This story is for personal distribution.
I don’t own, nor am I making any money off of, the wonderful creations
of J.K. Rowling. It’s her world and I’m
just visiting. All original characters
are of my own creation.
A/N: Thank you to
my awesome beta Doctor Aicha!!!
Chapter 1: On the House
“Last call, Ladies and
Gentleman! Last call at the bar!”
Rosmerta’s voice cut through the chatter and smoke
in the Three Broomsticks and she tapped the bell behind the bar with her
wand. The rowdy Saturday night crowd
paid her little head and continued to drink, laugh and shout. Hands on her hips, she eyed the crowd from
where she stood behind the bar, waiting a few seconds to see if someone would
approach with the last drink orders of the night. Surprisingly, no customers seemed to want one last mug of
Butterbeer or glass of her red currant rum.
Good, Rosmerta thought. I
can’t wait to get out of these shoes.
Even with the modified
Cushioning Charm, her glittery fuchsia heels had seemed to slowly shrink as the
night progressed, strangling her toes in the process. For the past two hours the only thing Rosmerta wanted to do was
slip off the shoes and into her bed.
She quickly began putting away glasses and charming the taps shut before
anyone changed their minds. A young
warlock ambled up to the bar and Rosmerta groaned inwardly.
“One last pint of the
house mead,” he flashed a too toothy smile at her. His cheeks were slightly flushed, but that could be chalked up to
the heat in the tavern, the mead, or some combination of the two.
Forcing a smile, Rosmerta
pulled the handle of the tap she hadn’t yet shut, filling the pewter
tankard. She glanced at him out of the
corner of her eye. The young warlock
was giving her that look, that special, certain gaze that was inevitably
bestowed upon her before the tavern closed for the night. The regulars had long ago ceased trying it
out on her, but whenever a new customer stopped by her tavern, looks
more often than not came her way and were of two varieties: a look and the
A look, or more
accurately looks, consisted of darting snatches, as if the owner had to double
and triple check to make sure what they were seeing was real. Eyes lingered, almost against their owner’s
will, a little too long on the more rounded parts of her curvy figure. The men pretended that they weren’t staring
and blushed or became flustered whenever she let on that no one could be that
interested in the pouring of mead. She
didn’t mind those looks, and at sixty-five she was slightly flattered that she
still evoked them from wizards more than half her age. No, what made a look the
look was when the eyes went from sheepishly apologizing for admiring how
her robes flattered her figure to the eyes’ owners relishing the idea of her
robes being completely absent from their mental picture. That’s when she felt she had to burst their
reverie before her imaged self engaged in something her real self would never
approve of doing.
It always amused her how
her admirers thought they were being so stealthy with their looks, but
their attraction was as obvious as an open book with the passages underlined in
bright yellow ink. As long as the men
were respectful and kept the leering to a minimum, she treated the ogling with
a mixture of flattery and feigned ignorance.
Goes with the territory, she had told herself on more than one
occasion. She had learned early on that
customers who ordered another round of drinks or a dessert after a large meal
that might not have done so without gentle persuasion-and much smiling and
fluttering of eyelashes-on her part.
Whenever the looks of interest morphed into verbal territory, especially
around closing time, was when she got annoyed.
This young warlock appeared to be mustering up the nerve to cross that
Honestly she thought, turning off the tap and handing the young man
his drink. One would think I ran a
house of… of… ill repute and not a respectable restaurant! If they’d like something other than mead and
a meal then they had better march themselves down to Lorelei’s Lair! I’m sure Maddie would appreciate the
In addition to the Three
Broomsticks, there were two other taverns in the village: the Hog’s Head and
Lorelei’s Lair. The Hog’s Head was a
small inn located on the outskirts of town and it catered to rather dodgy
customers who preferred to do their drinking away from prying eyes. Lorelei’s Lair, like the Hog’s Head, was
located on the outskirts of the town and had a cliental who preferred to remain
as anonymous as possible. However,
unlike the Hog’s Head, Lorelei’s Lair was a bright and colorful place featuring
nightly entertainment and gambling. And
unlike the Three Broomsticks, which was a family tavern, Lorelei’s Lair also
had a bevy of beautiful employees who made sure that customers ended the night
with considerably less gold than when the night began. Rosmerta’s friend, Madeline Harrison, was
the Lair’s proprietress.
Rosmerta handed the tankard to, she hoped, her last customer of the night.
