September 26, 1992, Saturday

  Breakfast had barely ended, and I now stood beside the wrought-iron gates of Hogwarts, the crisp morning air carrying a faint hint of damp grass and pumpkin spice from the greenhouses. Next to me, as severe and upright as the gates themselves, was Professor McGonagall.

  What was I doing here, you ask?

  Well, today, just as on the st Saturday of every month, was Hogsmeade weekend: that glorious time when students from third year and up were permitted to descend upon the nearby vilge, gorge themselves on sweets, and make questionable purchasing decisions.

  And yes, before you ask, this is a timeskip.

  While I would love to regale you with tales of my thrilling daily routine; grading essays, dazzling colleagues, and reforming magical education; I, as a seasoned author, know my readers crave highlights, not minutiae. So here we are, almost twenty days ter. Rest assured, you’ve missed nothing vital… except for me revolutionizing Hogwarts’ teaching system, of course.

  “Gilderoy, are you sure you can handle this by yourself?” McGonagall’s voice carried that familiar blend of concern and disapproval, like a mother owl scolding an especially fmboyant chick.

  “Don’t worry, Minerva,” I replied with my most reassuring smile. “It’s only a matter of ensuring the students’ safety and discouraging excessive mischief. And I won’t be alone, I’ve invited Aurora to accompany me for the day. Poor woman spends far too much time up in that tower of hers. A little sunlight will do wonders for her.”

  Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Just make sure you don’t get distracted, Professor Lockhart.”

  “Perish the thought,” I said with a hand over my heart, though she clearly didn’t believe me.

  She handed me a parchment. “Here’s the list of students permitted to leave. Anyone not on it is to be sent back to the castle. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” And before I could even begin to regale her with a heroic anecdote involving banshees and a broken comb, she swept away.

  Ah, Minerva. Someday she’ll learn to appreciate the fine art of storytelling.

  Soon enough, the students began to gather in clusters of three or four, chatter filling the air. Laughter mingled with the crisp scent of autumn as scarves fluttered in the wind. I took a deep sip of my coffee and unfolded the list with all the authority of a customs inspector.

  …

  “I can’t seem to find your names, gentlemen… let me check again.” I tapped the parchment theatrically. “No, still no ‘Gred’ or ‘Forge’ listed. I’m afraid you’ll have to return to the castle.”

  The Weasley twins blinked in tandem, their identical grins faltering.

  “Alright, professor, you win, I'm Fred,” George said. “And I'm George,” Fred added, as if that would somehow solve the issue of them not having permission, undoubtedly a punishment from their mother because of their summer mischief. “Can we go now?” they asked in unison.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t allow students using someone else’s name to leave either,” I said with a conspiratorial smile. “So turn around and try another time, Mister George Weasley.”

  They both gawked at me.

  “Wait, how do you keep…?”

  “…recognizing us?”

  “Not even Mum can do that most of the time!” they chorused.

  “You’re too predictable,” I said, lowering my voice to a mock whisper. “And remember, no mischief where I can see it.”

  I winked. They ughed, nudged each other, and left back towards the castle, undoubtedly pnning to test the limits of “where I can see it.”

  A few minutes ter, the sound of soft footsteps approached. Aurora Sinistra appeared, wrapped in a long indigo cloak that shimmered faintly in the morning light. Her braids were loose today, catching the breeze as if even they were relieved to be free of the astronomy tower.

  “Good morning, Gilderoy,” she greeted, her tone polite but amused. “You look far too pleased for someone assigned to crowd control.”

  “Ah, Aurora,” I said, fshing my best smile. “You wound me. I see this as a public retions opportunity. What better way to bond with our bright young minds than by ensuring they don’t hex themselves into puddles of goo?”

  She ughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

  “Fttery will get you everywhere,” I replied, offering her my arm. To my quiet delight, she took it.

  As the st group of students passed through the gates, we followed at a leisurely pace down the dirt path toward Hogsmeade. The air smelled of wet leaves and chimney smoke. The sound of ughter echoed ahead, excited students calling out about Zonko’s and Honeydukes.

