The streets of Hogsmeade were busy as usual, but Mizar and Omar moved with purpose, avoiding the usual clusters of students lingering outside Honeydukes or crowding around the Three Broomsticks. Neither of them had much patience for frothy pumpkin juice or sugary butterbeer, especially not before breakfast.
"I swear," Omar muttered, adjusting his scarf, "if I have to drink one more cup of whatever passes for coffee in this country, I'm hexing the lot of them."
Mizar smiled, his breath visible in the cold morning air. "You mean the Three Broomsticks' version of coffee?"
"Exactly. They serve that brownish water and call it a beverage. It's an insult to the bean."
Omar glanced sideways at Mizar, who was already thinking about the Turkish coffee shop tucked away in a quiet corner of Hogsmeade—a place Omar had discovered last winter. A small sign in swirling script hung above the door, reading simply "Kahveci".
They turned down the narrow alleyway beside Zonko's, passing a frozen fountain and a stack of weathered crates. The warmth that spilled from the small shop's windows was a sharp contrast to the chill outside.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of dark roast, cardamom, and a hint of toasted sesame. Copper pots lined the shelves, and the walls were decorated with intricate tiles in deep blues and burnt oranges.
Behind the counter, a middle-aged wizard with a neatly trimmed beard and a red robes greeted them without surprise. "Ah, back again," he said, his voice rich and smooth like the coffee he brewed. "Two, yes?"
Omar nodded. "Two, please. No sugar for him, medium sweet for me."
The man's hands moved deftly, scooping finely ground beans into a cezve. He added water and a pinch of cardamom before setting them over a tiny flame.
Mizar watched the thick, dark liquid bubble, the foam rising just so, a sign the brew was nearly perfect.
They settled at a low table, small copper cups set before them. Omar reached out to tap Mizar's wrist lightly, a reminder.
"You okay?"
Mizar nodded but didn't answer. His gaze drifted to the street beyond the window, watching the clouds gather.
Finally, Omar spoke again. "You haven't been yourself these past few weeks."
"I know," Mizar admitted quietly. "It's… the expectations. The attention. It's suffocating."
Omar took a sip of his coffee, savoring the bitter warmth before answering. "You didn't ask for this crown. But now that it's on your head, you have to decide what to do with it."
Mizar looked at his cup, the dark liquid reflecting the low light.
"I think I'm gonna order some baklava," Omar muttered as he finally took off his scarf.
But before he could stand, Mizar reached across the table and tapped the folded Daily Prophet that had been left behind by someone else.
"Wait," Mizar said. "Look at this."
The page was creased and slightly smudged from earlier hands, but the headline was still clear:
Mysterious Disappearances Rattle Wizarding and Goblin Communities
Omar leaned over, brow furrowing as he read. "Over the past fortnight, reports have surfaced across Britain of unexplained vanishings—wizards, witches, goblins, and even some Veelas have gone missing without trace. Magical authorities urge caution but remain tight-lipped on details…"
He blinked. "Veelas too? That's…"
"Unusual," Mizar finished.
There was a tightness to his voice now, one that hadn't been there earlier. He unfolded the paper further.
"Here," he said, tapping the next column. "Read this."
Vicious Attack on Muggle Village: Windsor Residents Left in Shock
"Multiple homes destroyed. Ten deaths confirmed, and several families reported missing. The Ministry has refused to comment, citing an active investigation. Muggle authorities remain unaware of any magical involvement."
Omar sat back slowly, the desire for baklava gone completely. "That's not just strange. That's escalation."
Mizar didn't speak. His gaze was fixed on the tiny, grainy photograph beneath the article—rubble, smoke, the faint blur of emergency lights in the distance.
The café felt warmer than it had a moment ago. Too warm. The clink of cups and the low murmur of voices around them carried on, unaware.
Omar said, more quietly now, "This doesn't feel like random disappearances."
"No," Mizar murmured. "It feels like a test."
He pushed the paper away and picked up his cup again, but the coffee had gone cold.
Omar traced the rim of his own. "Do you think this is connected to Grindelwald? A follower of his trying to actually do what that madman intended?"
"No, this is different. Newer," Mizar said. "Something's moving in the dark. And I don't think the Ministry has a clue where to look."
Omar's jaw tightened. "Do we?"
Mizar was quiet for a long time.
Then: "Not yet."
Outside, the clouds had thickened. The snow was falling harder now, muffling the sounds in the alley.
And neither of them brought up the baklava again.
The snow had thickened by the time they stepped out of Kahveci, fine flakes settling on their shoulders and scarves. Hogsmeade was still bustling, though the morning chill kept most students inside the main shops or ducking in and out of sweet-smelling bakeries. Mizar adjusted the collar of his coat and gave a small nod down the street.