He placed twelve silver
coins on the bar. Murmuring her thanks,
Rosmerta turned her attention back to the taps. Shoot. He wasn’t going
back to his seat.
“So, what time do you
finish up here?” he asked in a forced casual sounding tone. He leaned sideways against the bar, his back
facing the table where he had been sitting with his friends.
“Way past your bedtime,”
she teased, charming shut the last tap.
She hoped that would deter him from making any further inquiries into
her after work plans.
“I don’t mind waiting
up,” he said, a hopeful note in his voice.
He smiled and took a gulp of the mead.
He continued to stare pointedly at her.
If he were any more of
a puppy he’d be wagging his tail! He’s
not bad looking- but for Merlin’s sake! I could be his…much older sister!
He seemed harmless
enough, but one could never quite tell.
She flicked her wand and began washing mugs in the in the small sink
behind the bar. Sizing him up, she
decided he wasn’t threatening or aggressive, just a little too eager and emboldened
by the mead. She relaxed slightly and
gave him one of her sweet, patient smiles.
It was a look that often appeared when listening to some rambling story
patrons seated at the bar would launch into after their fourth round. She glanced over to the table where his
friends were sitting. Thankfully, they
weren’t watching their friend strike out with the pretty landlady. Rosmerta hated being treated like some bet
at the end of the night and she knew all too well the repercussions of a
bruised male ego.
“Well, it would be a long
wait. And I’m sure a nice young lad
like yourself has better things to do on a Saturday night than wait around for
a woman like myself to finish tending to her business,” she said pleasantly,
She held his gaze with
her bright blue eyes while she said this, paused and then turned her attention
to gathering up the remaining mugs on the bar and wiping it down. Most men got the gentle hint that the
conversation was over. If they were too
thick headed or too drunk to pick up on her cues she could usually rely on a
regular patron to help her out. Hagrid,
her normal champion, was uncharacteristically absent. Well, the students were set to arrive the next day and she
assumed Hagrid wouldn’t want to greet the new first years hung over. She was indebted to Hagrid’s chivalry on
more than one occasion; she hadn’t forgotten that one wizard, most likely a
Death Eater, twenty years ago who hadn’t taken too kindly to her brush off at
the end of the night. If Hagrid hadn’t
forgotten his umbrella-well, she didn’t like to think about it.
The young warlock gave
her one last lingering look before ambling back over to his friends.
“Looks like you’ve got a
new member of your fan club. Pretty
soon you’ll have to put up an age line!”
Rosmerta glanced up from
her dishes to Hester Moon, her very amused waitress, who had just brought a
tray full of empty glasses and tankards up to the bar. Hester’s deep brown eyes danced with
merriment under thin arched brows.
Although teasing, her tone still maintained a level of respectfulness
and, Rosmerta frowned inwardly, her voice was also tinged with just a tiny a
bit of envy at the attention her boss received. Rosmerta felt that this envy, imagined or not, was highly
unwarranted on Hester’s part. Hester in
no way matched the ample, er charms of her boss, but she was attractive
in her own right. She had deep brown
eyes and often wore her thin, mahogany colored hair pulled back in a short
ponytail or with a headband to keep it out of her eyes. Of average height and weight, she easily
weaved around the tables, delivering and taking orders as unobtrusively as a
It’s a shame, Rosmerta thought, so many young women waste their
youth worrying about what’s below their necks instead of what’s between their
ears! All the attention looks like fun
until boundaries are crossed and someone ends up covered in boils…or
worse. At least the men keep their wands
in their robes with that one!
The regular patrons felt
a sort of paternal instinct toward the polite young waitress and watched their
language and manners when she brought over drinks and food. Respectful but serious around the customers,
Hester hadn’t quite mastered the flirty banter and social ease Rosmerta had
developed over the years. Hester
greeted customers with a polite hello and a shy smile. She would then write down the drink orders,
or inquire if one wanted their steak medium rare or well done. Hester was quiet and watchful, preferring to
blend into the background and observe her customers. She would then treat Rosmerta to wicked impressions of the
patrons after hours. Over the past
month Rosmerta had grown to respect the younger witch’s sharp mind and
Hester was new to the
Three Broomsticks, at least as an employee.
