The November chill blew its way up High Street, and gusts made the thatching on every shop in Hogsmeade rustle, but warm inside Honeydukes, Hyacinth watched as the last of the weekend visit students struggled out the door, bags in hand. She finished with the display in front of her as she wondered where she'd left her coat.

It was going to be a cold walk back to the school, she knew.

"Well done, well done," Ambroisus told his niece. "You've got the knack of stacking those choco-bites. Never could do it, meself."

Hyacinth grinned, wiped her hands on the apron before untying it, and would have said something but she noticed her uncle was staring out the big picture window, his expression thoughtful. Following his gaze, she noted him looking across the road at the post office, although there didn't seem to be much going to warrant the attention. "Uncle?"

"Hmmmm. Puddifoot's been getting a lot of packages," he murmured. "Cakes, to my way of thinking. She's sending out for 'um, and that's all right, but I've heard tell she's been offering chocolates as well. Not too sure about that."

"No," Hyacinth interjected, startled. "That's not right! It's a tea shop!"

Her uncle turned to her and gave a sigh. "Times change, my girl. There's some that think I charge too much as it is. And Madam, well, not as many students going to her shop nowadays. Gotta do something to drum up business I suppose. Still . . . it cheeses me off she'd undercut me with sweets." He leaned closer, his expression grim. "And some are our own sweets, if I'm hearing right."

"Are you sure?" Hyacinth gently hung the apron up behind the door and looked at her uncle. She'd heard a few rumors herself, but if they were true, this could be worrying. "We should check."

Uncle Ambrosius shot her an amused look. "She knows your auntie and me, but you could," he agreed. "No law against it, I suppose. Delicata Puddifoot's always been a sly puss, even as a girl, though, and storming right in would get you treated like a nutter, or worse, sent on your way with a Memory Charm. Best to just go and have a cuppa as you look around if you're going to do it."

"Yes," Hyacinth agreed, thinking hard. "I could do that. And if she IS selling Honeydukes sweets, what then?"

"I'd just have to have a chat with her," her uncle shrugged. "We're both in business; doesn't mean we can't come to some agreement, eh?"

Hyacinth nodded, her mind already at work. She managed to find her coat, kiss her relatives goodbye and make her way past the Shrieking Shack before she realized the one flaw in the plan to spy on Madam Puddifoot's establishment.

She didn't have a partner.

Madam Puddifoot's had been well-established as the place to take your sweetheart, and every Hogsmeade weekend saw couples going hand-in-hand up the road towards it. Hyacinth herself had only passed by the building once, but she remembered that the tables had two chairs each, and that it was full of bows, frills, and hearts.

Immediately she considered who she might recruit into going with her. Roger was the obvious choice, but his weekends were so full of homework and practice and field trips with Professor Flitwick that she wasn't sure he'd have enough free time to go.

So that left either Winston, or possibly Boris.

They'd both be willing once they knew the mission, Hyacinth sensed. Winston had a strong sense of justice under his nurturing exterior. He was a natural at arbitration among squabbling students and practically lived the motto 'play fair.'

Boris would be more fun, though. His sense of mischief made him much more appealing as a companion, and certainly his size would make Madam Puddifoot think twice about attempting any Charms or Hexes. And outside of herself, Boris would definitely be able to tell Honeyduke's chocolate from other brands.

The long walk back to Hogwarts chilled her thoroughly, and by the time she stepped into the front hallway, she longed for a mug of something hot. Most students were done with dinner but it didn't bother her; as a Hufflepuff Hyacinth had not only access to the kitchen but also a fondness for the House Elves, who felt a reciprocal affinity for her House.

Gryffindors might be brave, Slytherins ambitious, and Ravenclaws clever, but Hufflepuffs were always well-fed.

Once she made it to the Common room, Winston gave her a stern look. "I'm cold just looking at you! Hot chocolate with peppermint?"

Hyacinth nodded, and settled into one of the squashier chairs at the edge of the fireplace, kicking off her boots and stretching her toes out towards the heat. "Yes, thanks. I think it's going to snow tonight."

"I wouldn't be surprised. With luck our Herbology class will be in the greenhouse and not out in the north meadow. Here," Winston offered up a chipped mug of something that smelt delicious. Gratefully Hyacinth murmured her thanks and took it, savoring the taste. She sat there for nearly an hour and finally went to bed, still debating what course of action to take.

-oo00oo-

Roger looked up guiltily as Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, and he blushed.

"I repeat, Mr. De Malinbois, please show us your attempt."

He glanced at the little envelope on his desk, and tried to concentrate. Waving his wand, he murmured what he hoped was the correct spell, and immediately a surge of grey-green engulfed the desktop. When the cloud dissipated, a large, bored snail sat there, antenna swinging slowly. The class gave an approving murmur, and the professor came closer to examine the snail, peering over the top of her square lenses at the creature.

"A fair attempt, although your snail still has a wax seal on the center of its whorl," she pointed out. In a lower voice meant for him alone, McGonagall added, "I expect as much of your attention to my lessons as to those your other teachers. Luck will get you only so far, Mr. De Malinbois."

Roger nodded, well-aware that her rebuke was milder than it could have been. McGonagall moved past him to call on another student, leaving him to push an incriminating little scrap of paper with the musical notations out of sight. Next to him, Renata gave a little chuckle, reaching to pick up the snail.

"You're lucky she likes you," came the whisper. "Is this a treble clef stamped on the wax?"

Roger checked, and winced. "Yes."

"Oi, yes, I'd say you were pre-occupied then," she nodded, and tucked the gastropod into a pocket, adding, "I'll set him loose down at the lake."

"Thanks," Roger replied, "I read up on how to turn mail into a snail, but not, er, the reverse. So I suppose he's better off in the lake than in the clutches of an owl."

