Good Butterbeers Just Don't Go Bad

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I sighed, leaning against the bar, trying to serve a rowdy bunch of warlocks who wanted a Hell of a lot more than a butterbeer, no matter what they said, I could tell a fiendish glint in a male’s eyes from fifty miles away; as I’ve seen that shine so many times when they look at me.

I began cleaning out a glass of mead that an earlier customer – from Hogwarts I thought – had bought, and hadn’t drunk it all. The wizards grinned devilishly, asking me if I was ‘up for a friendly round of [i]Quidditch[/i]? You know, get the old Quaffle through the hoop?’ Disgusted, I’d ignored them, and wanted to scream when one yelled out to the ‘Quidditch’ guy: “Go, Burney! She wants you!”

I turned away silently, though all the while thinking, [i]I want him like I want to meet You-Know-Who[/i]. Even in my thoughts, I couldn’t say his name, couldn’t bear the frustration of it all. Mentally slapping the lot of the rowdy wizards, I handed them their drinks (a half scotch-half butterbeer, a butterbeer, a red currant rum, and something else that I couldn’t remember, so I just gave him water spiked slightly with Vodka, sure that the wizards were already going to have a hangover in the morning, and were too drunk to tell that difference anyway).

Then, irritated at their flirty, annoying ways, I warned them, “The dementors will be out soon,

you know, I hear that they haven’t had a decent meal…” I let the sentence end with their imaginations running wild. I smirked, as I saw the group exchange gazes, and all nod hurriedly, quickly exiting the Three Broomsticks. I bent down to wipe the counter clean of whatever horrid germs people like those might carry, as I saw three Gryffindor students conversing happily and exclaiming about all the different places you could visit in Hogsmeade, outside the frosty windows, outside my doors.

I smiled inwardly at their happy faces, and I once again wondered what it would be like to have been born with my rightful blood—my [i]wizard[/i] blood. I was, for all my efforts, a squib: an up and down, can’t-do-a-spark-of-magic squib. My entire family had been pureblood wizards and witches, and they’d been astounded and ashamed of their newest descendent. So, they dumped me on old Great Uncle Thomas Ross and hoped I’d stay as far away from them as heavenly possible.

Great Uncle Thomas (or Uncle Tommy-boy, as he told me to call him) was a great person, full of laughter, and you never went a day without hearing a great new joke he brought in from town, but, truthfully, he was a bit mad, though, I always piped up in his defense, so is Dumbledore and numerous other great wizards of our time. Uncle Tommy-boy was an oddball, for sure, he wanted, for his life’s purpose, to be to build an extravagant bar in a nice little village—preferably

near a joke shop and sweet shop, as jokes and sweets were Uncle Tommy-boy’s favorite things in life, besides a nice, well-earned hangover every once in a while.

So, Uncle Tommy-boy had been taken with Hogsmeade, a quaint little place, a wizards’ only place, with a starting out joke shop (Zonko’s) and a nice sweet shop (Honeydukes). When I turned five, I was sent to live with the ‘disgrace of the family’ as many of the elders referred to him as. I’d been welcomed warmly into his bar, yet also loaded down with work, as Uncle Tommy-boy didn’t believe in wasting any spare hands. I’d been fascinated by the wizarding world, amazed by the grand castle that was called Hogwarts, and even more by its students… especially Sirius Black.

I snorted, returning my thoughts and labor towards the dirty bar in front of me, [i]don’t think about Sirius. Don’t. Just, Don’t. [/i]I told myself, moving the rag I was cleaning the bar with quicker and quicker, with more fury, than I had before.

“Hullo, Madam Rosmerta,” chirped a voice, and I looked up to find one of the three happy students that I’d seen through the frosty windows. “Three butterbeers please?” I scurried about, trying to find three mugs, but my mind was elsewhere, as I realized what had been bugging me.

“Weasley boy, are you?” I inquired, then slammed the three mugs on the table firmly. “Look just like Bill, you do…” I muttered, pouring the butterbeer in the mugs, then, looking up, I noticed the boy’s ears had gone red, and I questioned, “Bit cold out there, is it? Not that it’s surprising, being so cold and all…” I handed the foaming tankards to him, and chirped out happily, “Happy Christmas!” as I watched him slowly descend into the crowd of people who were scurrying about, trying to get warm.

