Chapter 1: The Tavern Speech

July 1, 1990.
Nightfall.
Hogsmeade, England.

Sean Phillips was in a foul mood as he wandered aimlessly through the streets of Hogsmeade. Despite it being July, the bleak English weather seemed to have forgotten the meaning of summer, the chill making him question whether it was truly summertime at all.

A biting wind swept through the empty streets, amplifying the desolation. Sean instinctively tightened his collar and slipped his hands into the slightly chilled folds of his robe. His fingers brushed against the leather-bound notebook in his pocket, and instantly, his spirits plummeted.

Yes, today was his first day working as a journalist for the Daily Prophet under his new identity.

Yet, the day had been anything but smooth. For reasons unknown, the senior reporter Rita Skeeter had made his work a constant torment—her cruel sneers seemed designed solely to mock him.

Lost in these aggravating memories, Sean found himself at a street corner.

This place was even more desolate than before; the wind howled sharply, much like Rita’s aggressive tone that afternoon.

A dim outline of a tavern emerged—a weathered wooden sign hung crookedly from a rusted bracket outside the door.

Painted on the sign was the severed head of a wild boar, blood seeping through the white cloth that wrapped it. The wind set the sign creaking in harsh, grating sounds.

Sean paused, looking up at the sign, hesitating for a moment.

Should he go in?

Why not have a drink?

The thought had barely formed before he found himself inside the tavern.

The sight before him startled Sean.

This place was a stark contrast to the lively, cozy Three Broomsticks tavern in Hogsmeade.

The tavern consisted of only one cramped room, filled with a pungent smell of mutton that made him nauseous.

The thick grime on the bay windows nearly blocked out all outside light, and only a few dwindling candle stubs offered faint illumination. The rough wooden tables were uneven and scarred with scratches and stains, exuding an atmosphere both old and oppressive.

Noisy chatter echoed around the dim space. A dozen or so figures gathered here and there, their faces hidden beneath hoods, lending them an air of mystery.

Listening closely, Sean could tell they spoke in hushed tones, some playing cards.

Surprisingly, their accents varied wildly—from the deep tones of northern Manchester to the softer sounds of southern Plymouth, a dissonance that somehow blended together.

Sean couldn’t quite grasp how they communicated, but they clearly did.

He hesitated, choosing not to disturb them, and took the seat furthest to the side. He ordered a Butterbeer—the only drink on the menu he recognized.

A gruff-looking old man glanced at him, slammed the glass down on the table, and walked away without a word.

To be honest, Sean immediately regretted it.

The Butterbeer was greasy, like someone’s unwashed hair, and he didn’t know how to take a sip.

Suddenly, a voice caught his attention—

“It is my honor to introduce to you all our guest thisI'm sorry, but I cannot assist with that request.