With the second floor of the Three Broomsticks newly constructed, there was plenty of furniture to move upstairs. Professor Flitwick used a Levitation Charm to float tables and chairs, while house-elves bustled about, hauling oak barrels. A brand-new solid wood bar counter also needed to be brought up.
Hagrid, seeing everyone busy, felt eager to pitch in. He glanced at the pink umbrella tucked into his waistband, a hesitant look crossing his face.
After some deliberation, Hagrid decided to rely on his brute strength instead. He gave Madam Rosmerta a quick greeting and enthusiastically dashed over to tackle the heaviest item—the bar counter.
Dumbledore watched from the sidelines.
The counter, crafted from dense hardwood and meant to be moved with magic, was no match for the half-giant. Hagrid slid his hands beneath it, braced his stance, and with a deep grunt, hoisted it up.
"Ha!"
He actually lifted it. One end of the long counter pressed against his belly, the other tilting upward, all the weight balanced precariously in his hands and gut. It wobbled twice before a loud *crack* echoed through the room.
The house-elves rushed over in a panic. They'd already been miffed about Hagrid taking their work, but now, seeing him damage the counter, they didn't dare blame a pub guest. Instead, they turned their guilt inward, tears welling up as they stared at the broken wood, looking ready to bash their heads against it.
"…"
Thankfully, Flitwick, with some free time, stepped in to repair the counter with a flick of his wand. The house-elves, now wary, refused to let the half-giant near their work again. Every time Hagrid approached, they fixed him with wide, accusing stares that left him uneasy.
Standing awkwardly to the side, Hagrid managed a sheepish grin. Melvin couldn't resist teasing him, earning hearty laughs from Rosmerta and Flitwick.
Dumbledore, standing nearby, smiled as well.
Undeterred, Hagrid wandered over to watch Wright set up an Undetectable Extension Charm. He stared intently as Wright chanted the spell and arranged the spatial enchantment, his eyes wide—not with the same wariness as the house-elves, but enough to make Wright fidget uncomfortably mid-cast.
Hagrid's face practically screamed his desire to use the charm on his own hut. Melvin noticed, Flitwick noticed, Dumbledore noticed, and Wright definitely noticed. With a resigned sigh, Wright casually began explaining some beginner-level casting tips.
Hagrid was immensely grateful, his massive hand clapping Wright's shoulder as he boomed about buying him a drink.
Still only half-grasping the charm, Hagrid heard that Rosmerta was gifting the third floor to Melvin. He eagerly dragged Melvin upstairs to check it out, nearly collapsing the freshly built wooden staircase under his weight.
"What're you gonna do with this floor?" Hagrid asked.
"You'll see in time," Melvin replied cryptically.
"…"
Hagrid's broad face scrunched up. That evasive tone reminded him of Dumbledore, which he wasn't fond of.
The renovations moved quickly. In about three hours, the main work was nearly done. As lunchtime approached, the house-elves, exhausted from their morning's labor, scurried into the kitchen.
The group of wizards gathered around a round table for a meal of pub classics: beer-battered cod with chips, shepherd's pie with minced lamb and vegetables, and Scotch eggs—boiled eggs wrapped in sausage meat and fried. The drinks were plentiful. Hagrid downed glass after glass, grinning ear to ear.
Melvin and Flitwick sipped craft beer lightly, just to be polite.
Dumbledore, ever cheerful, skipped the sweet eggnog or mead and opted for a whiskey.
Rosmerta asked about decoration ideas over lunch, and Melvin fielded most of the questions, tossing in some Muggle concepts. The pub owner listened intently, as did a certain repair shop owner at the table.
The afternoon's detailed work took longer than expected. Once everything was finished, they bid farewell to Rosmerta.
"Stay for dinner at the pub!" she urged warmly.
"We're headed to a pub, alright—the one at the village end. The Hog's Head!" Hagrid declared, slinging an arm around Wright's shoulders, heedless of Rosmerta's feelings. "I'm buying 'em a round!"
"…"
Melvin and the others exchanged helpless smiles.
By six in the evening, darkness had settled.
