"News of Harry Potter joining the Quidditch team spread like wildfire. Thanks to the Boy Who Lived's fame, word of the Three Broomsticks and the memory pensieve got around just as fast. Half the wizards in Britain have heard about it by now."
Borgin's slick voice echoed in the room. "Not every pub owner has the vision to see the potential, though. Regular patrons and Quidditch fans are just in it for the fun. On our way here, Wright and I did some math—about nineteen buyers are interested in getting a memory pensieve. One who came to me was Old Will from Thetford…"
Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley had a sterling reputation. For something as rare and novel as a memory pensieve, unavailable through regular channels, everyone turned to Borgin.
A few savvy wizards, aware of the Monkstanley family's renown, sought out Wright's repair shop a few streets over. After Borgin finished, Wright chimed in, adding more names to the list.
"Ada from Godric's Hollow…"
"Alfie from Tinworth…"
"One-Eyed Jack from Upper Flagley…"
The British wizarding world was a small one. Most old wizarding families were tangled up in some distant kinship, even the lofty Malfoys and the "blood-traitor" Weasleys sharing a thread of lineage.
Borgin and Wright each had their own contacts and leaned toward favoring their closer connections. For regular customers, they'd mention a name and where they were from. For trusted associates, they'd dive into details, hoping to curry favor with their supplier, Professor Levent.
Melvin listened quietly as the two middlemen listed clients, mentally sorting through their backgrounds to pinpoint a few standout prospects.
"Ada, the witch from Godric's Hollow, runs the Golden Snitch Tavern. Her family's been brewing their own beer for generations, and the locals can't get enough of it…"
That was a standard client.
"Old Will from Thetford used to be an Auror. During the last wizarding war, he and Mad-Eye Moody went wild together. A Death Eater blew off one of his arms, and it itches and aches in the rain, so he drowns the pain with whiskey. After retiring, he opened a pub specializing in hard liquor. At first, it was just his old Auror mates propping up the business, but now plenty of wizards drink there—many of them relatives of Death Eater victims who feel grateful to Harry Potter. Some are Quidditch fans, too. When Will heard the Three Broomsticks was showing Hogwarts matches, he closed his pub for a week to drag his regulars to Hogsmeade. Rosmerta thought he was there to steal her brewing recipes."
An ex-Auror? Definitely a premium client.
"Alfie from Tinworth's got a mouth on him. He used to commentate the Quidditch World Cup. Back in '86, during the finals, he ranted on air about the West German team taking bribes to throw their last group-stage match. The committee demanded a public apology in the papers. Alfie, with his hot temper, agreed—then cursed out the Ministry's Sports Department and the committee heads in front of reporters…
"He quit after that, went back home, and opened a Quidditch club. It's mostly a hangout for retired players and referees. Last week, he went to the Three Broomsticks, saw the match, and tried to pay Rosmerta thousands of Galleons to buy the pensieve outright. Malcolm thought he was drunk and kicked him out."
A professional background? Another premium client.
"One-Eyed Jack from Upper Flagley was a Quidditch photographer. Also at the '86 World Cup, he got too close to the pitch for the perfect shot and took a Bludger to the face, losing an eye. After retiring, he started a magazine covering Quidditch news and articles, but it was too niche and folded in two years—couldn't even outsell *The Quibbler*.
"His editorial office turned into a pub for cultured types—mostly publishers, editors, and journalists. They've got the same bad habits: either spouting baseless rumors or babbling endlessly about something that sounds profound but means nothing when you think about it. Alfie's resignation for insulting Ministry officials? In their hands, it became a tale of him exposing Quidditch corruption and getting ousted for it…"
Melvin's eyes lit up. Jack was a perfect fit—his head was probably full of vivid Quidditch footage.
"Oh, and a few pureblood families want pensieves too—not for business, just to watch matches in their manors. Typical pureblood nonsense. I won't bother naming them," Wright added, taking a swig of beer to wet his parched throat.
Old Tom from the Leaky Cauldron and Borgin flashed awkward smiles. Borgin cleared his throat, sounding less confident. "Last but not least, there's Knockturn Alley. A bunch of wizards who prefer to stay out of sight hang out there. Some are diehard Quidditch fans, others Harry Potter supporters. They hide out in the Alley's underbelly but like to unwind with a drink. Point is, we need a pensieve too."
Melvin pondered briefly. Knockturn Alley was a complicated place, but as distributors, they counted as premium clients.
Old Tom, who'd been listening to the other buyers, suddenly realized his pub had no edge over them. He quickly spoke up. "The Leaky Cauldron's ready to partner with the school. If I get a pensieve like the Three Broomsticks, I'll split profits with the teams and pay your commission, Professor."
"Like the Three Broomsticks…" Melvin gave him a knowing look. "The memory pensieve is free, the content's provided by me, and the pub just offers a venue—no business risk, practically zero cost. Anyone would jump at that deal."
Old Tom scratched his head, chuckling sheepishly in a way that was slightly unnerving.
"A memory pensieve costs thirty thousand Galleons to make. Your pub's cut might be a few hundred Galleons a month—decades to break even," Melvin explained, then delivered his point. "The Three Broomsticks was a special case to promote the pensieve. Any pub joining now won't get that price."
Old Tom and Borgin nodded thoughtfully, no real doubts. Similar memory-display devices on the market did cost tens of thousands, and as businessmen, they knew no one ran a loss-making venture.
Only Wright blinked, his expression odd.
Thirty thousand Galleons? News to him. The large pensieve's production cost was around nine thousand, including R&D and trial runs. How did Melvin's lips turn nine into thirty?
Whatever. Thirty it is.