"We doing this?" Omar asked after a few beats of silence, nodding at the winding row of shops ahead.
Mizar gave a faint hum. "Might as well. I still need a few things."
Their first stop was a high-end robe shop, mostly patronized by older pure-blood families who valued craftsmanship over trend. The shopkeeper—an older witch with perfectly manicured nails and a wand tucked into her sleeve like a hairpin—knew Mizar by name. She didn't fuss.
He chose a pair of elegant dark robes for his mother—charcoal wool lined in emerald silk, with a high collar and subtle embroidery only visible up close. She liked practical things. But she also liked feeling beautiful when no one was watching.
"Black," he requested the clerk, "but don't make it seem like she's going to a funeral, and she only wears silver jewellery."
The woman nodded and disappeared to box it carefully.
Omar gave him a look. "You're too good a son. It's unsettling."
"She's a great mum and won't say when she's tired. That's worse."
"You're both nightmares."
Mizar paid, added a note to the parcel—nothing dramatic.
They were approaching a jeweler now—this one less delicate, more dramatic. The window display was full of bold silver cuffs, dragonhide chokers, and gold rings large enough to double as statement weapons. Callista would love it.
Mizar pushed open the door. A soft bell chimed overhead.
Inside, the light was warm and amber, reflecting off thick chains and brightly coloured gemstones. The shopkeeper—a goblin in deep green robes—gave Mizar a knowing nod.
"She likes pieces that don't look borrowed from anyone else."
He chose a heavy gold cuff engraved with stylized serpents—elegant, but fierce—and a ring made of obsidian and citrine that caught the light like fire through smoke. The sort of ring someone would wear to a duel and a party. A pendant shaped like a lion's fang, capped in hammered brass, completed the set.
He had no doubt she'd pretend she hated it all before wearing them to breakfast for three weeks straight.
"She likes being loud," Omar commented, watching the selections. "But only on her terms."
"Exactly."
They left the place and ducked into an antique shop tucked near the edge of Hogsmeade's quieter district, the sort of place that never had more than a few customers at once. Its windows were fogged with the chill, the glass full of faint runes etched in spirals no one ever bothered to decipher. Mizar opened the door with a gloved hand and stepped into stillness.
Inside, the air smelled of old wood, waxed string, and time.
Omar gave the room a long look. "You're not seriously thinking of buying her a book."
"She has every book she wants already," Mizar said quietly.
He drifted past a case of delicate quills and towards the back of the shop, where string instruments rested against one wall in velvet-lined cases. He knew what he was looking for before he saw it. Knew the shape of it from the way Andromeda's fingers sometimes moved absentmindedly against her skirt in moments of silence—like they were searching for a bow.
"She never talks about playing," Omar said from behind him, watching. "Not even once. Although she loves it."
"That's because she's not supposed to," Mizar said. "Her parents believe people of our station shouldn't work for meager wages."
"She's not like them."
"No," Mizar agreed. "But she still lives in their house."
He reached for a case set in the center—lacquered rosewood, lined in midnight blue. The violin inside gleamed like something waiting to be heard again, not displayed. The shopkeeper, sensing something, came forward without a word and simply nodded once when Mizar met his eyes.
"I'll take it," Mizar said.
The violin was wrapped and charmed against temperature shifts. Mizar carried the case himself. It didn't feel heavy.
Next, they stopped at a small boutique a few doors down. Pearls—not the usual perfect rows sold for ceremony, but irregular, luminous, sea-warmed. A string of baroque pearls, some silver-pink, some near grey, all woven into pins meant to hold up braids or anchor a crown of hair.
"She'll say they're too extravagant," Omar muttered.
"I know."
"She'll wear them anyway."
"She always does."
Mizar didn't write a card for this gift either.
He didn't need to.
As they stepped back onto the main street, Mizar's eyes caught on a narrow, elegant storefront they'd passed countless times without entering. The gold-lettered sign read Rosenkranz & Myrtle–Artisanal Perfume & Potions. Warm light spilled softly from inside, illuminating rows of delicate, jewel-like bottles arranged like treasure.
Mizar glanced at Omar. "I should pick something up for my aunt Noor."
Omar nodded, already curious about the shop. "Let's see what they've got."
Mizar pushed open the heavy door, and a delicate bell chimed overhead. Inside, the air was thick with layers of fragrance—jasmine, sandalwood, hints of rare spices—each bottle a tiny promise of far-off places and secret memories.
"Mum likes anything that smells like a pastry," Omar said, already drifting to a row of curiously shaped bottles. He picked up one shaped like a narwhal and squinted at the label. "She's got this cinnamon perfume that drives Dad insane, which has unfortunately led to me witnessing events no son should witness."