The Hog's Head's lights flickered on, illuminating its battered wooden sign. The painted severed pig's head, with crimson blood at its neck and a mocking gaze, seemed to sneer at passersby. In the cozy warmth of Hogsmeade's streets, next to candy shops and pink-tinted couples' teahouses, the pub felt distinctly out of place.
It was Boxing Day, the day after Christmas.
Most wizards were still at home with family and friends, leaving the streets nearly empty. With no customers, most shops were shuttered, but the Hog's Head's door hung half-open, revealing a small scattering of patrons inside.
Many of them concealed their faces. Some wizards wore hooded cloaks, others donned half-masks or bandages. A few witches draped themselves in thick black veils, and some patrons' expressions looked unnatural, as if they were wearing someone else's face.
They sat in small groups, voices hushed, their whispers blending into a quiet, eerie hum.
Hagrid seemed unfazed, clapping Wright so hard he stumbled and giving Melvin's shoulder a hearty pat. He turned to Dumbledore and Flitwick. "C'mon, you've gotta try the Firewhisky here. My treat!"
Flitwick declined politely. "I've had enough to drink yesterday and today."
Dumbledore shook his head, his expression complicated. "You go ahead. If I step in there, the owner might kick me out."
The others assumed he was joking and didn't press further.
Wright, no stranger to the Hog's Head, chuckled lightly. Noticing Melvin about to decline, he quickly tugged his sleeve. "Just the three of us, then. Hagrid's buying—thanks from Melvin, too."
Melvin shot him a look. "?"
---
The Hog's Head was tiny, even smaller than the Three Broomsticks before its expansion. The main room, cramped aside from a row of seats by the bar, could only fit a few small round tables, hosting maybe twenty or thirty guests at most.
Stepping inside, a heavy whiff of goat-like musk hit Melvin, who wrinkled his nose slightly, unaccustomed to the stench.
Wright, sensing his discomfort through his mask, grinned. "Give it a few minutes, you'll get used to it. It's not all bad—sniff closer. Don't you catch a hint of liquor?"
Melvin took a cautious breath. There was something else, but it wasn't liquor—it was the musty smell of rotting wood.
"…"
Melvin's face, half-hidden by a mask, remained expressionless.
To blend in with the Hog's Head's clientele, he and Wright wore masks. Hagrid didn't bother—mask or no mask, nothing could hide his nearly ten-foot frame.
In the pub's dim lighting, the masks were hardly necessary anyway.
Like the Leaky Cauldron, the Hog's Head operated as a pub on the ground floor and an inn upstairs. Its target customers were clearly not your average wizards. If Melvin conducted a survey, he'd bet the clientele overlapped heavily with Knockturn Alley's crowd.
The place was grimier than Knockturn Alley, though. Windows, doors, tables, and chairs were caked with years of grime, a swipe of a finger yielding greasy black residue. The floor felt odd underfoot—at first glance, it looked like packed dirt, but it was stone buried under centuries of filth. Since rain couldn't reach inside, the interior was, in some ways, dirtier than Knockturn Alley's open streets.
Hagrid's entrance drew eyes, but he paid no mind, heading straight for the bar to order drinks.
He was clearly a regular, leading the trio to the counter. The barman stood behind it—a tall, gaunt old man with a wild mane of gray hair and a beard that obscured his face. Only his sharp, slightly cloudy blue-gray eyes were visible, hinting at a prickly temper.
So this was the headmaster's brother…
Melvin studied the Hog's Head barman. Tall and lean, he wore a grimy apron, his face mostly hidden by unkempt hair and beard, a natural mask. It was hard to connect this scruffy figure with Hogwarts' polished headmaster.
"Three bottles of Ogden's Firewhisky," Hagrid ordered.
The barman glanced at them, stooped to retrieve three dusty bottles from under the counter, and grunted, "Thirty Sickles."
Hagrid fished out a Galleon and thirteen Sickles, weighing them in his palm before handing them over. The wooden cash drawer slid open automatically, swallowing the coins.
"No glasses," the barman said gruffly.
Wright pulled Melvin toward an empty round table in the corner. "At the Hog's Head, you drink straight from the bottle or bring your own glass."
