On Sunday morning after breakfast, the majority of Hogwarts students poured out into the snowy courtyard. Everyone was dressed for the season; some dazzled with colours and styles, but for many, only accessories like hats and scarves were bright, preferring dark colours for their main clothing.
In such a disorderly crowd, we headed to Hogsmeade, and the surrounding area was filled with the hum of cheerful conversations and the crunch of snow underfoot. Closer to the village itself, the students broke up into small groups on their own, as they did last time, and I again noticed wizards in red robes flashing here and there. The local law enforcement clearly has issues—walking in such bright clothes in winter, against the background of snow.
Reaching the village, I walked slowly along the shops and stalls. The village itself lived its own life; local wizards and visitors walked here and there. Sharp roofs of houses covered with a thick layer of snow, smoke rising from chimneys, the soft yellow light of shop windows decorated for Christmas—all this created a very pleasant impression of the walk.
What was I doing? I was thinking about what magical, absolutely safe, and at the same time adequate thing to buy for my relatives as a gift.
Gradually, snow began to fall from the sky, delighting everyone with large white flakes and adding even more to the Christmas mood.
I walked and looked around until I noticed my sister in the company of Potter, who shouldn't have been there. Oh well, let them walk. The boy, by the way, is torn between Ron and Hermione. The trouble is that according to rumors, Ron's rat, which disappeared on the train, has never been found. And this stubborn redhead continues to blame my sister's cat, alleging he ate the rat. Even if so, big deal—what nature intended has happened. Maybe this rat is somehow important and valuable to Ron? It doesn't matter.
Wandering a little more, meeting a bunch of acquaintances and chatting with them, I noticed a dejected Daphne in a dark blue winter coat with a black fur collar, slightly dusted with snow.
"Greengrass," I greeted traditionally, drawing attention to myself.
"Granger."
"You should wear a hat; it's winter outside."
"No need," the girl waved it off. "Pendants were sold at school to maintain heat. In such weather, one can go without a hat."
"Ah, you mean those sold by the Weasleys?" I feigned surprise. "Bought one too, excellent thing. Busy?"
"No… Hey, too abrupt a change of topic," Daphne was indignant, but a slight smile quickly appeared on her face.
"Excellent. I hope for your advice or help in choosing a useful and not obviously magical gift for my parents. And in return—tea and cakes."
"At Puddifoot's?" she smiled slyly.
"We can go there too, of course," I mirrored the smile. "But it's too provocative, and the consequences are unpredictable. But personally, I am ready with Gryffindor bravery to take on all the displeasure of the others."
"You're right. It wouldn't be Slytherin-like to commit such a rash act. But there should be simply gorgeous cakes there."
"Source of information?" I gestured to go somewhere already, and we went for a walk around Hogsmeade.
"Oh, they cooperate with the best confectionery in England, and delivery is via a dedicated Floo network with a particularly advanced movement stabilization system. In general, the best confectionery products are there."
"I see."
"And about the gift—buy them a Sneakoscope."
"Yeah? What kind of beast is that?"
"It's…"
We turned a corner, but suddenly Daphne interrupted her speech, staring curiously at a carriage with runners instead of wheels that had stopped right at the entrance to the "Three Broomsticks." Wizards and students walked around, but they did not attract even a hundredth of the attention as those who got out of the carriage.
"The Minister…" Daphne said.
"McGonagall," I noted.
"Came to Madam Rosmerta?" Daphne looked away from the stout lady who met McGonagall and the Minister. "To the Three Broomsticks? Together?"
"Suspicious?"
Daphne struggled to give a negative answer to the question, but childish, teenage curiosity, multiplied by female inquisitiveness, gave her away completely.
"Want to follow? Give me your hand."
Daphne wanted to shake her head but gave up, putting her palm in mine. A little magical volitional manipulation, and we became invisible to ourselves, and Daphne squeezed my hand tighter. Should I have kept this a secret? Yes and no. If something valuable turns out as a result of this little adventure, then it is quite possible to agree on silence from Greengrass. And if not—on silence, counting on further adventures. And hiding magical skills from everyone in a magic school? You only live once… A statement of dubious correctness.
Deftly maneuvering between wizards scurrying here and there, we reached the door in an instant, which didn't have time to close behind the trinity that interested us. Warmth hit our faces: the smell of spruce, fruit, meat, and Butterbeer. We moved like invisible shadows through the hall, following McGonagall who was walking behind everyone. It was impossible not to notice a certain fervent din in the establishment, a noisy cheerful company at the counter, a decorated Christmas tree, students, and just guests at the tables. The spirit of laziness and idleness hovered here, as well as the upcoming holiday. I suppose people were having fun with all their might because at night Hogsmeade is patrolled by Dementors—a decree of the Minister of Magic of England.
The Minister, McGonagall, and Madam Rosmerta went up the stairs to the second floor. Only a few people noticed this company, and among them, to my surprise, were Potter and Hermione, sitting at a corner table between the Christmas tree and the fireplace. As soon as I got distracted, Potter literally disappeared. Well, he can do something besides flying, otherwise everyone just says he's a lucky mediocrity.
Climbing to the second floor, we slipped after the trio into a small private sitting room and quietly crept into a corner. The Minister of Magic was unimpressive—a lot of black expensive clothes seemingly out of place, too fat, too slippery, and his facial expressions now and then spoke of fear. He took off his bowler hat and put it on the sofa next to him. Conversation about nothing… The loosely closed door opened slightly, and Madam Rosmerta approached to close it securely. Conversation about nothing… Here they sat on armchairs and sofas around the table, Madam Rosmerta served mead.