  “I haven’t been down to the vilge since st term,” Aurora said, watching the horizon where thatched roofs peeked above golden trees. “It feels strange, being away from the stars.”

  “Well, today, the stars come to you,” I said galntly. She rolled her eyes, but there was a small smile there.

  We reached the outskirts of the vilge, a swirl of colors and sound. Zonko’s windows fshed with prank fireworks, and the faint strains of the Weird Sisters pyed from the Three Broomsticks.

  “Now,” I said, straightening my cloak, “shall we chaperone responsibly, or irresponsibly with style?”

  Aurora arched a brow. “You’re not pnning to buy another bookcase of your own autobiography, are you?”

  “Perish the thought,” I said. “I’m here purely for educational purposes.”

  Before I could eborate, a sudden commotion drew our attention, two students running past the post office, one clutching a suspiciously fizzing package.

  “Roy,” Aurora said dryly, “I think your Weasley friends found a way through after all.”

  “Ah, creativity, an often-overlooked trait in modern education.”

  Still, I sighed, adjusted my cloak, and went after them. The sound of ughter and magical misfires echoed between the cobblestone streets, smoke rising faintly as a Filibuster firework fizzled into the shape of my face midair, winking over the vilge square.

  Aurora tried not to ugh and I failed spectacurly at pretending to scold anyone.

  …

  A couple of hours ter, the bright morning had mellowed into a soft golden noon. Hogsmeade buzzed with weekend energy, students darting between shopfronts, clutching bags of sweets and trinkets, their ughter rising like flocks of startled owls.

  Aurora brushed a few stray leaves from her cloak as we paused by the fountain in the vilge square. “Let’s go to the Three Broomsticks,” she said. “I could do with a butterbeer or two.”

  Ah. The Three Broomsticks. Rosmerta’s domain.

  I smiled, though my stomach did an uncomfortable pirouette. “How about tea at Madam Puddifoot’s?” I countered, a little too quickly. “A date in Hogsmeade isn’t complete without a stop there.”

  Aurora blinked at the word date, her cheeks coloring slightly beneath the cold breeze. “A date, is it?” she said, amused.

  “Well,” I said, recovering with what I hoped was suave nonchance, “we wouldn’t want the vilgers to think I was neglecting a dy’s Hogsmeade experience. I do have a reputation for galntry to maintain.”

  She ughed, a low, musical sound. “Forget Puddifoot’s. I can’t handle that much pink in one pce; I’d end up vomiting rainbows. The Three Broomsticks it is. Besides, we can keep an eye on the students, most of them will be there about now.”

  Woe is me. It seems this encounter is inevitable. Let’s just hope Rosmerta remembers how to behave in polite company.

  The pub was warm and loud, packed wall to wall with students and vilgers alike. The scent of butterbeer, roasted meat, and woodsmoke mingled in the air. Aurora unwound her cloak as we squeezed through the crowd, and I caught more than a few students nudging one another at the sight of us together.

  Rosmerta herself was behind the bar, ughing as she handed a pair of fourth-years two frothy mugs. Her hair glowed in the firelight, and when her eyes lifted and found mine across the room, her grin turned positively feline.

  “Professor Lockhart,” she called cheerily over the noise, “fancy seeing you here again! Couldn’t stay away from my butterbeer, eh?”

  Aurora gave me a look that was far too amused.

  “Purely professional reasons,” I said quickly. “Field supervision. Safety patrols. That sort of thing.”

  Rosmerta leaned an elbow on the counter as we approached, the move emphasizing her sizable cleavage. “Of course,” she said with mock solemnity. “Though I do recall you said something simir st time, right before you serenaded the entire room with your ‘Bald of the Banshee.’”

  “I was coerced,” I protested, though Aurora’s quiet snort did not help my defense.

  “Two butterbeers?” Rosmerta asked, her eyes twinkling.

  “Please,” Aurora said smoothly before I could open my mouth.