Wright, clueless about business, sipped his beer in silence.
Borgin, a seasoned Knockturn Alley dealer, sensed the young professor wasn't selling at cost. "What's your angle, Professor?"
"The pensieve can be sold at a discount—thirty thousand, knocked down to a third. Content's a separate deal, but I'll keep it affordable."
A third of thirty thousand—twenty grand saved! Old Tom chugged his beer, dizzy with the surprise discount.
"But there's a catch," Melvin added.
"What's the catch? Name it, Professor!" Tom urged.
"Pub owners buying pensieves need to join our Mirror Club."
Before they could ask, Melvin continued. "Wright and I set up this club to oversee pensieve content creation and review. New members must follow our rules and help develop more engaging content."
Old Tom and Borgin glanced at Wright.
Wright stayed quiet, head down, sipping his beer.
Don't look, don't ask—he was just learning about this club himself.
Old Tom, a bit tipsy, scratched his head. "Professor, I'm not following. What exactly does this club do?"
Melvin patiently explained. "A memory pensieve plays memory footage—not just mine, but anyone's. You heard about those buyers earlier. They've got memories of past Quidditch World Cups, inner-field perspectives, exclusive angles, even insider scoops. They could narrate match analysis during playback…"
He turned to Borgin. "And you, Borgin—Knockturn Alley's crawling with international traders. They've been everywhere, probably have memories of World Cup qualifiers, continental matches, team training sessions, even other magical schools' house games…"
As Melvin slowed his speech, the three men seemed to see a door creaking open to a vast new world.
"I know you don't care much about profit, Tom, but you'd love to watch those epic matches yourself," Melvin said, like a professor guiding students toward a grand vision. "Join our club, collect the world's best Quidditch matches, pool resources, and create content. Time and distance won't limit you anymore. You'll watch Hogwarts games, Chudley Cannons matches, Armenia's junior national team—all from your pub."
Old Tom, without realizing, finished another beer and slammed the mug down. "The Leaky Cauldron's in!"
Borgin, sensing a lucrative opportunity, quickly agreed.
That left the repair shop owner, still quietly sipping his beer.
Wright looked up, meeting their gazes with exasperation. "Why're you staring? I can't agree for those pub owners. At most, I'll pass on tonight's talk, but that'll have to wait till after the Christmas holidays. Some of them are abroad."
"…"
After some negotiation, the four reached an agreement.
Old Tom and Borgin secured their discount, grinning ear to ear. Wright, tasked with relaying the offer, walked away with a hefty fee and the promise of more. Only Professor Levent, sacrificing personal gain for the wizarding world's benefit, earned their admiration.
Bright futures for all.
"That's settled, then. Interested buyers can meet me on weekends," Melvin said, setting down his untouched beer and standing. "That's all for today. I'm heading back to Hogwarts."
"I'll walk you out, Professor…" Old Tom followed.
Wright and Borgin watched them leave, then turned to each other, about to speak. They noticed Melvin's beer, barely touched, while theirs were nearly gone.
Recalling what they'd overheard earlier, they exchanged a look and fell silent.
---
The Christmas holidays were winding down.
Vacationing wizards returned home, gearing up for the new year's work and studies. Wizarding hubs across Britain buzzed back to life, and pubs reopened their doors.
As night fell, two figures strolled through Hogsmeade's lanes—Malcolm and Tucklot, shoulder to shoulder, chatting about holiday antics. Passersby glanced at them, puzzled by their silence, but soon enough, the familiar bickering resumed.
"Whether a Seeker catches the Snitch has nothing to do with finger length! Harry Potter's win proves it! Lamont lost because his skills weren't up to par—not his teammates' fault, not his parents'!"
"That's not the same! One's a school match, the other's the World Cup!"
"What's the difference? Potter's fingers are shorter than Lamont's, and he still won!"
"It's not the same! He's Harry Potter!"
"So what?"
"He beat You-Know-Who from his crib!"
"…"
Onlookers sighed in relief as the two started shoving each other. Same old voices, same old moves—the neighbors were back.
Their squabble carried them to the Three Broomsticks, where locals noticed the pub's shiny new sign. A year-old poster was plastered on the window, showing Lamont soaring on his broom, captioned:
*Scotland vs. Canada: The 1990 Showdown!*
---
Eight o'clock in London's Westminster, Charing Cross Road. The street looked quiet, but stepping into the Leaky Cauldron unleashed a roar of noise.
Diehard fans crowded around the silver pensieve, erupting in deafening cheers with every goal. Old Tom squeezed into the front row, hollering alongside his patrons, while the Abbott siblings darted around with pitchers, barely keeping up.
"…"
Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt stood quietly at the corner of the bar counter, a spot discreet yet perfect for observing the room.
A regular, the staff knew the tall, dark-skinned, bald Auror. Handing him his butterbeer, a server teased him about cutting his holiday short.
Shacklebolt gave a wry smile, admitting he'd rather not be working.
His deep, measured voice calmed the frazzled server, who tossed in a free order of fish and chips.
Leaning against the counter, Shacklebolt took in the pub's scene.
The holidays weren't over, and he wasn't keen on returning to duty early. He still had vacation days banked, but his job was unique. The Ministry might give holidays, but Number 10 Downing Street needed him back early.
At the Ministry, he was Captain of the Auror Office's Second Squad. At the Prime Minister's office, he was an assistant secretary on track for promotion.
His gaze settled on the pensieve's flickering images, calm and steady.
A memory pensieve—basically a magical riff on Muggle television. If that Umbridge woman at the Ministry caught wind of this, the Law Enforcement Department would have their hands full…