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( 𝔳𝔬𝔩𝔲𝔪𝔢 𝔦𝔦𝔦, 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖞-𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖊 ) — dumbledore's army
The morning of the Hogsmeade visit dawned bright but windy. Evangeline walked between the tall stone pillars topped with winged boars all on her lonesome, then turned left onto the road and into the village, the wind leaving her pin-straight hair unaffected thanks to a glamour charm.
Her usual ventures into Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop and Gladrags Wizardwear had been replaced with an incriminating invitation to The Hog's Head, courtesy of Hermione.
The Rosier girl would've been lying if she didn't know what the trio were up to; she did, and she had encouraged it. Granted, they would all be more than done for if anyone were to find out, but for the time being her pitiful power as a teacher was better than nothing. In the long run, risking redundancy seemed like a minor problem compared to the war brewing in the Wizarding World.
She walked down the main street and past Zonko's Joke shop (not surprised to see Fred, George, and Lee clowning about), past the post office, from which owls issued at regular intervals, and turned up a side street at the top of which stood a small inn.
A battered wooden sign hung from a rusty bracket over the door, with a picture upon it of a wild boar's severed head leaking blood onto the white cloth around it. The sign creaked in the wind as she approached.
''Charming,'' the brunette muttered.
It was nothing like The Three Broomsticks, whose large bar gave an impression of gleaming wealth and cleanliness. The Hog's Head bar comprised one small, dingy, and very dirty room that smelled strongly of something that might have been goats. The bay windows were so encrusted with grime that very little daylight could permeate the room, which was lit instead with stubs of candles sitting on rough wooden tables.
There was a man at the bar whose whole head was wrapped in dirty grey bandages, though he was still managing to gulp endless glasses of some smoking, fiery substance through a slit over his mouth. Two figures shrouded in hoods sat at a table in one of the windows. In a shadowy corner beside the fireplace sat a witch with a thick, black veil that fell to her feet.
The barman sidled towards her out of the back room. He was a grumpy-looking old man with a great deal of long gray hair and beard. He was also tall and thin, and seemed vaguely familiar.
