With the start of the Christmas holidays, every house in Hogsade had donned its own brand of wizarding oddities. Strange enchantnts hung from eaves, strings of coloured lights twined around chimneys and signposts, and the whole village sparkled with the kind of cheer only Christmas could bring.
As one of the most famous wizarding settlents in Britain, Hogsade at Christmas was second only to Diagon Alley as a holiday destination.
Which was why, once the break began, the number of visitors to Hogsade shot up.
In the Three Broomsticks, Madam Rosrta was run off her feet. Her wand flicked from bottle to bottle behind the bar, sending streams of butterbeer, mulled ad and other drinks neatly into waiting tankards and glasses.
Even so, her speed could not keep up with the constant tide of custors.
After delivering yet another tray of drinks, she braced both hands on the bar and paused for breath, looking a little worn.
Every ti a holiday like this rolled around, she wondered why she had ever turned her pub into such a roaring success. With every visitor to Hogsade apparently determined to have at least one drink at the Three Broomsticks, she ended up working herself to the bone.
It was not as if she needed the Galleons that badly. She had opened the place for fun. Days like this made her feel very strongly that she might have been happier running sothing more like the Hog's Head. That grumpy old man next door was probably taking things much easier right now.
But the thought of her own bar turning into a place like that made her wrinkle her nose and shake her head.
It was only a couple of days. Once the holidays passed, the crowds would thin.
With that in mind, she straightened up again, rallied herself, and set her wand moving once more, letting the drinks flow into their proper glasses.
At the sa ti, in the corner fireplace, the orange flas slowly shifted to erald green.
The Three Broomsticks' hearth was not open to just anyone. Only witches and wizards who had Madam Rosrta's personal permission could use it as part of the Floo Network.
If she had left it fully connected on a day like this, the fire would have been jamd solid with soot‑covered travellers within the hour.
Those allowed access were, without exception, regulars.
The green flas flared brighter and brighter. A few seconds later, a young man stepped neatly out of the fire, lugging a huge trunk. He let out a long breath.
"Finally. That was a job and a half."
The Christmas break had started five days earlier. In those five days, to make sure the upcoming Black Lake expedition went smoothly, he had travelled all over the place, visiting every last strong ally he had scattered around the world and coaxing, cajoling, and stuffing them all into the trunk in his hand.
To fit them in, he had even borrowed Senior Newt's famous case, the one with an entire nagerie tucked inside it.
Shifting the weight of the trunk in his grip, Evans glanced around the pub. There was a line for drinks all the way to the door. Behind the counter, Madam Rosrta was waving her wand like an orchestra conductor, directing a dizzying ballet of bottles and glasses.
Evans clicked his tongue.
He had known her for years and knew her temperant well. She did not enjoy days when the place was packed to bursting. There would be plenty of grumbling under that smile.
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He drifted closer to the bar and, as Madam Rosrta bustled past, said in an innocently conversational tone:
"Looks like business is booming today."
She rolled her eyes at him without breaking her rhythm. "If you're that free, get over here and help instead of standing there making jokes at my expense."
"Can't. I have to get back to school to help decorate for the Christmas feast," Evans said with a grin, spreading his hands. "And are you sure you want behind the bar? I don't know the first thing about mixing drinks. You were the one who told children weren't allowed alcohol, rember?"
She rolled her eyes again, harder this ti. Evans lifted a hand in farewell.
"See you, Madam Rosrta. May your business be ever prosperous."
"Out. Out!"
A silver‑white arc of light flashed in front of the Hogwarts gates, and Evans reappeared, still carrying the trunk. He dropped it off at his hut, then returned to the castle entrance, pushed open the doors, and stepped inside.
The broad Entrance Hall lay before him. Only a scattering of students sat or stood about chatting. Compared with bustling Hogsade, the castle felt suddenly empty now the holidays had begun.
Quite a few students did choose to stay at Hogwarts over Christmas, but with so many gone ho, the castle was much quieter than it had been at Hallowe'en, when every student and teacher had been on the grounds.
Even so, Christmas was the most important holiday of the year. The Christmas feast at Hogwarts would be on a far grander scale than any Hallowe'en banquet.
When Evans entered the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall was in the middle of directing Sothia's water doubles as they dressed the Hall for the season. As a spring nymph, Sothia's water avatars were absurdly good at this sort of work. By this point, she had personally handled more than half the decorations in the castle.
Officially, Sothia had claid she had taken on the work because she wanted to do her bit for the feast.
Evans, who knew her far too well, did not believe that for a second. She was not the type to volunteer for thankless, physically tiring work.
He vaguely rembered so fourth‑years saying that, during an outdoor lesson, Professor Sothia had once snatched up a tabby cat and played with it for ages.
Thinking of certain possible connections, Evans shivered, decided he did not want to know the details, and deliberately looked away, heading quickly for his usual seat.
He had told Madam Rosrta he needed to co back and help with the decorations, but from the look of it, Sothia had everything thoroughly in hand.
Which ant he could use the ti before the feast to review their preparations for the trip to the lake.
With Dumbledore on the team, plus all the friends he had gathered, they would not be lacking for firepower. Nicolas Flal, as an alchemist, was invaluable for breaking curses and studying any seals or magical devices they might encounter.
What they did not have yet was anyone dedicated to healing.
All the creatures he had brought into this were here because they trusted him. If any of them were hurt—or worse, killed—he would never forgive himself.
Fawkes had only just finished a Burning Day and would need at least a month to return to full strength. The phoenix's tears could still heal, but nowhere near as well as they could at its peak.
How could he strengthen the team's healing capacity?
Leaning on one hand, Evans sank into thought.
As he turned the problem over, soone walking into the Great Hall caught his eye.
A man in a black cloak, face set in an expression that suggested the entire world owed him a million Galleons, was making his slow way toward the staff table.
Evans's eyes lit up.
Wait.
That might just be a very good idea.
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