I leaned onto the counter, watched the Weasley Boy and his two friends, deeply enjoy the

butterbeers, drinking long, happy gulps of the stuff, as they experienced its warmth. [i]Which[/i], I thought, [i]reminds me, I’m a bit nippy myself[/i], I searched briefly for a mug, before filling it halfway with scotch, then the other half with butterbeer. [i]Half-scotch, half-butterbeer, the closest to Heaven we mortals can get while we’re alive[/i], I recalled Uncle Tommy-boy saying, merrily, eyes twinkling, as he handed me a half-scotch, half-butterbeer, even though I was only seven.

A chilly wind blasted through the Three Broomsticks, as the door opened, and the people who

opened it were getting rather nasty and go-bugger-off looks from several of the customers who were now clutching their cloaks, jackets, and other garments closely to their bodies, and choking down their drinks, then scurrying out, surely ready to get home to the nice warm fires that awaited them.

I peered over my drink and noticed to faces I’d greeted more often than most others; Professors

McGonagall and Flitwick, accompanied by Hagrid and the Mister of Magic; Cornelius Fudge. All were wrapped in thick heavy, wool things that showed only their cherry-red faces, all cold from the winter snow. I giggled a bit, looking down at my own attire: turquoise robes, a few silver bracelets, and turquoise high-heeled shoes that clacked when I walked.

I smiled, remembering all the times, that, when McGonagall and various other teachers had come into the bar, complaining about the latest pranks that the Marauders had pulled, how they’d blown up the Slytherin Prefects’ bathroom, how they’d transfigured on of the green houses into glass elephants, resulting in the loss of several plants that year. And how when I finally met the Marauders, who were just a year older than I, I’d been fascinated by the way [i]their[/i] side of

the story differed from the teachers, especially Sirius’s side, which always made him out to be the poor, innocent victim of some inescapable evil that he had to face, but was always framed by to make it seem like his fault.

Snapped out of my train of thought, I saw the Christmas tree levitate slightly, but I made no

move to reprimand the person who’d moved it; I’d made a sort of pact with the student body of Hogwarts: They didn’t damage anything, I wouldn’t rat them out; even if they were underage and wanted a bit of mead or wine (though, I told them it was all alcohol, I usually made it three-fourths water and one-fourth alcohol).

McGonagall sat down, huffing slightly, and red in her cheeks, as she stated, simply, “We’ve

already placed our orders with Tildy.” Then, clasping her hands on the table, she waited quietly for the rest of her party. Tildy was the person who made the drinks for people with alcoholic preferences (though, I kept my own stash of scotch a secret). I watched as Flitwick, Hagrid, and Fudge took their seats, though I was quit astonished that the Minister was here.

Tildy motioned for me to come into the back of the Three Broomsticks to retrieve the new order. Tildy was a pudgy, almost-but-not-quite fat woman in her early fifties or late forties (I never asked her actual age, as it was impolite) with tawny curls framing her puffy face, and freckles covering most of her face, arms, and legs (though I only knew so because Tildy favored Muggle miniskirts in dress). Her pudgy hand had guided me from my first day at the Three Broomsticks, and she had been the bartender for the bar in the beginning, though now she kept to herself, locked up in the back, making tequilas and mulled mead.

Allowing my heels to clack as loudly as they could, I made my way to the door that led to the back of the pub. Pushing the door open, I found Tildy holding a tray with four drinks on it, smiling happily, a tipsy smile that meant she’d sneaked a few too many tequilas as she worked.

“Gggreeattt m-m-mea-mead tha-that i-is.” Her speech was slurred, as she handed me the tray, almost letting it fall on the floor, but I caught it in time to prevent a much unwanted accident. I sighed, balancing the tray in one arm, and making my way out of the drunken woman’s lair. It was slightly heavy, and one of the tankards was huge, filled with four pints of some mulled mead.

Just the look of all that alcohol made me feel the aftereffects of it, the unbearable headache of a hangover, and sometimes, when I’d gotten particularly wild, a nauseous feeling that kept me in the bathroom and out of work for a day or two.