Having recently left Hogwarts that June after finishing her seventh year
at the school, she had been a customer from her Hogsmeade weekends. The middle child of three, Hester’s younger
sister, Mary, was beginning her fourth year at the school, and her older
brother, Samuel, had just gotten married and worked for the Department for the
Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures at the Ministry of Magic. Hester wanted to gain some first hand
experience in the running of a restaurant before she headed to cooking school
in France. After completing cooking
school and an apprenticeship as a chef at the Golden Goblet, a fine wizard
bistro in London, she planned to open her own restaurant. She had detailed her plan in a very orderly,
business-like tone to Rosmerta when she applied for the job that past spring on
a Hogsmeade weekend, (even though Rosmerta had not advertised for help). Well, Slytherins were nothing if not
Rosmerta had been so
impressed by the poised young woman that, even though she usually managed the
tavern just fine, she had hired her for the year. She was anticipating a busy one with the Tri-Wizard Tournament
taking place at Hogwarts in two months.
Hagrid had given her advanced warning and Rosmerta was doing all she
could to prepare for it. Rosmerta was
hoping to do good business this year to make up for the dismal previous
year. Those horrid Dementors had scared
off most of her regular customers and she had been forced, for her own and
other’s safety of course, to cut down the number of hours she could remain
Rosmerta merely rolled
her eyes at the young waitress’s jest and finished wiping down the bar. Hester gave her a sweet, if tired smile, and
set off to collect the last of the rapidly emptying glasses. “Leave them, Madam Rosmerta, I’ll wash up,”
she called over her retreating shoulder.
She doesn’t have to
tell me twice.
“Thanks, dear. I’ll be downstairs,” she called to
Hester. Wiping her hands, she took the
till and her ledger with the drink and food orders with her to the “office” in
the cellar. Her heels (which she
mentally cursed with each step) clacked on the hardwood floor.
“G’night Rosie!” came a
chorus of male voices.
the till and ledger, Rosmerta tapped at the door to the cellar. It had been charmed to recognize only her
wand and it opened for her. Sending her
book and cash drawer ahead of her, Rosmerta carefully made her way down the creaky
wooden steps to the cellar. The air in
the cellar was moist and infused with the scent of oak from the barrels and
casks. It was cooler down there than in
the tavern, a relief in the summer but necessitating brief warming charms in
the winter. Her office consisted of a
wooden desk, a filing cabinet and a very comfortable chair- all of which were
nestled against the wall opposite the kegs of Butterbeer and the casks of her
She sank into her chair with a
groan. Vehemently kicking off her heels
under the desk, she stretched and wiggled her toes around a bit. Not wanting to face the ledger just yet, she
opened her desk drawer and took out a bag of peppermint tea from the small tin
in the first drawer. Placing the tea
bag in the mug on her desk, she shot a stream of boiling water out of her wand
and into the mug. She looked at the tea
and shook her head. Boiling water. I can’t believe there was a time when I
actually had difficulty with that spell!
The thin wooden door
muffled the slowly waning noise from the bar upstairs. She raised the steaming mug to her nose and
inhaled deeply. The odor of peppermint
wafted up through her nostrils and the fresh smell of mint revived her the way
a brisk walk or flight always did.
Having gotten her second wind, Rosmerta began her nightly task of adding
columns and checking receipts. Rosmerta
liked to balance the books before turning in for the night, a task that usually
took about an hour. She normally had
time to do part of the books after the bulk of the dinner crowd had left at
seven and before the drinking crowd arrived at nine. When she was really tired and the peppermint tea didn’t do its
trick, she left it for the next morning.
It had been an average crowd that night so she didn’t have too much to
do. I can sleep in tomorrow guilt
free, she told herself. With the
promise of sleep and the fresh feeling of the tea reviving her, Rosmerta
tackled the ledger with renewed vigor.
Half an hour later, every
Vampire Vodka and glass of strawberry wine was accounted for and her mug was
drained. She performed a quick cleaning
charm on her mug and put it back in her desk.
Rosmerta reluctantly put her shoes back on, convinced they had shrunk
even more under her desk in retaliation for having been kicked off so
forcefully, and headed up the stairs.
She had locked up the day’s haul in her safe. The tavern was closed on Mondays, which allowed her to travel to
Diagon Alley and make a deposit at Gringott’s bank. Charming the door shut with her wand, she found the tavern empty
and Hester sweeping the floor.
“Good night, dear. You’ll be all right getting home by
yourself?” Rosmerta was glad the Dementors had been removed in June and people
could walk or fly home after hours in safety.
She usually enjoyed a leisurely flight home, especially in the
Hester finished sweeping
and banished the dust into the trash.
“Sure. I’ve got my broom and
it’s not too far.”
Hester rented a room from the Porter family who
lived a several blocks away from the tavern.
