A wave of hushed gasps rippled through the room. Tucklot and Malcolm, gripped by the same awe, had their eyes gleaming with uncontainable joy and nostalgia. The image flickering in the silver Visumirror was a vivid snapshot of their youth—a memory that, even after decades, refused to fade.
After about thirty seconds, the pub's patrons snapped out of their trance. They abandoned their original seats to crowd in front of the mirror, those who couldn't find a spot standing to watch. Tucklot and Malcolm, a bit slower to react, ended up at the back.
At that moment, the mirror's silvery mist swirled and spilled across the entire surface, filling the view of every patron. It was as if they'd been transported to the stands of the Quidditch pitch, the cheers around them heating up the atmosphere.
"Today's match will be commentated by yours truly. Let's take a look at the lineups.
"Gryffindor's team has seen major changes. Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell have moved up from reserves to starters, and first-year Harry Potter, with his exceptional flying talent, has been specially recruited as the youngest Seeker in history. Can he lead Gryffindor to victory? Let's find out!"
The mention of *that* boy's name sent a buzz of chatter through the pub.
Malcolm, a proud Gryffindor alum, couldn't contain his excitement. He pumped his fist and took a hearty swig of mead, grinning ear to ear.
"Slytherin's sticking with last year's lineup. Having clinched the House Cup five years running, can they keep their winning streak alive…?"
With a stable roster, undeniable strength, and a proven track record, Slytherin seemed the clear favorite.
Tucklot raised an eyebrow, lifting his glass in a nod to his neighbor, a smirk tugging at his lips—classic Slytherin flair.
Malcolm gritted his teeth, downed the rest of his mead, and waved for Madam Rosmerta to bring another.
Rosmerta swept over with her pitcher, refilling his glass before moving on to other patrons, her eyes sparkling with quiet amusement.
In just a few minutes, before the match had even officially started, the pub had sold over a dozen mugs of mead. Patrons were already calling for refills, clearly planning to drink their fill and savor every moment.
*Business is booming!* Rosmerta thought.
With the sharp whistle from Madam Hooch, fifteen broomsticks shot into the air.
The pub's electric atmosphere erupted.
"The Quaffle's been snatched by Gryffindor's Angelina Johnson—what a brilliant Chaser that girl is, and quite the looker too…"
"Jordan!"
"Sorry, Professor."
"…"
Lee Jordan's unprofessional commentary earned him a scolding from a professor, prompting a low ripple of laughter through the pub. Many patrons recognized Professor McGonagall's voice. The little interruption didn't dampen the mood—it stirred fond memories of their Hogwarts days, their chuckles tinged with nostalgia.
*Ah, to be young again…*
Tucklot and Malcolm caught themselves smiling, but upon noticing each other's grins, they quickly schooled their faces into scowls, snorted, and took a sip of their mead.
It was sweet, but not as satisfying as a proper beer.
"A brilliant pass, and the Quaffle's back with Johnson!
"Oh no! Slytherin's nabbed it—Marcus Flint's got the Quaffle, soaring like an eagle. Is he going to score? No!
"Gryffindor's Keeper, Wood, blocks it—fantastic save! Gryffindor's got the Quaffle now, and Katie Bell's darting around Flint like a firebolt!
"Slytherin's Adrian Pucey steals the Quaffle, but—ouch!—he's knocked out by a Bludger! Nice work by Fred or George—hard to tell those Weasley twins apart…"
As Lee's enthusiastic commentary rolled on, the mirror showed the match's back-and-forth. The players weaved and clashed, and the patrons were glued to the action, their hearts racing with every play. Their mugs couldn't stay full enough—no amount of drink could match the thrill.
Malcolm watched as Gryffindor's attacks were repeatedly thwarted, his anxiety mounting. Slytherin's players, tall and imposing, dwarfed Gryffindor's leaner lineup, their physicality overwhelming.
On this chilly November night, Malcolm felt parched. During a brief lull in the action, he tugged at his collar and shouted, "Madam! A pint of iced beer, please!"
The beer poured with a frothy head, cool mist rising from the glass.
Just then, Lee's voice roared through the mirror: "Gryffindor scores!"
"!!"
A surge of heat flooded Malcolm from head to toe. He chugged half his beer, the icy liquid cooling his chest as he bellowed, "Hooray! Gryffindor forever!"
He glanced at his Slytherin neighbor, whose face had gone ashen. *Now that's what I call pure satisfaction.*
"Madam Rosmerta! Another iced beer for me—and one for Tucklot! On me!"
"…"
Tucklot clenched his fists, teeth grinding so hard they might crack. He wanted to shove that beer mug somewhere unpleasant or leap into the mirror, hop on a broom, and play himself.
But no amount of fury could change the scoreline. Gryffindor had drawn first blood. Scowling, he sipped the iced beer.
It was bland.
And it stung his gums.
The goal sent the other patrons into a frenzy, swapping out their butterbeers and meads for the more refreshing iced beers. The pub filled with satisfied sighs, as if summer had returned in the dead of winter.
On the mirror, Slytherin's players seemed incensed by the goal, their attacks growing fiercer. They used their size advantage to barrel through, disrupting Gryffindor's coordination.
"Slytherin steals the Quaffle!
"Flint nearly crashes into the twins!
"Adrian Pucey charges for the goalposts…"
After a grueling five-minute struggle for possession, Slytherin struck back viciously.
"Slytherin scores!"
"Glory to Slytherin!"
Tucklot roared, his voice low and fierce, downing his entire beer in one go. The frustration melted away, replaced by pure exhilaration.
He turned to Malcolm, smirking. "Speak, Malcolm! Say something! Gryffindor! Speak!"
"…" Malcolm sipped his beer in silence.
"Madam! Another iced beer for Malcolm—with extra ice! My treat!"