I found the four adults deep in conversation when I returned, and I was eager to join in, as many times you could squeeze gossip and rumors out of the teachers at Hogwarts after a few too many meads (especially Hagrid, the gamekeeper). Putting myself in front of them, right in view, I started off the drinks, which, after twenty-seven years of working in a bar, I could tell what they were just by the look of them.

“A small gillywater—” I started, knowing it was McGonagall’s, as the gillywater was just barely an alcoholic drink, it was water with a third of rum and gin mixed in, not near enough to get you intoxicated, especially with the affects-condensing potion that made up another third of the gillywater, insuring the drinker would only be a bit tipsy (if any) and no hangover would occur (and if one, not a bad one).

“Mine,” said McGonagall, and I grinned, as the way she said it was like a little child claiming her new toy [i]mine[/i], then going into a raving fit if it actually [i]wasn’t[/i] theirs, but someone else’s.

“Four pints of mulled mead—” I knew it was Hagrid’s, after all the times he’d ordered the exact same thing and gotten a hangover that I knew lasted for days on end, as sometimes he couldn’t even make it back to his hut on the edge of Hogwarts, and spent the night in our bathrooms.

“Ta, Rosmerta,” said Hagrid, making a swipe for the tankard before I could hand it to him, and

taking a large, healthy gulp of it. It’s clients like Hagrid that keep me in business.

“A cherry syrup and soda with ice and umbrella—” Flitwick’s, I thought, certain. Flitwick was

the only person I knew who [i]demanded[/i] an umbrella in his drink, and wouldn’t drink it otherwise, which was bad for business, so Tildy always had a bag or two full of umbrellas ready for whenever Flitwick decided to drop in.

“Mmm!” Flitwick, motioned towards himself, and smacked his lips thirstily when I handed him the

drink, then downing as much as Hagrid when he’d taken a drink.

“So, you’ll be the red currant rum, Minister,” I said, handing the drink to him, and noticing

his clothes, and I disgustedly thought: [i]Who wears lime-green any more? That is SO last season… and pinstripes?[/i] I shook my head, reminding myself to make sure I didn’t say such thoughts aloud, especially when they were about the Minister of Magic.

Fudge looked up, and greeted me, “Thank you, Rosmerta, m’dear, lovely to see you again, I must

say. Have one yourself, won’t you? Come and join us …” I grabbed my half-scotch, half-butterbeer and took the seat to the right of Flitwick, who was gulping down his cherry syrup and soda at an alarmingly quick rate.

Not wanting to appear impolite, even to someone as badly dressed as Fudge, I smiled my best, most innocent smile and said, “Well, thank you very much, Minister.” It almost made me sick how sugary sweet my voice sounded as I talked to my elders, but they always thought I was sincere when I talked to them, and it worked out nicely.

I watched as Fudge scanned me up and down, and I knew he was pondering how a squib could be so pretty, without any spells or potions to help them (though I did use a wrinkle prevention potion that Tildy brewed every morning and an anti-graying hair and anti-balding potion for hair).

A straining silence had settled over the group, so, in a vague attempt to liven the lot up, I inquired, “So, what brings you to this neck of the woods, Minister?” Oh, sure, I knew, but polite conversation is hard and the current events at that moment all consisted of Sirius Black.

Fudge turned in his chair uncertainly, as if checking for anyone who might be listening, not that I blamed him. “What else, m’dear, but Sirius Black? I daresay you heard what happened up at the school at Halloween?” Well, yes, I thought, but I dismissed it as mindless gossip and dribble, though I had the sinking suspicion it was the truth.

“I did hear a rumor,” I said, taking a drink of my half-scotch half-butterbeer to let it warm

me.

I saw McGonagall shoot Hagrid an agitated look, before snapping, “Did you tell the whole pub,

Hagrid?” Hagrid nearly cowered under the severe woman’s gaze—not that anyone else I knew would’ve done any different under her fierce stare.

Ignoring the now bickering two, I asked what I’d been itching to ask for the time since I’d seen the Minister enter my humble bar, “Do you think Black’s still in the area?” It came out as a whisper, though in truth I wanted to scream it. The last person I wanted to meet was Sirius, after he’d swooned me in his last years as a free man, and then gone and shown his true colors—and dark mark.

