Tver now understood why Madam Rosmerta was so popular in the wizarding world. She was warm yet reserved, beautiful without being vulgar or flirtatious—everyone was happy to linger in her company. At least Minister Fudge was enthusiastic, inviting the pub owner to join their conversation.
Soon, Madam Rosmerta personally brought their drinks over and sat down beside Tver.
"What brings you here, Minister? And our charming little professor, of course?"
Tver offered a polite smile.
"Naturally, I heard Hogsmeade had a splendid pub, and an even more splendid proprietor."
"Quite right. Tver always prefers staying at school, but it's so much nicer to come out here," Hagrid chuckled heartily.
"Exactly! If only handsome gentlemen like Tver came in, rather than Dementors, my business wouldn't be so slow," Madam Rosmerta gestured toward a group of young witches outside the pub, jostling and giggling shyly while pointing at Tver.
"..."
"Ahem, you must understand, dear, after all, Black is still out there…"
Fudge shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing around to make sure no one else was listening. Only then did he lean closer and whisper, "I wonder if you've heard about Halloween, about what happened at Hogwarts."
"I know a thing or two," Madam Rosmerta winked at Hagrid.
Clearly, the gamekeeper had once again kept the secret in his own way—once something stops being a secret, there's no need to keep it quiet.
"So, you believe Black is still in the area?" Fudge asked, sitting up straighter.
"Not believe—he's obviously still here."
"Dawlish has found some traces, but it's a shame we can't send Dementors into the castle to search."
"Dumbledore would never allow that," Professor Sprout exclaimed, her rosy lips forming a surprised "O."
"Nor would we," Professor McGonagall replied coolly, taking a small sip of her Gillywater.
Fudge gave an awkward chuckle.
"Minerva, Dementors protect us all. Sometimes I wonder if some of Hogwarts' principles are a bit outdated…"
The professors ignored him completely, clinking their glasses and sipping their drinks. Professor Sprout quickly patted Fudge's arm reassuringly. Even she disliked Dementors and didn't think Hogwarts' values were outdated.
"Those Dementors are terrifying. But how did Black survive? He spent twelve years in Azkaban…"
Fudge quickly seized the moment to interject, "Twelve years. A full twelve years."
"In the days leading up to his escape, he kept muttering about Hogwarts, about being at Hogwarts."
"Probably trying to finish his last task. After all, his master was You-Know-Who, and he betrayed his best friend. Who knows how twisted his mind must have been to do something like that…"
"Right, Minerva?"
Professor McGonagall didn't want to cause friction between the school and the Ministry, so she followed along, setting her glass down.
"You don't need Hagrid to remind you of what Black and the others did at school, do you?"
"Of course, Sirius Black and James Potter!" Madam Rosmerta blurted out. "Those two were inseparable, as close as brothers. If not for their different appearances, I would have thought they were siblings."
"Closer than brothers. Apart from the Weasley twins, I've never seen a pair more inseparable," Professor Flitwick interjected.
Professor McGonagall, lost in her thoughts, sank into a wistful expression.
"Yes, when James and Lily got married, Black was the best man. In fact, he was Harry's godfather!"
"Not one of us dared tell Harry any of this."
"Just because Black was a follower of You-Know-Who?" Mrs. Rosmerta asked softly.
"No, far worse than that." Fudge leaned forward again, his voice low and chilling.
"When the Dark Lord was hunting the Potters, Dumbledore cleverly hid them beforehand to protect them. But that clearly wasn't enough—after all, they were facing the Dark Lord. So they used an ancient spell—the Fidelius Charm! As long as the Secret-Keeper doesn't betray the location, even if the Dark Lord presses his nose against the window, he won't see them."
"Initially, Potter wanted Black to be the Secret-Keeper, but Dumbledore insisted on taking that responsibility himself. Because at that time, Dumbledore believed there was a spy among us, feeding the Dark Lord vital information," Professor McGonagall said grimly.
Seeing Professor McGonagall unwilling to continue, Fudge took over.
"But Potter insisted on using Black. The result, as we all know, was that within a week, the house was found by the Dementors. Thankfully, Harry survived—though he was the only one to do so. Of course, if you still consider Black his godfather, forget I ever mentioned it."
Seeing everyone's low spirits, Madam Rosmerta hurried to comfort them.
"It's all right. Didn't Black get caught eventually?"
"If only we'd been the ones to catch him." Fudge shook his head.
"It was Peter Pettigrew."
"I know—that little sidekick who always trailed behind them, right?" Madam Rosmerta exclaimed in surprise.
"Exactly. He was always such a coward. Who knows where he found the courage to chase after Black?"
"Maybe that's Gryffindor spirit—finding courage for friends."
"Even if it meant being blown to bits by Black. Horrible. He blew up the whole street, leaving only himself standing there laughing."
"As for Peter Pettigrew, we searched for ages but only found a tiny finger."
Fudge's words abruptly halted as Hagrid's forceful nose-blowing echoed through the room. The others' expressions weren't much brighter. Except for Tver, who sipped his mead with a faint smile.
"What is it? Have you thought of something, little professor?" Madam Rosmerta blinked her tear-filled eyes curiously.
"Nothing. I do think he was brave, in every sense."
Tver didn't name names, so everyone assumed he meant Peter Pettigrew and sank back into shared sorrow. But in truth, he meant Black. Enduring twelve years in Azkaban, learning his enemy still lived, and escaping to Hogwarts's vicinity—even while subsisting on scraps. That kind of courage truly wasn't something ordinary people possessed.
As for Peter Pettigrew, it was just as Tver had said during his first Sorting Ceremony: this was the limitation of the Sorting Hat. Unless, of course, Peter Pettigrew harbored some undiscovered courage within him.
Thinking this, Tver stared intently at the shimmering liquid swaying in his glass. As if it contained the very essence of the human heart…
...
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