheels, a warm compartment with fairly comfortable seats, winter scenery flickering past the window, a thermos of hot chocolate conjured personally and prudently taken from the Hogwarts house-elves, what more could you want for a calm, unhurried trip home?
Only now did I realize how much I had been missing this kind of complete solitude at Hogwarts. There, one way or another, you are always among other students. Yes, of course, there are students on this train too, and if not for the muffling charms that cut off external irritating sounds, I would hear the light noise and chatter of other kids heading home for the holidays. I locked my compartment. I have every right to.
So I rode on, to the steady rhythm of the wheels. I wish I could say I was thinking about something important, or at least actually thinking, but that would be dishonest with myself. Ordinary thoughts: what it will be like at home, what it will be like at school after the holidays, what next year will bring, whether I will find something interesting in the library. I also need to go see the Headmaster and ask in more detail about the Restricted Section. It is obvious that more specialized knowledge is kept there, and that using it properly requires solid foundational skills to avoid fatal mistakes. It is usually always like that: the more complex the magic is to perform, the more serious the consequences of stupid errors can be.
And there are many more of these "ifs" and "shoulds" in my head.
When it finally grew dark outside the window, the Hogwarts Express arrived in London. I had not taken many things with me: an Alaska-style jacket, a hat, a scarf, and some other small stuff. And the triangular backpack where everything important and not so important is stored. So there was no need to pack. I quickly slipped out of the compartment even before the train came to a full stop and reached the exit from the carriage just moments before we stopped at the platform.
Stepping onto the platform, I was quite surprised. No, I knew that wizards use a hidden platform, perhaps even one located in another dimension or reality altogether. At least that was hinted at by the route of the train, the subtly changing landscapes, and the absence of towns and villages along the way, which should have been there, thank you geography. But the most curious thing was that as we approached London, we could see London, yet the tracks, tunnels, and everything else… In short, strange and unclear. Maybe it would be worth, as an experiment, walking off this platform along the tracks and seeing what happens. It could be done, but not now.
Around me, on the old-fashioned station platform styled like the beginning of the century, among bright brick walls and under the vault of a high roof with numerous black beams and supporting structures, a great many adult wizards of different ages and styles of dress bustled about. Not as flashy as Diagon Alley, no, but the style was a mix of everything with everything. There were people in quite ordinary suits and coats, others in tailcoats and frock coats, over which they wore cloaks with fur collars and various decorations. In the attire of the ladies and gentlewomen, only one trend could be traced: say no to open or revealing outfits. Only a couple stood out in strict trouser suits and equally strict cloaks.
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