When their children had grown up and moved out, they had made some renovations
and now took in boarders. The Porters,
Rosemary and her husband Herbert, were a sweet elderly couple that had lived in
Hogsmeade their entire lives. Rosemary
was the town librarian and Herb was officially retired now but had served two
terms as mayor. He was still active in
local politics, currently serving on the city council and often writing
editorial letters to The Hogsmeade Herald about keeping the flying speed
limit below 25 km/hr in school zones and how the rampant jarvey problem was ruining
the town’s park. Locals affectionately
referred to Mrs. Porter, and the Porter children—Ginger, Basil, and Pepper—as
that’s missing is cumin and they have a whole spice rack,” was Hester’s comment
to Rosmerta after she first moved into the Porter House, sending Rosmerta into
a fit of giggles.
“Don’t laugh dear,” Rosmerta
told her, “they were actually considering Tarragon before settling on
Basil.” The look of horror on Hester’s
face in response to her reply had made Rosmerta laugh even harder.
At first, Hester had been
very shy around the Porters. Living by
herself for the first time was very much like her first few weeks at Hogwarts,
only without the classes or a dorm full of girls her own age. Without realizing how terribly homesick she
was, she spent her first few weeks in Hogsmeade alone, going for long walks or
reading her The Enchanted Cauldron cookbook and Witch Weekly
magazine and writing to her family.
Having raised three children, Mr. and Mrs. Porter had acquired that
parental sixth sense that alerted them to when some well-meaning meddling was
The Porters talked her
into sitting with them in the sunny kitchen on her days off and have cup after
endless cup of tea. Mrs. Porter wanted
to hear all about culinary school and Mr. Porter liked hearing Hester recount
her brother’s stories about rogue hippogriffs and rebellious house elves and
goblins. They reminded her very much of
her own grandparents, so Hester, haltingly at first, talked to the couple. She in turn listened to Mr. Porter’s tales
of fighting in the Great War against Grindewald, or let him read his latest
editorial to her. Mrs. Porter had
started teaching her how to bake the world’s best Chocolate Camelot Cake and
Mr. Porter and the grandchildren were more than happy to eat her mistakes. By the end of August, after just over a
month in the village, Hester began to relax and come out of her shell.
Ginger still lived in
Hogsmeade with her husband and eight-year old twins, William and Margaret (to
the disappointment of her mother, Ginger had sensibly refused to name her
children Saffron and Sage). Ginger
just had another baby, Henry, that past June and was extremely busy keeping up
with the demands of an infant and two rambunctious eight year olds, so the
twins were often at the Porter house.
When Mr. Porter needed a nap, Hester would take over. Billy and Maggie (as they twins were called)
could greatly amuse themselves (and make a spectacular mess) with the homemade
flour clay Hester made. Hester shared
the kitchen with the Porters (who provided meals in her boarding fee) and Mrs.
Porter told her she was welcome to practice cooking anytime. Much to the delight of the twins, Hester
would often “practice” making her homemade shortbread biscuits, which the
children would then decorate with icing and bits of candy and eat with a glass
of pumpkinaid. Ginger would always slip
Hester a few Galleons as a thank you, so Hester didn’t mind occupying the
children too much.
“Well, you fly safe,
dear. I’ll see you on Wednesday at
ten.” Hester worked Wednesday through
Saturday. The Three Broomsticks opened
late Sunday afternoon for dinner, was closed Monday and usually had slow
business Tuesdays. Rosmerta covered
those days fine by herself and she didn’t want to work the poor girl to death,
even though she was still perky at the end of the day whereas Rosmerta had to
hold herself back from hexing people to get them to leave hours before it was
Hester slung her broom over her shoulder, waved and headed out the door.
Rosmerta put the till
back under the register and the ledger back under the bar. She doused the fire in the hearth,
double-checking to ensure it was really out.
Rosmerta had no desire to have an ashwinder ruin her livelihood. The Three Broomsticks had been in Hogsmeade
long before she had bid to be proprietor and she planned on selling it for a
tidy profit to the next would-be owner.
