Three Nights at the Three Broomsticks

Night One: The Brown

In the whirlwind of snow a young woman covered in robes of black could be found entering the door of the Three Broomsticks. Once inside, she lifted her hood to expose her cold, pale face only warmed by the passion that illuminated her brown eyes. She sat herself on the far side of the bar, in an attempt to be oblivious to the world, to be forgotten, and to be left alone to hide from the demons she had created for herself. But Madam Rosmerta was not one to leave anyone alone, especially someone who seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“I see you here often, but something is amiss, tell me, where are your friends?” she asked.

“I left them,” the girl said shortly.

“Ah, off looking for your own adventure, are you?” she asked again.

“I am not looking for anything,” she answered, unwilling to let down her barrier despite the fact that she desperately needed someone, even a stranger,  to hear her tribulations.

“Are you sure?” Madam Rosmerta asked once more, knowing that it was just a little more time before this girl would reveal all aches that were traced on her face.

“Even if I am looking for something, I do not know what it is,” she said, not trusting herself to say anything else.

“On the contrary, I think you know exactly what you’re looking for. Tell me, is it a man?” she asked.

The girl gave in, resolved with the idea that the Madam might provide some urgently needed light amidst the darkness clouding her heart. “I am looking for the love of a man that I know does not exist in his heart.”

“Why do you say that it does not exist? Has he told you?” she said, pitying the little girl in front of her, and wondering at the same time how anyone could not love her.

“No,” she answered curtly.

“Then you should not lose hope,” the madam advised, as she gave her a smile, hoping she would believe her words.

“But I should, because when he is with me, he finds solace and comfort, he is happy with me, but he will not stay with me, he looks at me as if I am the world, but he would not think of me amorously; he would refuse to lose himself to me; he does not love me, at least not the way that I do,” she said, finally letting go of the thoughts that had been tormenting her days and her nights.

“I think you are confusing love with romance,” she said.

“Am I? Should the two not come together? Should he not show me or tell me how he feels? Should he not disclose the passion that is brewing up inside of him? Should he conceal all thoughts that involved me, that involved us? He does not do any of that for it truly does not inhabit the inner depths of his mind and soul like it does in mine,” she said, with so much hurt, anger and frustration in her voice, yet not one of these manifested in her face.

“Maybe he is afraid to confront his emotions, just as you are afraid to hide yours?” Madam Rosmerta replied. She had wanted to tell the brown-haired girl that she is young, that there are many fishes in the sea, but she did not feel it was the right thing to tell her. Even she would not believe that advice, there are many fishes in the sea, yes, but there was only one for you, any other would only spell disaster. And from what she saw in this girl’s eyes, this was the one.

“Please do not give me hope, tell me something that would help me forget,” the girl said, crossing her arms on the table and hiding her face in them.

“I cannot help you with that; I am sorry,” she replied, believing that it was the best she could do, that it was the right thing to do.

“Then give me a butterbeer,” the girl said, her voice muffled.

“That I could help you with.” She left her side and moments later returned with a fresh mug of butterbeer.

“You cannot handle something like this on your own; you should be with your friends,” she voiced, engaging the girl in conversation once more.

“They cannot help me,” the girl answered, with a surly undertone once more.

“Then they must be part of the problem,” Madam Rosmerta said knowingly.

“I never said that,” she said indignantly, but could not help the awe in her voice.

“If they cannot help, then they must be part of the problem, so which one is it, the red or the black?” she asked with a wink.

“Can you not guess?”

“The black. Am I correct?” the madam guessed. 

The girl just smiled shyly. “You know everything don’t you?”

“That is what happens when you spend all your free time watching people go through their lives thinking they can keep secrets by not saying anything,” she told her. “The last time you were with him, you two were by the window; you were reading something and he was drinking from his mug. He suddenly turned to you and whispered something in your ear and pointed something out the window, and the two of you laughed together, and for some reason, your laughter fit together and it was the most beautiful sound I’ve heard.”

“We were laughing at the red who was making a fool of himself once more in front of a girl.” She was smiling, but not at the red, but at the memory of the boy whispering in her ear, his mouth so close to her skin.

“Please believe me that there is hope, because if there is none for you, then I am doomed,” the lovely hostess said.

The girl nodded, “Thank you for listening to me, and for everything. I have to leave; they might be looking for me. How much do I owe you?”

“It’s on the house. I was so lonely before you came around. You gave me something as well,” she smiled.

“Thank you.” She got up and turned to leave before the Madam stopped her.

“What’s your name sweetheart?” she called.

“Oh, it’s Hermione Granger.”

Night Two: The Red and the Black 

Madam Rosmerta watched the snow disappear and with the ray of sunshine she awaited once more the arrival of the children that gave her much joy. To them it’s Hogsmeade day, she thought, but to me, it’s a day I could forget that I am no longer a child, but a woman with no children to speak of. She heard the creaking of the door and once more anticipated the sound of shuffling feet and unadulterated chat, but all thoughts were disrupted as she saw two heads come in, one red and one black. The image of the brown-haired girl, desperate and weeping, returned to her once more. She searched for any sign of her, but to no avail. She wanted to talk to them desperately, a motherly instinct perhaps? Or maybe just an annoyingly nosy nature? Ah, who cares, now is not the time for a moral dilemma. 