“I’m sure of it,” stated Fudge, shortly, and my heart sank, as I thought, [i]don’t you dare

come to this pub, Black, don’t you dare, a lying murderer isn’t welcome here any more than they would be any where else—you aren’t welcome here any more than anywhere else![/i]

I shivered slightly, as I commented, “You said that the dementors have searched the whole village twice?” I asked, shaking at the very mention of the wretched things, I didn’t like the dementors any more than I like Black, maybe even less, and it was ruining my business, “Scared all my customers away…” I snorted, “It’s very bad for business, Minister.” I crossed my arms, trying to appear intimidating.

“Rosmerta,” why did he always say my name when he talked to me? Is he afraid I’ll forget who I am? Squibs can’t do magic, but they certainly are [i]not[/i]idiots, “m’dear,” and the damn [i]m’dear[/i]s were getting on my last nerve, “I don’t like them any more than you do,” ah, he was uncomfortable, squirming in his seat slightly, looking like a repulsive bug, “Necessary precaution… unfortunate, but there you are … I’ve just met some of them. They’re in a fury against Dumbledore—he won’t let them inside the castle grounds,” [i]Go Dumbledore! Whoot![/i] I cheered in my mind.

“I should think not,” McGonagall had put on her most disapproving face, one she used to save for the Marauders and their wrongdoings, but the Marauders were not near as horrible as dementors (except for Black, now). “How are we supposed to teach with those horrors floating around?”

“Hear, hear!” squealed Flitwick, nearly falling off his seat, from downing all his cherry

syrup and soda.

Fudge seemed unfazed by these protests, as he began to talk again, and I focused my attention on him, still wondering how anyone could be blind enough to wear a lime-green bowler at sixty- or fifty-something years old. “All the same,” he said, now standing upright, “they are here to protect you from something worse.” And to think that when Black went to Hogwarts he would’ve thought of that as a compliment. “We all know what Black’s capable of…”

I sighed, thinking back to the days when Sirius would sneak off Hogwarts grounds and bring me a rose or a pack of chocolate from Honeydukes, something small, yet meaningful, and then he’d talk me into skipping work for a day so we could trod about Hogsmeade and talk, or snog, or just do whatever we felt like. “Do you know,” I started, still reminiscing about the old Hogwarts times when Sirius would visit, “I still have trouble believing it. Of all the people to go over to the Dark Side, Sirius Black was the last I’d have thought,” probably because we dated for three solid years, then became engaged, “I mean, I remember him when he was a boy at Hogwarts,” and serenaded me with roses and chocolate and long, moonlit walks through Hogsmeade, “If you’d told me then what he was going to become, I’d have said you’d had too much mead,” and been totally in denial.

Fudge crossed his arms, and looked at me. “You don’t know the half of it, Rosmerta.” The damn name again.  “The worst he did isn’t widely known.” Meaning only he and his Grand Poobah friends and the teachers at Hogwarts knew. Lord, they knew some juicy secrets, I swear.

“The worst?” I questioned, prompting him. “Worse than murdering all those poor people you mean?” So many wasted lives… what could be worse than that? I couldn’t think of a damn thing that was worse than randomly killing a handful of people, Muggles, no less, who knew nothing of the Dark Lord.

Fudge nodded. “I certainly do.”

I shook my head. “I can’t believe that. What could possibly be worse?”

“You say you remember him at Hogwarts, Rosmerta,” said McGonagall. “Do you remember who his best friend was?”

Of course, I sighed, I remembered my boyfriend’s best friend. I had to pry James off of Sirius if I wanted to have him to myself for a little while. “Naturally,” I said, laughing softly. “Never saw one without the other, did you? The number of times I had them in here—ooh, they used to make me laugh”- and swoon, I thought – “Quite the double act, Sirius Black and James Potter!” I took another swig of my quickly diminishing drink, while waiting for someone else to comment.

I furrowed my brow, sure that after I’d said my last sentence, I’d heard something fall on the floor. I did a quick scan on the ground and decided that I must be hearing things.