Maybe I can interest Hester she thought before dismissing the
idea. Hester’s ambitions stretched
beyond the quaint village Rosmerta had called home for the past forty
Forty years. Rosmerta had become such a fixture in
Hogsmeade that she could almost forget she hadn’t spent the first quarter
century of her life here. Most of
younger residents of the village, and certainly the students, assumed she was a
local. There was a lot of curiosity
when she first arrived. The pretty
young blonde with the blue silk robes and tastefully expensive gold earrings
had just appeared by herself one day and set up house in the outskirts of the
village not too far from the mountain overlooking the town. She repainted the house white, put a bronze
sundial in the front yard and mounted a weathervane in the shape of a unicorn
on top of the roof. She grew beautiful
roses; wine and rubies decorated in her front yard, offset by blooms of milk
She had bid on the Three
Broomsticks at the end of the summer when the old owners, Oliver and Julia
Puck, had decided to retire. Residents
were very curious about the dazzling new witch with blue eyes and a fondness
for the raspberry mouse balls at Honeydukes.
Inquiries into her house at school were met with the surprising news
that she hadn’t attended Hogwarts.
Those questions were followed up with the inevitable asking as to where
she actually had gone to school.
She usually gave the vague answer that the school was small and the
inquirer most likely would not have heard of it. That answer was usually enough to deter them from any further
probing, and since she really hadn’t given an answer, it made the asking of the
question rather pointless in the first place.
For those who pressed for a more specific answer, Rosmerta told them the
name of her old school. Most of the
time she was met with a shrug and a “never heard of it”, which again made the
asking of the original question a fruitless endeavor. The very few who recognized the name eyed her with much
skepticism and raising of eyebrows, suspecting her of lying or at the very
least, playing a really good joke on them.
She could practically see them quite literally biting their tongues,
holding back the question of, if she really did attend that school, how on
earth had she ended up the village beer wench?
Wurtzanhall Academy. Her old school. “Where witches become ladies.”
The very private, very exclusive boarding school in Switzerland, serving
the daughters of prominent witches and wizards all over the world. Families who sent their daughters there knew
who was who and did not concern themselves with those members of the wizarding
world who did not “know”. Once upon a
time, when Rosmerta had been Elizabeth Anne Ogden, Rosmerta knew. She knew Hellaine Snodgrass, the future wife
of Augustus Malfoy and mother of Lucius.
Colette de la Boursdor, daughter of the French ambassador, was her first
year roommate and Rosmerta was in the same Fellowship house as the German
heiress, Hilda Guttenhexen. She knew
Jacquelyn and Catherine Wildwood, of the Salem Massachusetts Wildwoods and
their cousin Daphne Greenleaf. She knew
Lauren Cabbott, the daughter of the Minister of Magic and Tabitha Katzenberg,
whose father was on the board of directors for the company that owned several
publishing houses, including Obscurus and Whizz Hard. Oh, she knew all right-but it was not until after
graduation that she would learn.
Satisfied she could close
down the pub, Rosmerta got her broom and headed out into the warm summer
night. Knotting her pouch around her
waist, Rosmerta mounted her broom and lifted off. She loved flying home after work. She didn’t have to worry about the wind messing her hair and
would push her Comet 1040 faster than the speed limit. Sitting down was also a pleasure after being
on her feet all day. Flying, she had
decided a long time ago, was one of the best things about being a witch.
The crickets were
serenading each other, socializing until they had to hide from the early birds
in the morning. The moon glowed as if
lit from behind by a singular giant candle and stars stood out in brilliant
contrast to the endless black of the night sky. At quarter past one in the morning, the village streets were
deserted. Leaning forward and gripping
the handle, Rosmerta urged the broom faster- mentally crossed her fingers that
an officer of the village’s Magical Law Enforcing Squad was not patrolling in
those early morning hours. Furtively
looking left and right and deciding the coast was clear, Rosmerta put on a
burst of speed and executed a loop.
thought as the blood rushed back to her head.
Save the theatrics for when you become the oldest rookie player for
the Harpies, all right? Rosmerta
kept up the speed but remained on a straight course the rest of the way home.
Home. As soon as she got off her broom and in the
front door, she yanked her shoes off and padded barefoot across the living
room. She charmed a few torches on as
she crossed the room. Queenie, her
bright pink Fwooper, hopped up and down on her perch, happy to see that her
mistress was home. Queenie took off,
swooping around the living room, opening and closing her beak. The Silencing Charm Rosmerta placed on
Queenie every month prevented her from hooting and chirping, but she was sure
the bird was singing her a song to welcome her home.
Rosmerta went to her
bedroom where she stripped out of her work robes (Bet Mr. Flirtatious wishes
he was here right now!), put her shoes in the closet, removed her gold hoop
earrings and slipped into a long silk nightshirt. Queenie had swooped into the bedroom and was now strutting up and
down on the pale pink comforter on the bed.