“Joaquin, take care of everything for me; I need to sit and rest for awhile,” she called to the young Chilean wizard that helped her in the bar.

She made her way towards the two boys and found herself getting cold feet; it was different approaching a young, lonely girl who was in dire need of someone to listen. Instead of starting her usual casual conversation with ‘lost’ customers, she found herself sitting on the table next to them, her back facing them, and without a moment’s hesitation began eavesdropping.

“Okay, now that Hermione’s out of here, can you please tell me what is going on between the two of you?” one of the boys asked.

“Ron, how many times do I have to tell you, nothing is going on,” the other boy said.

“Nothing going on my arse. You love her,” the boy named Ron said, “and she loves you and I hate the both of you for making a big giant soap opera out of this." 

“My love for her is nothing more than a love for a little sister,” the other answered.

“What do you know about sisterly love? If I loved Ginny like that, the Ministry would arrest me. Harry, tell me exactly why you think your love for her is sisterly? I need a good laugh,” Ron said.

“I can be the worst of myself with her,” Harry said.

“And you dispute your own argument at this point. It is an unwritten pact; you cannot be the worst of yourself with your little sister, because they look up to you, even though they say they despise you. You have to have reserved strength for them at all times. You can’t do things like let them see you cry. It’s cliché, I know, but somehow that’s partly the truth,” Ron said knowingly.

“And your point is?” At this, the boy named Ron spurted a drinkful of water at the boy named Harry’s face.

“Do you have any idea how much effort I have put into that speech? And you do not get the point? What is wrong with you?” he blurted incredulously.

“Sorry, I was trying to be a smartass. I will never do that again,” he said, wiping off Ron’s drinking water from his face, “I can be the worst of myself with her and know that she will never abandon me for it. What else can one ask for?” he said to himself.

“So why?” the red-head asked once more.

“Why what?” the other boy asked back, although he clearly knew what’s next.

“Why don’t you just love her?” he suggested simply.

“Because now is not the time to love her, but tomorrow is forever,” he said, the other boy was silent, but the silence was due to confusion.

Madam Rosmerta pondered at the last words; is it a curse or is it a blessing? Here was a boy who found love before he found himself and here she was who found herself but could never find love. He was luckier in all respects, if he only took the time to see, but how would a boy so young understand? Maybe he was right; tomorrow is forever. She stood up, not wanting to punish her frail heart any longer. As she made her way towards the bar, the girl named Hermione Granger entered. He looked at her and smiled; she smiled back and sat herself beside him taking out a book from her bag and began talking rapidly. And once more, they shared their laughter, the most beautiful sound that the lovely madam has ever set her ears upon. Yes, in the long run it will be a blessing.

 

Night Three: The Loss of Colors

Under the light of the lamp post by the corner of the Three Broomsticks on a warm May night, two figures could be seen standing so closely to each other. Their individuality was barely identifiable and the color of their hairs were unrecognizable under the soft glimmer of light. Yet the steam of their passion emanating from their copulated mouths and bodies can be sensed a score of meters down the road. Two lovers, blissfully unaware of the world surrounding them, existing only to love and to be loved by each other. Ignorant as well of the joy they have brought upon one lady silently watching them from inside the anonymity of windows of the Three Broomsticks.

“Madam, ‘tis not polite to spy on lovers making the best of the night,” Joaquin Luna spoke, sneaking up on Madam Rosmerta’s back 

“There is no need to spy. I just have to look out the window and there they are,” she said jokingly.

“Hmm, you are absolutely right. Those two have been everywhere. Kids today, no sense of discretion,” he said critically.

“You speak as if you are not young yourself. Besides, I think it is a beautiful sight, two people, completely in love with each other,” she said dreamily.

“That is not love; that is just his quivering number talking,” Joaquin smirked.

“Your mouth is so foul. How could you say that when you are not aware of their story, how long they have waited?” she explained.

“How long could they have waited? They look like a pair of teenagers,” he asked perplexed.

“But when you’ve found the person you are willing to give your life to, when you are willing to become air just so they could breathe and yet you have to wait before you are with them, it is like waiting for eternity,” she explained once more.

“If they had found that, if that does exist, then why did he even wait, why couldn’t he have just gone after it? Stupid kids,” he said irritated.

“Joaquin, you are a stupid man’s idiot. There are things that need to wait, because if you rush them, then they might not be ripe enough for you to take,” she said.

“But if you hold your fire too long, they might already be sour,” he said meaningfully. “Are you willing to wait?”

“For true love, I am,” she said.

“Then I hope it comes to you soon,” Joaquin said, and left her to relish the moment she was witnessing true love.