"I could've gone my whole life without that image, thanks," Mizar muttered, grimacing.
He reached for a square bottle labeled Ambergris & Ink, uncorked it, and took a tentative sniff. "No. Too heavy. Noor would say it smells like a library fire."
Omar leaned over to sniff. "Which, to be fair, is exactly what that smells like."
They moved on. Another bottle. Mizar uncorked it. He recoiled. "That's bleach."
"Still don't know what that is, mate," Omar said, amused, "but I trust you."
"I'm going to the men's section—Darius's birthday's coming up," he added, already halfway towards the next corridor.
Mizar lingered by a display of amber bottles, expression intent. "She hates floral," he muttered to himself. "Too much citrus gives her headaches. Lavender reminds her of her cousin. She liked honey, I think. Or was it clove?"
From the next aisle, a voice cut in—dry, sharp, and unmistakably unimpressed. "You talk to yourself more than my great-grandma and she argues with her cat."
He didn't even turn. "And you eavesdrop like it's a career."
Magnolia rounded the corner slowly, her wandcane tapping softly against the marble floor, the faintest limp clearly still noticeable but steadier than before. His potion was working. Her curls were tucked into a loose bun and covered by a white lace veil. She held a single perfume bottle in one hand—it was deep red with a gold cap and an atomizer bulb.
"I'm shopping for Aunt Noor," Mizar replied, uncorking a small violet flask labeled Wizard's Lament. He sniffed, frowned, and recorked it. "She deserves something good. She's raising my cousins Fatima and Ahmed and has yet to murder a single one. She has also put up with me for entire summers the last decade."
Magnolia leaned closer to glance at the label. "Not this one. That scent has a sandalwood drydown, too sharp. Try that—" she pointed with her cane tip to a slender glass bottle with flecks of silver trapped inside— "it's got saffron, honey, a touch of cinnamon. Softer.
He handed it to her. She uncorked it with a practiced twist, sniffed once, then handed it back. "It smells like warm sun and the kind of hugs that last longer than you expect. Your aunt'll like it."
He blinked at her. "That was… oddly poetic."
She shrugged, flicking her gaze towards another display across the aisle. "I like scent. It's memory you can wear."
He caught the shift in her eyes then—the way her gaze lingered just a little too long on a trio of cut-glass bottles with silk ribbon seals. One was shaped like a crescent moon. One looked like a tiny book. The third shimmered with a orange-gold hue she tried very hard not to stare at.
"You're holding one, but looking at three others," he noted mildly.
"I only need one," she said flatly, curling her fingers a little tighter around the bottle she already had.
"You want them."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
She sighed through her nose. "Mizar…"
"You wear Larmes des Étoiles by Alaric Montrose when you can. The vanilla edition. I know cause my mum wears his other perfumes. Yours is the only one that lingers in a corridor after you leave."
Her expression twisted into something between exasperated and suspiciously touched. "Are you memorizing my smell now?"
"Don't flatter yourself. It's not subtle."
He reached out, grabbed the perfume she wore for the last Prefects meeting and the three others she'd glanced at.
"I only use a drop. Special occasions."
He grabbed the bottle. "Then now you can have more than a drop."
She opened her mouth, clearly ready to object.
"Don't say it's charity," he said before she could and went for another bottle. "You looked at three different bottles and didn't take them. I know you wanted the mango."
Magnolia froze. "How do you—?"
"It's your favourite fruit. You always eat it at breakfast when it's served. You cut it into cubes like it's a ritual."
She stared at him. "Then what are you doing?"
He hesitated. Then: "Buying you what you wanted."
Magnolia didn't say anything at first—just looked at him. Then, deliberately, she turned back to the display she'd been eyeing.
She raised a brow. "Well, if you're already halfway to bankrupting yourself, we might as well go all the way."
He gave her a long-suffering sigh but didn't stop her.
She tapped a second perfume bottle with her wandcane—shaped like a miniature hourglass, dusted in gold leaf. "That one's Chaleur d'Hiver. Limited edition. Smells like old spellbooks and caramelised orange peel. Makes you feel like you've just walked out of a warm room into snow."
"You want it," Mizar said, not as a question.
She glanced sideways. "I think it smells like something I'd want to remember."
He picked it up and added it to the growing pile in his arms.
She stepped to the next shelf and hesitated at a square bottle with etched constellations glowing faintly on the glass.
"That's Astral Silk," she murmured, almost to herself. "Top notes of night-blooming jasmine, starlight fig, and shadow musk. It doesn't smell like anything else."
"Then why not get it?" Mizar asked, gently.
Magnolia glanced down at the perfume already in her hands. "Because there are things I want, and there are things I allow myself."
