"It's lonely to be more powerful than any man you know."
- Merlin
Twelve years after Harry Potter defeated Voldemort and put an end to the First Wizarding War, the Wizarding world is shaken by the news that Sirius Black has escaped Azkaban. But no...
JUST PREPARE A NICE EULOGY FOR MY FUNERAL WHEN I DIE OF FROSTBITE ✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧
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A few minutes later, Ron and Hermione had paid for all their sweets and the four of them left Honeydukes for the blizzard outside. "I actually hate you so much right now, Harry," Rhea grumbled, hugging herself as the cold winter winds whipped against her face. "Why couldn't we fetch our coats before we left?"
"I never said we couldn't," Harry told her, wearing a jacket unlike her. It definitely wasn't perfect for the blizzard — and he wore no gloves, scarf or hat — but it was better than just a knitted jumper that Rhea wore inside the castle because she thought it was cold there.
"Don't shift the blame on me," Rhea narrowed her eyes at him. "Just prepare a nice eulogy for my funeral when I die of frostbite."
Rhea couldn't even enjoy the way Hogsmeade looked like a Christmas card; the little thatched cottages and shops were all covered in a layer of crisp snow; there were holly wreaths on the doors and strings of enchanted candles hanging in the trees.
They headed up the street, heads bowed against the wind, Ron and Hermione shouting through their scarves, giving Harry a tour of the village. But Rhea wasn't exactly in the mood for a walk in the storm, so she suggested, "What do you guys say about going for a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks?"
Harry was more than willing to do so since the wind was fierce and his hands were freezing, so they crossed the road, and in a few minutes were entering the tiny inn. It was extremely crowded, noisy, warm, and smoky.
A curvy sort of woman with a pretty face was serving a bunch of rowdy warlocks up at the bar. "That's Madam Rosmerta," Ron said. "I'll get the drinks, shall I?" he added, going slightly red.
"Ron fancies her," Hermione teased, speaking just loud enough for Ron to hear her as she guided Harry and Rhea to the back of the room, where there was a small, vacant table between the window and a handsome Christmas tree, which stood next to the fireplace.
"Thank Salazar," Rhea muttered to herself, taking the seat closest to the fireplace in hopes of not shivering to death. It didn't help much, but it was better than nothing.
Ron came back five minutes later, carrying three foaming tankards of hot butterbeer. "Merry Christmas!" he said happily, raising his tankard.
Rhea quickly thanked him and took the hot tankard between her hands to revive her fingers from their numb state. Raising the tankard to her mouth, she took a small sip of the delicious butterbeer that seemed to heat every bit of her from the inside.
A sudden breeze ruffled her hair. The door of the Three Broomsticks had opened again. Rhea looked over the rim of her tankard and beside her Harry choked. Professors McGonagall and Flitwick had just entered the pub with a flurry of snowflakes, shortly followed by Hagrid, who was deep in conversation with a portly man in a lime-green bowler hat and a pinstriped cloak — Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic.