For the next hour, both teams traded goals.
Slytherin's superior strength shone through, racking up goal after goal, while Gryffindor managed only two. The score gap widened, and the situation grew dire.
Malcolm's table was littered with empty beer mugs, each new one tasting more bitter than the last.
*Am I really going to let this git get the better of me?*
He hadn't felt this humiliated since their school days.
Their hopes now rested on one person.
Malcolm's gaze drifted to the figure circling the pitch's edge—a boy with round glasses, his lightning-shaped scar peeking out as the wind tousled his hair. Harry Potter, the famous Boy Who Lived. But he was small and scrawny, dwarfed by Slytherin's hulking Seeker.
Victory seemed like a long shot.
Malcolm downed another gulp of beer, the cold liquid matching the chill in his heart.
But then came a twist no one saw coming. Potter spotted the Golden Snitch first. In the chase, Flint rammed into him, and Potter's broom wobbled dangerously, leaving him dangling precariously…
As Malcolm's heart sank, the mirror flickered. Potter steadied himself, swung back onto his broom, and dove with blistering speed, snatching the Snitch and ending the match.
"We won?"
Malcolm blinked, then exploded with joy. "We won! Gryffindor won!"
The pub erupted.
"Long live Harry Potter!"
Aside from a few sour-faced Slytherin alumni, most patrons cheered for the Boy Who Lived, shouting and celebrating the victory.
Malcolm glanced at Tucklot, whose stunned expression hadn't recovered from the sudden defeat. The shift was too abrupt, too jarring.
"Madam! A beer for Tucklot!"
"…"
Tucklot's lips trembled as he glared at Malcolm's smug face.
Malcolm's grin widened. After a beat, he shouted, "Beers for everyone! One for every person here—on me!"
"To Harry Potter!"
"To Harry Potter!"
Behind the counter, Madam Rosmerta, though weary, couldn't stop smiling. Early in the night, she'd been calculating the evening's profits, but soon she was too busy pouring drinks to keep up. Her head was spinning.
By rough estimate, tonight's earnings matched two months' worth of usual business.
Professor Levent didn't just know how to brew—he knew how to *run* a pub.
Shame the next match wasn't for another month.
Rosmerta clinked glasses with the patrons, the sound of coins jingling in her mind.
…
**December 14, Saturday**
Snow had been falling on and off for weeks, blanketing Hogsmeade's streets in several feet of powder. Shop walls were frosted over, and though roaring fires warmed their interiors, the wind rattled the shop windows.
Pedestrians' breath puffed out in clouds, their exposed skin stinging in the biting cold.
But the icy weather couldn't cool the fire in the patrons' hearts. After dinner, they trudged through the snow to The Three Broomsticks, leaving trails of footprints.
Over the past month, the match replay had spread by word of mouth, skyrocketing the pub's fame. It wasn't just regulars anymore—families came too, treating the place like a new entertainment hub.
The pub even catered to young witches and wizards, serving "butterbeer" that was really just butterscotch for the underage crowd.
Every night, the place was packed. Rosmerta had to hire extra staff and even brought in house-elves for the kitchen and cellar.
Hogwarts Quidditch was a single-round-robin tournament, with each team playing the other three houses once, for a total of six matches from November to June, excluding Christmas and Easter breaks. Points were tallied to crown a champion, with a tiebreaker match if two teams ended level.
Tonight's screening was Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw.
Compared to Gryffindor and Slytherin, these teams were less dominant, and the match wasn't as intense. But this replay had been edited, switching between multiple angles for the best view and including slow-motion highlights, making it far more engaging.
Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw alumni were plentiful and eager to cheer for their houses. While they lacked a star like Harry Potter, they had promising players—handsome, skilled ones like reserve Seeker Cedric Diggory and vice-captain Roger Davies.
Each clash on the pitch drew roars from the crowd.
"It's getting too chaotic," Melvin said, sitting in a corner, watching the lively scene while offering advice to Rosmerta in a low voice. "The pub needs an expansion. Consider an Undetectable Extension Charm or adding a few floors. Some patrons just want to drink without watching the match, so you'll need space for them.
"I'll work on more engaging footage, but for now, avoid replaying the same content too often—it'll bore people. Maybe limit match screenings to one or two days a month to keep it fresh."
These were tips from a Muggle Studies professor with a knack for business.
Rosmerta nodded. "You're right, Professor Levent. I've noticed signs of that already. One regular—a Slytherin alum—used to come every night. After that Gryffindor match, he stayed away for ages.
"I ran into him on the street, and he said the smell of beer made him sick. But tonight, with Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff playing, he's back…"
Her gaze drifted to the counter, where Tucklot and Malcolm, the usual bickering duo, sat together with a row of beers.
Rosmerta was deeply grateful to the professor. With new staff and house-elves, the pub was thriving, and she had more free time. "I'm planning to add two floors—one for regular pub business, the second for match screenings."
"What about the third?" Melvin asked, curious.
"That's a gift for you…"
Before he could protest, Rosmerta cut in. "Professor Levent, I know that Visumirror will change things—maybe even the whole wizarding world. I don't know your full plans, but I suspect you'll need a space. Don't say no—Hogsmeade rents aren't cheap."
Melvin chuckled. "You must be a Ravenclaw grad…"
Such wisdom, running a pub single-handedly for decades.
"Sorry to disappoint—I'm Slytherin," Rosmerta said with a smile, catching his compliment. She pushed her glass aside and pulled out a linen pouch. "Last month's total revenue was 1,871 Galleons. Here's Hogwarts' share—900 Galleons, rounded up, with your commission included."
"Let me know when you're ready to rebuild the pub. I'll bring the other professors to help."
"That's…"
"With hundreds of Galleons in profit each month, even Dumbledore should roll up his sleeves."
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