"Too right," Renata agreed. "So what's going on in that noggin of yours anyway?"

Roger shot a look over his shoulder, but McGonagall was too busy trying to deal with a desktop full of manila-colored baby frogs to pay any attention to him. "The hols, mostly. Not looking forward to going home."

"Everyone there still giving you bosh about music?" Renata empathized. "You'd think they'd be thrilled to have a prodigy in the family. My uncle would be dropping your name everywhere at the Ministry if you were my sib."

"Thanks," Roger managed a smile.

Renata picked up her envelope and rattled it a bit before speaking again. "You're lucky, De Malinbois; you know what you were meant to do because you're already on the right path. The rest of us . . ." she gave a shrug, "we're still sorting out our mail from our snail, so to speak. I mean I like loads of what we're studying, but nothing's really grabbed me."

Roger gave her a wry look. "We've got years to go yet. And just because I love music doesn't mean I'll go into it. Not if my father has his way."

Which was the crux of the matter, of course. Roger knew perfectly well that his Christmas holiday would consist of his parents sniping around him, using his future as a constant irritant. They'd been doing it for years and the added strain of Professor Flitwick's special classes would elevate that yearly torment to dire levels.

"That bad?" Renata lowered her voice.

"They're generally like that, but the holidays . . . when everyone's supposed to be full of good cheer, well . . ." Roger trailed off uncomfortably.

Renata shook her head and gave Roger a pat with her free hand as McGonagall strode back up to the front of the classroom, her lips pursed.

"All right then. While the majority of you managed your transformations with decent results, there are a few others who would benefit from a bit more focus. Dismissed."

Nearly twenty minutes later Roger met up with Hyacinth in the library, arriving at the big round table near the west window. He noticed that Winston and Boris were with her, but neither of them was studying. Winston had his wand out and was balancing it on his index finger while Boris attempted the same trick, but on his nose.

"Ah the grueling task of study," Roger murmured loftily as he seated himself at the table. He caught them by surprise, and both boys lost control of their wands, with a resulting clatter of wood on stone floor that echoed through the library.

Like a gaunt ghost, Madam Pince glided over and glared. Satisfied with everyone's meek expression, she drifted away, and Hyacinth shook her head. "Boys and their wands."

"Now, now," Winston chided gently, "just a bit of fun."

"And this place could use it," Boris added in support.

"Libraries aren't made with fun in mind," Hyacinth sighed, resting a hand on a particularly dusty book on the table. "But that's neither here nor there. I have a favor to ask of you three. Well at least one of you three, although if anyone else wants to be part of it that's fine too, but I need at LEAST one because that will make two it with me added, and two's the smallest I can get away with for what I need done. Got it?"

All three boys looked at her with exactly the same expression.

"No," Roger volunteered for the group. "Let's break it down, shall we? You need a favor."

"Yes," Hyacinth nodded.

"And you need at least one of us, but more would be fine."

"Yes."

"What's the favor?" Roger asked, and swore that Hyacinth blushed as he did so.

"I need . . . an alibi. And a cohort."

"I could be a cohort," Winston volunteered, "since I'm getting practice in it right now."

"I too, can co-hort," Boris announced. "I can even ca-hoot, if necessary."

"Ca-hoot? That's not a verb!" Roger muttered. "A person can be IN cahoots, but doesn't actually, you know, cahoot." He had visions of owls, suddenly.

Owls that looked like Boris, all hooting together. In harmony.

"But cohorting, that's a thingummie—verb, right?" Winston wanted to know, breaking into his reverie. "A doable thing?"

"No," Hyacinth sighed. "A cohort is just a mate along for the ride. Or in this case, the tea."

"Tea. I approve already," Winston beamed.

"Not regular tea. Um . . . Puddifoot tea."

NOW one could hear a pin drop in the library. One could hear the glide of ghosts in the sudden silence. Roger thought he could hear the very bricks of Hogwarts creaking around them.

"P-puddifoot?" Winston spluttered, going red. "But that's for-"

"Co-horts?" Boris finished. "Da?"

"Couples," Roger corrected, his gaze still on Hyacinth. "What are you up to, Miss Moffett?"

She took a breath and explained herself, talking about her uncle, the shop, the situation with consumer competition among wizards in general and Hogsmeade in particular. Roger nodded, and noted that the other two were following along as well, growing indignant on her behalf. When Hyacinth finally finished with, "and that's why I need to go to Puddifoot's this weekend," all of them nodded.

"Yes, of course," Winton agreed. "If what your uncle thinks is true, then Madam Puddifoot has some cheek!"

Boris shook his head. "To take someone else's food and claim it, this is not right. This is . . . cheating."

"It certainly is," Roger agreed. "IF that's the case. What if it isn't Honeyduke's merchandise at all, 'Cinth? What then?"

She looked up, and her expression struck him as almost sad. "Roger, Roger, Roger- there are precisely three magical confectioners in England, and I've tasted chocolate made by each of them."

"Honeydukes," Winton murmured, "Fortesque, yes?"

"Honeydukes yes, Fortesque, yes, and the third one is a little shop in Rempstone that does creams, barks and toffees. The Bashful Bee, it's called. They run an ad in the Daily Prophet sometimes during the holiday season."

"I've seen it! I think my auntie orders Christmas hampers from them!" Winston smiled. "They do the little ribbon candy that you can actually untie, right?"

Hyacinth nodded, even though she was still looking at Roger. Disappointed that he'd doubted her, he knew.

"Sorry, you are the expert," he acknowledged. "So what if Madam Puddifoot makes her own candy?"

"We'll know it," Hyacinth shrugged. "I've talked to a few people and they say the tea's forgettable, and that generally the sweets are too, but lately things are much better. So I say we go find out for ourselves."