The moment class ended, I made a strategic retreat.
By which I mean I left Hagrid cheerfully humming to himself while the Manticore continued muttering culinary threats and slipped away before anyone could decide I should help with the cleaning. Some creatures were best left to those with half-giant strength and an unsettling fondness for being bitten.
The walk to Hogsmeade did wonders for my nerves. The air was crisp, pine-scented, carrying the distant chirps of birds and the comforting promise of something warm to drink. By the time the crooked sign of the Three Broomsticks creaked into view, I felt properly human again.
Inside, the inn wrapped around me like an old spell. Warmth, low laughter, the clink of glasses, and the unmistakable smell of butterbeer; sweet, buttery, faintly yeasty, with a hint of spice that always reminded me of late evenings and bad decisions, or was it good decisions? Sometimes it's difficult to decide. A fire crackled in the hearth, popping softly as it devoured another log.
"Butterbeer, my dear," I said automatically at the bar.
Rosmerta arched a brow at me as she poured, amber liquid foaming generously over the rim. "Paying today?"
I slid a few coins across the counter with a smile. "Of course. Being the lover of the owner doesn't exempt me from paying. On the contrary, I must support my future wife's establishment."
She snorted. "Flattery won't get you a discount, Lockhart."
"Worth a try," I replied smoothly.
I took my drink to a small table near the wall, away from the louder crowd of customers celebrating freedom from work. The chair creaked as I sat, the wood warm from the previous occupant. I took a long sip.
Merlin. It was perfect. Frothy foam clung to my upper lip, the taste rich and comforting, sweet without being cloying. Exactly what one needed after a class involving singing murder-poets with stingers.
With a sigh of contentment, I pulled the folded Quibbler from inside my robes and spread it open across the table. The paper smelled faintly of ink and something herbal, possibly deliberate, possibly not.
Let's see.
Five full pages detailing Xenophilius Lovegood's "life-altering communion" with the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, complete with diagrams, footnotes, and a margin note insisting the creature preferred jazz music. I skimmed that quickly.
An article on Blibbering Humdingers ("They're not imaginary, they're just shy"), skipped.
Then I paused.
SIRIUS BLACK IS, IN TRUTH, STUBBY BOARDMAN: LEAD SINGER OF THE HOG GOBLINS.
I barked a laugh, earning a curious glance from a nearby table. I grinned down at the page, already picturing Sirius's face when I showed him this after we caught him.
"Oh, he'll love that," I murmured.
I turned the page, and froze.
Tucked into the corner was a simple drawing. A black diary. Neat, unmistakable letters stamped across the cover:
T. M. RIDDLE
Beneath it:
Have you seen this diary?
If found, please return to Luna Lovegood.
Reward: Five Sickles.
I stared at it, the cheerful inn noise fading slightly around me.
"Well," I muttered, tapping the page with one finger, "that's interesting."
Five sickles. A child's reward. And yet… the diary. The name. My mind turned over possibilities, pieces clicking together with uncomfortable ease.
"It seems," I said quietly, folding the paper, "I'll have to have a word with Miss Lovegood. You may have just handed us an important clue, Luna."
A chair scraped softly beside me.
Rosmerta finally had a moment's peace, her hair loosened from its usual practical knot, cheeks faintly flushed from the heat of the bar. She sat sideways on the chair, close enough that I could smell butterbeer and lavender soap.
"So," she said lightly, "why didn't you come for lunch?"
I smiled into my drink. "I had a lunch date."
Her eyes narrowed, then sparkled. "Oh?"
"With a lovely Auror," I added shamelessly.
She snorted. "By lovely, you don't mean Mad-Eye Moody, do you? Because then I'd have to worry about your tastes changing too much."
I laughed. "Close enough. His last apprentice, Nymphadora Tonks."
Recognition flickered across her face. "Ah. I remember her. Cute girl. Funny, too. Absolute trouble magnet."
She gave me a knowing look. "Yes. I can see how you'd get along."
Before I could reply, a door upstairs creaked, followed by soft footsteps. Aurora appeared, hair slightly mussed, blinking sleep from her eyes. She stretched lazily, robes slipping off one shoulder, then slid onto the chair on my other side without ceremony.