  As Rosmerta poured, I attempted to appear at ease, no small task when both women were clearly enjoying themselves at my expense. We found a small table near the window, golden sunlight filtering through the gss.

  Aurora leaned back, sipping her drink. “She’s rather fond of you,” she said casually.

  “Fondness is a professional hazard,” I said, smiling over the rim of my mug. “One mustn’t hold it against her.”

  She smirked. “Or against yourself?”

  Before I could respond, a loud bang erupted from the back of the room, followed by a shriek of ughter. Smoke curled toward the ceiling.

  “Ah,” I sighed, “Weasley-reted, no doubt.”

  Sure enough, Fred and George were darting for the door, chased by a sputtering stream of purple sparks and the irate Madam Rosmerta, brandishing a dishrag like a weapon.

  Aurora was ughing too hard to stand. I, of course, rose galntly to my feet. “Fear not, dear dy,” I decred, “I shall restore order.”

  “You’ll make it worse,” she warned between giggles.

  “Possibly,” I admitted, “but with style.”

  I swept off toward the chaos, cloak billowing heroically, ready to face either fireworks or flirtation, whichever came first.

  I pushed my way through the crowd, the warm air thick with the scent of butterbeer and mischief. Students were ducking under tables, cheering as twin streaks of color shot overhead, a pair of miniature dragons made entirely of fireworks, circling the rafters before bursting into a shower of golden sparks that spelled out:

  “LOCKHART FOR MINISTER!”

  I froze.

  “Subtle as ever,” I muttered, earning a fresh wave of ughter from the nearby tables.

  I finally cornered Fred and George near the door, still holding the fizzing remnants of their test “experiment.” I fixed them with my most authoritative stare, the one that had supposedly cowed banshees and bewitched book critics alike.

  “Gentlemen,” I said grandly, “I do appreciate the endorsement, but next time perhaps consult me before unching a political campaign in pyrotechnics.”

  “But, sir,” Fred began, struggling not to ugh, “you can’t deny the likeness was perfect.”

  “It was a very fttering likeness,” George added helpfully.

  The crowd roared again, and even I couldn’t suppress a grin. “Fttery,” I said, “will get you detention. But as this particur act of hero worship endangered no one-” I paused dramatically “-I shall let it slide. Just this once.”

  A collective groan of disappointment rose as the twins escaped unscathed. Aurora was leaning against the bar now, shaking her head with that half-smile she wore whenever I was making a spectacle of myself.

  “You do realize,” she said as I rejoined her, “that you’ve just encouraged them?”

  “I prefer to think of it as fostering creativity,” I replied, brushing a bit of ash from my cloak. “Education thrives on enthusiasm.”

  Rosmerta appeared at that moment, two fresh mugs in hand. “On the house, for our brave peacekeeper,” she said sweetly, setting one before me with a practiced smile. Her fingers brushed mine just long enough to make me suspicious, and then certain, of what I felt pressed into my palm: a folded note.

  “Thank you, my dear Rosmerta,” I said smoothly, trying not to look too pleased with myself.

  She leaned in just enough that only I could hear. “Always a pleasure, Gilderoy. Do stop by after closing for a nightcap, won’t you?”

  And just like that, she was gone again, back to her bar and her patrons, leaving behind the faint scent of cinnamon and trouble.

  Aurora arched an eyebrow, her expression equal parts amused and curious. “You seem popur in these parts.”

  “What can I say?” I said, tucking the note discreetly into my pocket. “When one lives a life of service, gratitude tends to follow.”

  She ughed softly, finishing her butterbeer. “I’m sure it does.”

  Outside, the autumn light had begun to fade, the ughter of students echoing through the cobbled streets as they made their way back toward the castle. I offered Aurora my arm once again, and she took it without hesitation.

  Behind us, the pub glowed like a ntern against the encroaching dusk, warm, inviting, and, in my case, full of possibilities.

  Ah, Hogsmeade. Truly, an educational outing in every sense of the word.

  …