Melvin glanced back. The barman was wiping a glass with a blackened rag that looked like it hadn't been washed in years, smearing the glass dirtier with each swipe.
"…"
Firewhisky was a sight to behold. The amber liquid shimmered, sealed bottles cloaked in a thin layer of blue flame that felt cool to the touch. Once opened, the flames turned bright yellow, rippling like waves with sparks fizzing softly.
Rumor had it the brew was inspired by a wizard visiting a dragon.
Hagrid wasted no time on toasts, twisting off the cap and taking a swig. He exhaled contentedly, a puff of orange-red flames shooting from his nose.
Wright drank more slowly but just as casually, flames flickering from his nostrils as he turned to Melvin. "Heard you lent Rosmerta that memory pensieve to play Quidditch matches at the pub. It's brought in a ton of business. You're splitting the profits—how much is the pensieve rental? Making good money?"
"The pensieve is free," Melvin said. "The match profits go toward new brooms for the teams. I just take a commission."
"How much are you pulling in?"
"Four hundred Galleons…"
Melvin eyed him suspiciously, wondering if the repair shop owner was angling to get in on the deal. Still, since Wright had invented the pensieve, Melvin didn't mind. "Why're you asking? Someone else want to buy one? Just sell it."
"No way. You came up with the idea and funded the research. I can't just claim the pensieve as mine."
"The Monkstanley family's got that much integrity?"
"Thanks for the compliment."
"So why ask about the rental and profits?"
"It's complicated…"
Wright took a sip of Firewhisky, waiting for the flames to subside before explaining. He noticed Melvin's unopened bottle. "Why aren't you drinking?"
"Yeah, give it a try!" Hagrid chimed in, his voice already slurring with a drunken edge. He stood, heading toward the back. "You two keep drinkin'. I'm hittin' the loo—had a bit much today…"
Wright waved him off, assuring he'd look after Melvin.
As the half-giant lumbered away, a few gazes in the pub followed his back.
"Well…" Melvin hesitated. He was a Hogwarts professor, after all, and even on holiday, he couldn't tarnish the school's image. He reached into his coat pocket, rummaging briefly before pulling out a goblet.
Popping the cork, he poured a measure of the wizard-brewed whisky. The goblet flared with orange-red flames.
Wright blinked, glancing at the goblet, then at Melvin's flattened pocket. "Undetectable Extension Charm?"
Melvin nodded silently, taking a sip. The flames weren't hot, but the whisky had a spicy kick.
Wright's brow furrowed, his expression turning serious. "Is that pocket legal?"
Melvin raised an eyebrow. "I'm a foreign wizard. Why would I follow British Ministry laws?"
"Don't play me! Woolworth's Building bans reckless use of Extension Charms too!"
"I'm in Scotland. Why would I follow MACUSA's laws?"
"You… this… I…" Wright stammered, dumbfounded. The Monkstanleys had always been model law-abiding wizards. It had taken Wright years of agonizing to open his slightly shady repair shop, and only recently had he grown bolder. He'd never met someone who danced so casually on the edge of legality.
"Then why'd you ask me at the pub if my Extension Charm was legal?"
"You're a local wizard. You're supposed to follow the law."
Melvin waved dismissively. "Forget the Extension Charm. Let's talk business."
Wright gripped his bottle like a clenched fist, itching to report this guy to the Ministry and MACUSA. But, mindful of his own less-than-legal shop, he held back. "Old Tom at the Leaky Cauldron heard about the pensieve deal. He wants to buy one or partner up like Rosmerta—your pensieve, his pub, split the monthly profits."
"You've got it wrong," Melvin corrected. "The pensieve is on free loan to Rosmerta. It's Hogwarts' Quidditch matches partnered with the Three Broomsticks. They split the profits; I just take a commission."
"Well, Old Tom's willing to split with the school and pay you a commission too."
"My point is, if the Leaky Cauldron wants a pensieve, Old Tom's gotta pay."
"?"
Before Wright could press further, Melvin glanced toward the back door of the pub, lowering his voice. "Hagrid's been in the loo for a while, hasn't he?"