"Professor, do you have any other brewing recipes?" Madam Rosmerta's face lit up with excitement.
"I've told you, I don't know much about brewing…"
Melvin launched into a quick explanation of some tavern management ideas—something about creating a "third space" to add value and sparking impulse purchases.
"A tavern isn't just a restaurant. The taste of the drinks is only the foundation. The Three Broomsticks needs to meet wizards' entertainment needs too. Like how you played Celestina Warbeck's new song on Halloween night. With a few tweaks to how you run things, your business could really take off. We can help with that, and we can work out a fair split of the profits."
Rosmerta listened, utterly bewildered.
Professor Levent was tossing around Muggle jargon again—words that made sense individually but turned into gibberish when strung together.
Was Hogwarts' curriculum this tough nowadays? Good thing she'd graduated decades ago, or she'd probably never have passed her exams. Running a tavern didn't exactly require a N.E.W.T., though.
The former student-turned-tavern-keeper, who hadn't been the sharpest at school, couldn't quite follow. But she could tell Professor Levent seemed a bit short on Galleons. After a moment's thought, she said, "Professor, if you need some gold to tide you over, I'd be happy to buy your brewing recipes. The improved butterbeer's been selling like hotcakes. Those recipes are worth at least a few hundred Galleons—you deserve it."
Melvin gave a wry smile. "That's not what I meant."
Rosmerta wondered if her offer was too low. "If you've got more recipes, I'd love to buy them. Or I could hire you as a brewing consultant for the tavern. The pay might not match Hogwarts, but you wouldn't need to work full-time—just pop by now and then to check the cellar and guide the brewing process."
"No, really, that's not necessary…"
Melvin finally understood why the Three Broomsticks drew such a crowd. Madam Rosmerta had a knack for connecting with people and genuinely wanted to help her patrons with their troubles. Even now, she was framing her offer as a favor to him, choosing her words carefully to be polite.
In a way, it was her own brand of long-term, heartfelt community-building.
Melvin paused, then decided to shift gears. "Madam Rosmerta, would you mind sharing some specifics about the tavern's business? How much do you sell daily, and what's the turnover? Monthly figures?"
"Nothing to hide there…"
Rosmerta didn't hesitate to lay out the details for the professor.
Hogsmeade was a wizard-only village, and the Three Broomsticks mostly served locals. Prices were low, banking on high volume for slim margins. Passing traders or travelers often preferred the Hog's Head, the village's other pub, where the drinks were stronger, the vibe shadier, and the gossip more reliable. Some of its patrons weren't even wizards.
On a good day, the Three Broomsticks might pull in 200 Galleons, but after costs, the profit was only 20 to 30 Galleons. Monthly, that added up to a few hundred Galleons.
Some of that went to "keeping things friendly." Not bribes, exactly—just sending a few bottles to Ministry officials or Aurors. Even Cornelius Fudge got some. It smoothed things over during raids for dark artifacts or fugitive hunts, ensuring her brewing barrels weren't pried open.
She also sent drinks to Hogwarts professors, though that was trickier. McGonagall and Snape always refused gifts delivered in person, and if sent by owl, they'd pay for them later. The best she could do was treat them to a round when they visited.
Dumbledore rarely showed up at the Three Broomsticks, but he was easygoing. Anything sweet, and he'd accept it with a smile.
Dropping Dumbledore's or Hogwarts' name could also ward off trouble from rowdy, drunken patrons.
It was all about mutual benefit.
That's just how business worked.
For Rosmerta, running the tavern alone, it was enough. Over the decades, she'd built up a tidy nest egg.
She shared all this without a hint of complaint. "…And on weekends, we sometimes get Hogwarts students. You know, third-years and up get to visit Hogsmeade once a month. They love popping in for a butterbeer."
"If we take your daily 200 Galleons as a baseline and try my suggestions, I'm certain your business will grow. We can split the extra profits—how's that sound?"
"…"
Rosmerta would've preferred hiring him as a brewing consultant or buying more recipes. After hesitating for half a minute, she nodded.
"Alright, Professor Levent, let's do it your way."
…
November 10th, the second Saturday.
Winter had arrived.
The crescent moon from Halloween had vanished, replaced by days of overcast skies. Thick clouds blanketed the Highlands, and it'd been a week since anyone saw a clear night. Astronomy classes were starless, sparing the young witches and wizards their observation reports.
The howling north wind grew bolder, stripping the Whomping Willow down to its last few leaves. Hogwarts had plunged into winter. The Black Lake was frozen, and every morning, frost coated the grounds and castle walls.
Students and staff trudged outside, their breath visible in the air. To stay warm, students had crafted makeshift hand-warmers, bottling modified bluebell flames in jam jars—warm enough to hold but not hot enough to burn.
The young witches and wizards' enthusiasm, however, remained undampened.
Today was the first Quidditch match of the new season.
Slytherin's team had dominated the championship for five years running. Gryffindor hadn't held much hope for this season—their Seeker had graduated, and their new one needed time to gel with the team. But Harry's talent had sparked optimism, and McGonagall's gift of a Nimbus 2000 had fanned it into a roaring flame.
If they could beat Slytherin today, Gryffindor's house points would shoot them to second place, putting the House Cup within reach.
"I'm so nervous I could throw up…"
Harry felt awful as they walked toward the Quidditch pitch. The cold wind stung his throat, and though his friends had made a cheering banner for him, it didn't lift his spirits.
"No big deal. You barely ate breakfast anyway," Ron said.
No one acknowledged Ron's attempt at comfort. Hermione glanced at Harry's pale face and said softly, "Once you're on your broom, you'll be fine. Don't think about the match—think about something else."
"Something else…"
Harry's eyes drifted to the Slytherin stands. "Snape's leg is injured. He must've tried sneaking into that room on the fourth-floor corridor. What do you think he's after? And what's that three-headed dog guarding?"
"Maybe focus on the match instead," Hermione said.
"If you feel like throwing up on your broom, aim for the Slytherin stands. Get Malfoy or Snape," Ron added.
"Ugh…"