"What's this," she said, voice smooth but dangerous, "I hear about another girl?"
She leaned in, eyes glittering. "Are you planning to take a third girlfriend, Gilderoy?"
I, in my infinite wisdom, completely failed to notice the warning signs.
I brightened instead. "If I manage to convince her to share, that would be wonderful. But first I have to pave the way, get to know her more deeply, maybe develop some feelings, and then I'll mention you two to her."
Silence.
Rosmerta slowly reached over, took my butterbeer, and drank from it.
She smacked her lips thoughtfully. "I have a feeling," she said sweetly, "that this is going to explode in your face spectacularly."
Aurora smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.
"I do hope," Rosmerta added, handing the mug back, "that I'm there to see it when it happens."
I took another sip, blissfully unaware, or perhaps willfully ignorant, of the storm clouds gathering inches from my shoulders.
Really.
What could possibly go wrong?
…
I turned toward Rosmerta, blinking as if only now noticing the inn around us.
"Don't you have customers to serve?" I asked, gesturing with my chin toward several newly filled tables. The low hum of conversation had grown while we spoke; laughter near the fireplace, the scrape of chairs on wood, tankards thumping down in uneven rhythm.
Rosmerta didn't even glance back.
Instead, she leaned forward across the table, resting her chin in her palm, elbow planted comfortably beside my butterbeer. Her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, eyes glinting with pure mischief.
"Oh, they'll survive," she said lazily. "These customers couldn't possibly be as interesting as what's about to happen."
I frowned. "What's about to…"
"And Dobby can manage," she added, waving a hand dismissively.
I followed her gaze to the bar. Sure enough, Dobby was in his element, ears flopping enthusiastically as he slid tankards across the counter, refilled glasses with quick, precise movements, and somehow kept three different conversations going at once while humming to himself. A witch at the bar looked mildly stunned by the efficiency.
"…Fair enough," I conceded.
I turned back to Rosmerta. "Alright, then. But what exactly do you mean by interesting?"
She didn't answer directly. Instead, she raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow and flicked her eyes meaningfully to my other side.
I followed the gesture.
Aurora sat rigidly in her chair, spine straight, hands folded far too neatly in her lap. The warmth she usually radiated; soft smiles, lazy confidence, that teasing spark, had dimmed. The air around her felt colder somehow, heavier, like the moment before a storm broke. Even the candlelight seemed to shy away from her expression.
Oh.
That.
I swallowed. "Aurora, dear," I said carefully, choosing my tone as one might approach a mother dragon. "What's the matter?"
She turned to me slowly.
Her smile was sweet. Far too sweet.
"If you can't realise the problem by yourself," she said lightly, voice smooth as honey, "then perhaps you should sleep alone until you do."
The words landed with terrifying precision.
My mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.
"Now," she continued pleasantly, already rising from her chair, "if you don't mind, I have work to do."
She leaned down just enough to brush a brief kiss against my cheek; cool, restrained, nothing like her usual warmth, then straightened and walked toward the door.
The inn door opened with a gust of cold evening air and shut behind her with a decisive thud.
Silence lingered for half a heartbeat.
I turned slowly back to Rosmerta, genuinely bewildered. "What did I do?"
Rosmerta stared at me.
Then she shook her head; slow and deliberate, the sort of shake reserved for people beyond saving, and stood up, smoothing her skirts.
"One day," she said mildly, "your looks will stop saving you."
She plucked my abandoned butterbeer, took a long sip, and added, "I sincerely hope I'm there when it explodes in your face."
With that, she turned and went back to work, calling out orders with her usual easy confidence as if she hadn't just watched me step directly onto an emotional landmine.
I was left alone at the table, the smells of roasted meat and spiced ale suddenly less comforting.
I sighed and leaned back in my chair, rubbing a hand over my face.
I knew exactly what it was about. Of course I did.
Tonks.
But sometimes, purely strategically, it was better to pretend not to know anything at all until tempers cooled and the world returned to a manageable level of danger.
I lifted my glass and drank the last bit of butterbeer.
It tasted faintly of caramel.
And impending doom.
…