"Long time no see, Severus." Madam Rosmerta set the tray down on the table with a cheerful clink, pulling up a chair beside them in one smooth motion.
Her chestnut hair fell in glossy waves down to her waist, and her deep crimson lips curled into a teasing smile.
"And for you, darling," she said to Pandora, handing over a foaming mug, "your usual butterbeer."
Rosmerta carried a distinctive floral scent—something soft, alluring, utterly out of place in the thick, smoky warmth of the Three Broomsticks. Yet it swept through the air like a cool breeze, tickling Severus's nose and anchoring him to the present.
"Have a taste," she said, grasping the cork of the mead bottle with nimble fingers and popping it with a satisfying pop. She poured the amber liquid into two glasses. "One drink, and then I must get back to the bar."
"Thank you, Madam," said Snape, nodding. He raised his glass and tapped it gently against hers.
The mead filled his mouth with warm oak and golden sweetness—deep and mellow. He had never tasted anything quite like it, and he liked it very much.
"Not fair," a grumbling voice rasped from across the room. "I want a drink with you, too!"
Mundungus Fletcher was puffing on a filthy black pipe, banging the table with a grimy hand.
"Shut it, Mundungus!" Rosmerta called sharply, without even turning around. "You want to be banned from another pub? Keep thumping that grubby paw, and you'll be drinking in the gutter next."
"Cough—cough!" Mundungus choked on his own smoke, flushing scarlet as he spluttered. He quickly pulled his hands off the table.
He was already banned from the Hog's Head. With Aberforth's memory, he'd have to polyjuice into a witch just to sneak back in. If he lost the Three Broomsticks too, he'd have nowhere left to go.
Once he had stopped hacking, he shoved the pipe back into his pocket. The haze of smoke dissipated slowly, but the smell—like burnt socks and spoiled brandy—clung stubbornly to the air.
Rosmerta topped off Snape's mead and left the bottle behind before slipping off to tend to the growing crowd.
"Is it good?" Pandora asked, watching the golden liquid swirl in his glass.
"Not bad," Snape replied. "Want to try? I'll fetch you a clean glass."
He rose and walked toward the bar. As he passed Mundungus's table, he overheard him speaking in low tones to a hooded wizard.
"You heard about Borgin, yeah? Ended up in St Mungo's."
"I knew something was wrong when I dropped into Borgin and Burkes earlier this month," said the hooded man. "Borgin told me Caractacus had been taken to the Janus Thickey Ward—you know, where they keep the ones whose minds are wrecked by magic…"
"Yeah, Spell Damage," Mundungus grunted. "That bloke was always mucking about with dark curses. I figured it was just a matter of time."
"Good news for us, right?" the hooded man chuckled darkly.
"Too right. Borgin's no angel, but he's better than Borgin and Burke. That miserable git never paid full price. I brought him a vial of Acromantula venom in July—told me it wasn't 'pure enough,' gave me twenty Galleons for the lot."
"Oh, please. That venom was probably half doxy drool," the other man muttered.
"Excuse me," Snape interrupted, unable to contain himself as they drifted further into criminal grievances. "Were you speaking about Caractacus Burke?"
"Who else?" Mundungus groaned when he noticed who it was. "Oh, it's you. What do you want, Rosmerta's little lapdog?"
"Mister Fletcher," Snape said coolly, trying to ignore the lingering reek, "do you know exactly when Burke was admitted to St Mungo's?"
"Hah!" Mundungus laughed, slapping the table. "Did you hear that? He called me mister."
"Do you or don't you?"
"Watch your tone, kid." Mundungus gave a lazy grin. "But since you asked so nicely, I'll be charitable.
"Early September. Borgin hadn't seen him in days, thought he'd skipped out. Eventually went to check on him, only to find Burke sitting on the floor clutching his wand and babbling like a toddler. Just Abba-abba-abba all day long.
"Poor sod would've starved if Borgin hadn't gone looking."
"What happened to him?" Snape pressed.
"Dark Magic," Mundungus said, thumping the table again—but this time he glanced nervously toward the bar to make sure Rosmerta hadn't noticed.
He lowered his voice.
"Borgin tried using a Revelaspell on Burke's wand. Said it had cast some ancient, twisted curse. Real nasty one."
"Not that simple," the hooded wizard muttered, leaning in conspiratorially. "Borgin tried Legilimency on Burke. Said the man's memories were just… sludge. No structure, no images. Just magical soup."
"What's the Ministry's position?" Snape asked.
The hooded man gave a contemptuous snort.
"You joking? You think Borgin'd let the Aurors near Burke's mind? He'd probably charm it to look like treacle pudding."
"Hey, kid," Mundungus rasped, leaning closer with a lecherous grin and gesturing toward the table. "Since I've been so helpful, how about letting me have that glass?"
He pointed toward the one Rosmerta had used—still bearing her crimson lipstick stain.
Pandora was looking over, her brow creased with curiosity as she wondered why Snape was lingering so long.
"Goodbye," Snape muttered through clenched teeth, grabbing the empty glass and walking back to the table.
Pandora was sipping her mead when he returned. "It's delicious," she said, bright-eyed. "Sweeter than butterbeer."
"Butterbeer's still got that light barley aftertaste. A different charm."
"True. Come on, let's walk around a bit."
"Wait." Snape pulled out his wand and whispered, Evanesco!
The glasses vanished into thin air, sparkling for a moment like dew in sunlight before they dissolved into nothing.