McGonagall thumped her drink onto the bar. “Precisely,” she nodded. “Black and Potter. Ring leaders of their little gang”- right, I thought, along with Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew- “Both very bright, of course—exceptionally bright, in fact—but I don’t think we’ve ever had such a pair of troublemakers.” I inwardly laughed, what Sirius would’ve given to hear McGonagall say [i]that[/i].

Hagrid laughed gruffly. “I dunno, Fred and George Weasley could give ‘em a run for their money.” Yes, I thought, I remembered seeing the two a few times in the bar, always looking at the drinks I handed them oddly, and saying the words “explosion”, “Percy” and “Prefects’ bathroom” a lot.

Flitwick, almost falling on off his stool, still, piped in, “You’d have thought Black and Potter were brothers!” Actually, at first, I had… “Inseparable!”

Fudge nodded roughly, narrowing his eyes. “Of course they were,” he snorted. “Potter trusted Black beyond all his other friends. Nothing changed when they left school. Black was the best man when James married Lily. Then they named him godfather to Harry. Harry has no idea, of course. You can imagine how the idea would torment him.” And I, was supposed to be Harry’s godmother, but no more, because Black had to go and screw it all up.

I sighed, and then whispered, “Because Black turned out to be in league with You-Know-Who?” I

asked, now sitting straighter, wanting to be ready for whatever they said.

Fudge sighed, shaking his head. “Worse than even that, m’dear.” He suddenly dropped his voice to a whisper. “Not many people are aware the Potters knew You-Know-Who was after them. Dumbledore, who was of course working tirelessly against You-Know-Who, had a number of useful spies. One of them tipped him off, and he alerted James and Lily at once. He advised them to go into hiding.

Well, of course, You-Know-Who wasn’t an easy person to hide from. Dumbledore told them that their best chance was the Fidelius Charm.”

I wanted to scream. As a squib, I only knew what a few spells were, and one of those was [i]not [/i]the Fidelius Charm, so, giving in, I asked: “How does that work?”

Flitwick, who even after intoxication was passionate about his field of work (charms) and cleared his throat, before responding, “An immensely complex charm.”[i] Aren’t they all? [/i]I wondered, absent-mindedly. “Involving the magical concealment of a secret inside a single, living soul”- [i]can souls [/i]not[i] be living? [/i]– “The information is hidden inside the chosen person, or Secret-Keeper, and is henceforth impossible to find—unless, of course the Secret-Keeper chooses to divulge it. As long as the Secret-Keeper refused to speak, You-Know-Who could search the village where Lily and James were staying for years and never find them, not even if he had his nose pressed against their sitting room window!” [i]Cool[/i], I thought, [i]very, very, very cool[/i]. Except, of course, when the rat that was the Secret-Keeper was your fiancé…

I sighed, asking the question that was bursting, after all I didn’t know for sure if Sirius was their Secret-Keeper. “So, Black was the Potters’ Secret-Keeper?” I asked, shaking me head, and yanking my drink up from the bar, then taking a large swig of it, before slamming it back on the counter.

McGonagall nodded solemnly and began to talk in a faraway voice of someone who was reminiscing of the past. “Naturally, James Potter told Dumbledore that Black would die rather than tell where they were, that Black was planning to go into hiding himself…” She trailed off, her eyes gaining a clouded look. “And yet, Dumbledore remained worried”- [i]I wonder if he’s a seer…[/i]I pondered, [i]he’s always right, it’s kind of creepy…[/i] - “I remember him offering to be the Potters’ Secret-Keeper himself.”

I gasped. “He suspected Black?” I queried.

McGonagall narrowed her eyes, then looked around for a moment, as if Black might be lurking somewhere inconspicuously in the pub, before speaking again. “He was sure that somebody close to the Potters had been keeping You-Know-Who informed of their movements. Indeed, he had suspected for some time that someone on our side had turned traitor and was passing a lot of information to You-Know-Who.” She shook her head in disgust, as if still in disbelief.

I sighed. “But James Potter insisted on using Black?” [i]The gullible git,[/i] I thought, bitterly, taking another sip of my quickly emptying drink.

Fudge nodded sadly. “He did, and then, barely a week after the Fidelius Charm had been performed—”

I already knew what came next. “Black betrayed them?” I breathed, now staring at the empty glass in front of me, wondering if there was really another ending to this story I’d heard so often.

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