"And what if I'm ignoring that line entirely?"
She huffed. "Then I'll make it expensive for you."
He smirked. "You're already doing that."
"Good." She picked up the Astral Silk bottle. "Now we're even."
"No, now we're somewhere between criminal indulgence and retail warfare."
Just then, Omar reappeared with two bottles tucked under his arm and a look of wary confusion. "Why is she smiling like that? Are you being blackmailed?"
"I'm being outwitted," Mizar replied.
Magnolia tilted her head at Omar. "He's finally learned the value of taste."
Magnolia gave Omar a serene smile as she cradled her newly claimed bottles like heirlooms. "He offered. I'm simply challenging his resolve."
"She's shopping like a queen at coronation," Omar muttered, eyeing the number of bottles in Mizar's arms. "Are we sure she's not under a Compulsion Charm?"
Magnolia raised a brow. "Are you sure you aren't under one? He asked my opinion. I gave it. Then he gave me the bottle. I objected. He insisted. I upgraded. It's basic math."
"It's basic robbery," Omar replied. "You just robbed him of common sense."
Mizar, resigned, handed over the next bottle to the clerk for wrapping. "If I had any sense left, I wouldn't interact with either of you."
The clerk, a stately witch with silver-threaded hair and ink-stained gloves, began arranging the perfume bottles behind the counter with the care of someone handling wand cores or ancient crystal. Each bottle was cushioned in velvet, sealed with wax charms, and lowered into a lacquered black box embossed with the Rosenkranz & Myrtle sigil.
"Will you be paying all together, sir?" she asked, glancing over the display of scents that now looked more like offerings at an altar than a set of luxury items.
"Yes," Mizar said with a sigh that had the weight of several Galleons behind it. He gestured at one of the bottles—the one Magnolia had recommended with saffron and honey. "That one's a gift. Could you wrap it separately?"
"Of course," the clerk replied, already selecting a different ribbon—deep plum silk—for the wrapping. "Shall I include a card?"
"No need," Mizar said. "She'll know."
Just then, Magnolia walked to the other side of the shop and returned to the counter with one final bottle—oblong, made of rose-coloured glass etched with a constellation pattern—and added it wordlessly to the growing collection.
Omar blinked. "Is that… another one?"
"She's testing the limits of my financial patience," Mizar muttered.
"I haven't even hit the floral section," Magnolia said sweetly. "You'll survive."
She loved floral scents but Mizar knew she preferred musky ones.
"I might not," Omar said, holding up his own two modest bottles. "I'm about to witness a full economic collapse."
The clerk didn't bat an eye. She took the last perfume with reverent hands, nodded once, and turned to wrap it with the same silent grace.
Magnolia inspected it with the eye of someone who knew quality—and knew how rarely it came her way for free.
"Pleasure doing business," she said breezily, looping the strap over her arm like she'd just won something.
"You didn't do any business," Omar muttered, squinting at the sheer volume of lacquered boxes in Mizar's hands. "He did. You just… looted him."
"It was an exchange of taste," Magnolia replied, utterly unbothered. "He asked for help. I helped."
Omar gave a low whistle. "If that's how you treat a witch you're not courting, I don't wanna see what you do for one you are."
Mizar didn't even glance up. "Neither do I."
Magnolia smirked, turning towards the door with a satisfied flick of her wandcane. "That's because you'd have to admit you're capable of feelings first."
Mizar adjusted the weight of all his bags as they stepped out of Rosenkranz & Myrtle. The chill outside hit instantly—sharp, brisk.
"Right," Omar announced, clapping his hands once. "I need sugar quills or I will genuinely pass out mid-Transfiguration tomorrow."
Mizar gave him a dry look. "You ate half a jar of crystallized ginger this morning."
"Exactly. I burned through my reserves. I'm running on fumes and emotional damage."
Mizar took a steadying breath, glancing at the perfume-laden Magnolia. "You deserve nice things," he said softly, more to the cold air than to anyone.
She paused in her steps, wandcane tapping lightly. She met his gaze, eyes thoughtful. "I get nice things," she replied, voice quiet. "Just… not as often as you do."
He frowned, as if considering the weight of her words. "You deserve them just as much."
A faint smile curved her lips—small, almost hesitant. "You don't need to say that," she murmured. "But it's… nice."
Omar, tugging at the collar of his robes, broke in with a grin. "Can we at least finish this before I collapse from sugar deprivation?"
Mizar straightened, taking a single step closer to Magnolia, the bags shifting in his arms. "Go ahead," he told Omar. "Grab your sugar quills. I'll catch up."
Omar winked at Magnolia and spun towards Honeydukes and vanished between the doors with his usual urgency.