“Hi, pretty girl. Hey sweetie,” she cooed, stroking her pet’s
brilliant plumage. Queenie allowed
Rosmerta to admire her. “Who’s the prettiest
birdie in the world?” Queenie gave her
wings an impressive flap and clicked her beak as if to say, “Why, it’s me, you
“Did you bring me any
mail today or are you just going to get by on your good looks?”
Queenie gave a haughty
shake of her tail feathers and flew off.
Rosmerta often sent
Queenie to pick up and deliver her personal correspondences in and around the
village. If she needed to send a letter
beyond the village, she used a post owl.
She felt guilty that the bird was cooped up in her house most of the time
and her pet certainly made an impression when it arrived for pickups and
deliveries. All homes were equipped
with an owl door, so Queenie could come and go as she pleased and other owls
could make deliveries when she was not at home. She preferred that mail deliveries at the Three Broomsticks be
kept to a minimum after a particularly ill-mannered owl made off with an entire
steak one time. She and the customer
were furious at the time, but now she found it made for a good story so she
just laughed about it and kept a close eye out whenever an owl came by the
Rosmerta went into her
bathroom and flicked on the torches with her wand. The ocean waves on her shower curtain rolled and dolphins leaped
in and out of the waves. Rosmerta set
to work washing her face and applying various creams to her face, neck, and
legs. Deciding on one last cup of tea
before bed, she held off on brushing her teeth.
Leaving the torches in
the bathroom on, she padded to the kitchen where Queenie was waiting for her,
perched on the back of her chair, a letter in her golden beak. Rosmerta wasn’t sure if Fwoopers were
capable of looking smug, but Queenie somehow managed to pull it off.
“Thank you, my dear,”
Rosmerta retrieved her letter and gave Queenie an affectionate pat. She rummaged in the cupboard for the tea
bags and after finding the one she wanted, passed Queenie an owl treat.
Queenie looked at her for
a moment as if to say, “I’m a Fwooper, you silly woman, which is a rather
exotic bird and not a common owl. I
deserve only the finest bird cuisine, but if that’s all you’re offering, far be
it for me to be rude to my host, ” before consenting to eat the owl chow. She took the treat delicately with her
you’re such a lady, aren’t you?” Queenie
finished her treat and stuck her beak in the air. “Well, you had a good teacher.”
Rosmerta returned her pet’s smug expression with some exaggeration. Rosmerta glanced at her letter and
recognized Hagrid’s scrawl. She put the
letter on the table and finished making her tea. Steaming mug of chamomile in hand, she sat down at the table and
proceeded to read her letter. Queenie
perched on her shoulder as if to read it as well.
How are you? Sorry I aint bin at the Broomsticks this
week, got a lot to do before classes begin.
I still can’t believe I’m a professor!
I’m hoping this year’s classes will go better then last year’s. Got some interesting new creatures (Rosmerta
rolled her eyes in an affectionate way for Hagrid’s love of all things big and
hairy) but I’ll tell you about them later.
Looking forward to the Tri-Wizard Tournament, should be right
interesting to see what the champions are gonna be doing! I bet you’re excited for all the business,
should be a fair lot gathering to see the Tournament. Glad them ruddy Dementors are gone. If nothing goes wrong, I’ll be down Friday. Say hi to Queenie, she’s almost as pretty as
you (but don’t tell her I said that!).
Wondering about his
“intersting creatures” and feeling buoyed by Hagrid’s compliment, Rosmerta
finished her tea and looked over the rest of the mail. Nothing looked pressing so she saved it for
the morning. Her clock chimed two in
the morning, and with a sigh Rosmerta began the task of shutting off the
torches in her house and coaxing Queenie into her cage for the night. She brushed her teeth and set her alarm for
ten. Crawling into bed, the coolness of
satin against her cheek and the warmness of the tea in her stomach, Rosmerta
sighed. For the past forty years she
had a good, simple, but a tad boring, life.
She earned an honest living, made her own decisions and wasn’t that what
she had wanted? Over the past forty
years she had cultivated roots in this village and the fruits of her labors
were rewarded. If it was such a good
life, why did she feel she had to justify it to herself?
I just need a little
bit of a change, she told herself, a
good sort of change, not like the awful year this past one was.
Looking forward to the
start of the Tournament and the excitement it was sure to bring Rosmerta
drifted off to sleep, forgetting an old wizarding proverb: You may soon wish
you had never found what you had thought was missing from your life.