"Isn't it time, respected ones," Madam Rosmerta looked around those present. "To proceed directly to the purpose of such an unexpected visit?"
"Oh, Rosmerta, my dear," Fudge lamented. "The goal is simple as always. Sirius Black."
"And what do I have to do with it?" the lady became wary.
"No, no," McGonagall calmed her down. "Nothing like that. Just the respected Minister…"
"I would like," the Minister interrupted the Professor, "to ask you to somehow influence the spread of rumors and tall tales about Sirius Black."
"I apologize, Minister," Rosmerta smiled warmly. "But I have no power over conversations in my establishment. Even Hagrid has probably told everyone he met about Black's infiltration into Hogwarts on Halloween."
"That is regrettable…" McGonagall shook her head.
"Precisely," Fudge nodded. "Mr. Hagrid is too simple-minded to possess such information."
"Do you think, Minister," Rosmerta leaned forward, "that Black is still nearby?"
"I am sure."
"Dementors have already searched my pub three times, scared away all the customers. Nothing but losses…"
Conversations about Black and trifles accompanying his capture continued for another couple of minutes, but then I heard something interesting.
"…you don't know the half of it," Fudge said contritely in response to Rosmerta's doubts about Black's guilt.
"What could be worse than killing so many innocent people?"
McGonagall put the mug of mead on the table.
"Do you remember who Black's best friend was?"
"How could I not remember," Rosmerta chuckled. "James Potter. They were like brothers. Prankster brothers."
"Precisely," McGonagall nodded. "You know that in those ill-fated times, James Potter knew that You-Know-Who was hunting them."
"Yes."
"And they hid. Only Sirius Black knew about their hiding place. He betrayed this secret."
McGonagall fell silent, looking at the shocked Rosmerta, and Fudge took the floor.
"Black not only led You-Know-Who to the Potters, but also killed one of their friends. Peter Pettigrew."
"Peter?" Rosmerta shifted her gaze from the Minister to McGonagall several times. "Peter Pettigrew?"
"Yes, yes," McGonagall nodded, taking the mug of mead in her hands again. "Such an inconspicuous boy. Dragged along everywhere after Sirius and James."
"Yes, I remember him."
Fudge took a couple of powerful gulps, drinking his mug in one go.
"Black is a monster," Fudge said as if voicing a verdict. "He didn't just kill Pettigrew. Destroyed. A finger!" the Minister focused attention on this. "That's all that was left of him."
"Even if Black didn't kill the Potters," continued McGonagall, and poor Rosmerta was amazed by the revealed information more and more. "But they were killed because of him. And he wants to finish what he started."
"Nightmare. They were best friends. Just a nightmare," Rosmerta looked into her mug in amazement.
"That's not the worst part," McGonagall waved it off.
Daphne squeezed my hand a little harder, sensing the approach of the very salt of this whole incomprehensible intrigue.
"What could be worse?" Rosmerta leaned forward, full of horror and curiosity.
"There is," McGonagall looked into her mug, as if looking for truth at the bottom, but quickly shifted her gaze to the others. "Sirius Black was and remains to this day… Harry Potter's Godfather."
Dead silence reigned in the room, but a moment later the door swung wide open. Those present only shifted their gaze in its direction, but didn't close it. Daphne and I began to move quietly towards the exit.
"Well, well…" we heard Rosmerta's voice almost at the exit of the room. "And who was eavesdropping on us?"
"Potter," McGonagall nodded confidently. "We had to tell him somehow."
"And directly?" the Minister asked reproachfully. "What kind of Slytherin games are these?"
"As you can see," McGonagall spread her hands. "I am sitting here, and not talking to him directly."
Just as unnoticed as we entered, we left the Three Broomsticks, went around the corner, and I dropped the invisibility.
"This is…" Daphne looked stunned, and the snow falling on her black hair made her facial expression similar to an offended kitten. "Just no words."
"Indeed," I nodded. "Very curious information."
"And what to do now?"
The girl quickly pulled herself together, returning her face to its usual expression, except for a slight sly smile.
"Nothing," I shrugged. "Interesting information, we'll know. And the problem—is not ours. Although, without knowing the past, one cannot build a future."
"No, no, need to think it over. Too many questions. It could be useful. And…" Daphne shifted her gaze to her hand. "You can let go now."
"I can, but I don't need to. Let's go buy something."
While we walked, I pondered. Pondered about the strangeness around and what sometimes unknown twists life can throw. The story of betrayal is not new and not original. I would even say, boring. But there is a bad smell of inconsistency in it. How much pressure do you need to put on a person for him to betray his best friend? A friend like a brother. Eh, I hope the issue with him will be resolved in the near future.
In the evening, after Hogsmeade, a festive feast took place in the Great Hall. The House tables were bursting with the variety and magnificence of dishes, everything around was decorated in the best way, and the huge Christmas tree, installed in our absence, literally sparkled with lights and decorations, as did the walls of the Hall. The illusion of the sky on the ceiling showed a wonderful moonlit night, simultaneously with snowfall. The children were happy and anticipated the holidays.
And the next morning we were all getting on the Hogwarts Express, having previously ridden in sleighs on the frozen lake.
Well, London suburbs, here I come.
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