Snowflakes as large as goose feathers began to fall from the sky, their crystalline beauty descending gently. Enormous flakes landed on Augustus's golden hair. Extending his right hand, he caught one of these heavenly blessings. Snow always evoked a peculiar sense of familiarity in Augustus. To him, these pristine, unsullied sprites seemed perfect and innocent.
"This winter seems to have arrived earlier than usual. Around this time in previous years, it was still blazing hot. Judging by this heavy snowfall, it seems this winter will bring relentless blizzards," Lillian remarked, a smile glimmering in her wine-red eyes. She paid no heed to the snow accumulating on her, her childlike purity evident in her expression amidst the swirling white. Augustus couldn't help but be affected, a gentle warmth surfacing in his own smile.
Hogsmeade Village looked like a Christmas card: cottages and shops blanketed in a crisp layer of snow, holly wreaths adorning the doors, and strings of enchanted candles dangling from trees.
"With snow coming down like this, we'd better find some shelter. If we stay out here much longer, we'll turn into snowmen, with only our eyes peeking out," Draco Malfoy muttered, rubbing his reddened nose and casting Augustus a pleading look.
"How about we visit the Shrieking Shack? I heard it's the most haunted house in all of Britain. Why not have a little adventure? I've always wanted to see what ghosts really look like," Lillian suggested eagerly, turning to Augustus.
"I'm not particularly interested in ghosts. On the other hand, the butterbeer you mentioned earlier does sound appealing. I think we should head to the Three Broomsticks for a drink," Augustus replied with a faint smile. To him, ghosts—mere remnants of human resentment—were insignificant. He had vanquished far more terrifying demons from the depths of hell, beings so dreadful that even the rulers of hell whispered his name in reverence. The idea of facing a ghost held no excitement for him.
"Yes, in this weather, heading to the Three Broomsticks for butterbeer is a perfect choice. Once again, Augustus proves his brilliance," Malfoy quickly agreed, clearly relieved by the decision. Lillian rolled her eyes but ultimately followed the two of them.
They crossed the street, and a few minutes later, they entered the cozy inn. The place was warm, smoky, and bustling with noise. Behind the bar stood Madam Rosmerta, a striking woman with a graceful figure, tending to a rowdy group of wizards.
"Madam Rosmerta is as stunning as ever," Malfoy declared with exaggerated familiarity as he strutted into the pub. "I'll get the drinks, Augustus. You two find us a spot."
Augustus and Lillian moved toward a table at the back of the room, situated between a frosted window and a beautifully decorated Christmas tree, conveniently near the fireplace. Five minutes later, Malfoy returned, carrying three steaming mugs of foamy butterbeer.
"Judging by its appearance, it's bound to taste excellent," Augustus said, nodding slightly as he took a mug.
"Cheers to Christmas!" Malfoy raised his mug, clinking it against theirs. Outside, the snow continued to fall. Augustus sipped the butterbeer—it was smooth and left a delightful aftertaste, undoubtedly a fine brew.
The door to the Three Broomsticks opened again, and Hermione and Ron entered. Augustus glanced at them casually but quickly noticed something interesting. Activating his keen "Eye of Inquiry," he discerned Harry's slim figure concealed beneath a cloak.
"What are they doing here now? Such a buzzkill. What could have been a pleasant drinking session is now ruined by these nuisances," Malfoy grumbled, taking two angry gulps of butterbeer.
Suddenly, a gust of wind swept through, and the door opened once more.
Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick stepped in, accompanied by a flurry of snow. Behind them followed Hagrid and a man with a dignified air, wearing a dull green bowler hat and a finely striped cloak. It was none other than Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic.
"This is unusual. What brings Professor McGonagall here? And the Minister of Magic, no less? It's quite a curious gathering," Lillian murmured, her slightly tipsy eyes gazing at the newcomers.
Professor McGonagall moved toward the bar, her elegant green high-heeled shoes clicking softly.
"A small glass of Gillywater?"
"That's mine," McGonagall's voice rang out.
"Four pints of mulled mead?"
"Thanks, Rosmerta," Hagrid said.
"A Sherry Fruit Soda with ice and an umbrella?"
"Indeed!" Professor Flitwick chirped, smacking his lips.
"And your red currant rum, Minister?"
"Thank you, my dear Rosmerta," Fudge replied warmly. "Always a pleasure to see you. Why not join us for a drink?"
"Thank you, Minister," Rosmerta said with a smile.
"It's obvious why Fudge is here," Augustus mused aloud. "This is about Sirius Black. He's likely consulting with McGonagall and the others for advice on the matter."
"Typical," Malfoy snorted. "Many pureblood families have issued bounties for Sirius. Anyone who catches him will gain a considerable reward. At the same time, Fudge's position as Minister is under threat due to this fiasco. He's clearly desperate, which is why he's personally getting involved."
"What brings you here, Minister?" Rosmerta's voice floated over.
Fudge shifted uneasily in his chair, as if checking for eavesdroppers. Then he quietly replied, "What else but Sirius Black, my dear? I'm sure you've heard about the incident at Hogwarts on Halloween."
"Indeed, I've heard the rumors," Rosmerta admitted.
"Have you been telling the whole tavern, Hagrid?" McGonagall snapped angrily.
"Do you think Black is still in the area, Minister?" Rosmerta asked in a low voice.
"Absolutely," Fudge replied firmly.
"Do you know the Dementors have searched my inn twice already?" Rosmerta's voice carried a sharp edge. "They've scared off my customers. It's bad for business, Minister."
The snow outside continued to fall steadily, while inside, an undercurrent of tension rippled beneath the surface. Augustus's lips curled into a faint, amused smile. How utterly dull, he thought, taking another sip of his butterbeer.
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