Tap. Tap. Tap.
Rosmerta slowly paced up and down the line of quivering trainees, lips pressed firmly together in increasing ire. As she came to a standstill, she tapped her foot again – Tap. Tap. Tap – watching with a savage kind of pleasure as the thirteen young wizards and witches cringed at each crisp tap. All eyes in the room were on her.
A mirror hung crookedly from the wall behind their head, in which Rosmerta caught a glimpse of herself. What with the fierce expression on her face, a trickle of blood running from her temple and her hair and clothes coated in a thick layer of grey dust, she looked as she had done at the Battle of Hogwarts. Fortunately, that battle had been fought over two years ago, and her current state had been not been caused by the violence of that night, but the cowering group before her.
Ignoring the sharp pain in her arm, Rosmerta sighed. It had been such a good day. Twelve hours previously, she had woken to the dawn sunlight streaming through her little bedroom window and cheerful sound of birdsong. She should have realised there and then that fate was setting her up for something terrible. Instead of doing the sensible thing and hopping straight back into bed, she had leapt up from her bed and stuck her head out the window. It was oddly sunny for the season, so the main street was uncommonly crowded with witches and wizards going about their daily business. Cutting a path through the throng was a man Rosmerta had immediately recognised as Reginald Cattermole – not quite a patron, but still a common sight at the 'sticks – and a group of his trainee magical maintainers. They was a familiar enough sight in Hogsmeade: the almost uninhabited landscape around the village allowed for both plenty of space to practice the more dynamic spells required in their job without the risk of a muggle stumbling on the scene and a bit of entertainment for the villagers as their spells illuminated the sky.
Plus, the exhausted trainees brought a roaring trade to the 'sticks in the evening.
During the day, the flow of customers brought in stories with their galleons. Rosmerta was informed by Mrs Flume of yellow rain on the hills to the north of Hogsmeade, of small tornadoes by Romilda Vane and of heavy snowfall by Stan Shunpike.
"Focusing on the weather somewhat, aren't they?" Rosmerta remarked, refilling Stan's tankard.
"There's been trouble at the Ministry, I 'eard..." Stan murmured, contemplating his tankard. The poor bloke hadn't been the same since his arrest. "Them 'umidity charms gone wrong in the offices an'... an' the courtrooms," he swallowed. "Rainin'... hailin'... snowin'... Couple o' folks in St Mungo's. Fell down an' hit their 'eads or sommat. Magical maintenance up to their ears in it. Literally."
She raised her eyebrows. "Makes you glad not to work in the Ministry. Humidity charms! It's just a good old log fire for us lot."
"We don't even 'ave that on the Bus. Ern an' I 'ave our thermal undies an' not much more."
Rosmerta laughed and moved along the bar to serve other customers. The afternoon passed relatively slowly, with time enough to stop and chat with the regulars. Most villagers were busy at work and with no students visiting, trade didn't pick up until five o'clock swung around, bringing with it what seemed like half the village plus Reg and his trainees. Rosmerta knew the majority of them from their Hogwarts days, though there were a few who must have been home educated or gone to other schools.
"Alright Reg? How's the family?" She asked, as the man in question squeezed his way through the throng around the bar, dragging two of his trainees behind him. He looked exhausted, irritable and in dire need of alcohol. "Leanne and Blaise, am I right?"
"They're good, good," answered Reg as Leanne and Blaise nodded. "Maisie's just got her Hogwarts letter. Ellie and Alfie are just about burning up in jealousy."
"It won't be long 'til they're off there too," Rosmerta smiled. "What can I get you?"
"Thirteen butterbeers please," he said, "and a firewhiskey for me."
Rosmerta began filling tankards. "Tough day?"
"You have no idea," he murmured, rubbing his face. "You'd think that they were third years by the standard of their charms... Too much partying and not enough studying, eh Leanne?"
"It was my birthday, Mr Cattermole," said Leanne exasperatedly. "I only turn twenty once. I bet things went a bit wild on your twentieth."
"For your information, I spent the evening listening to Celestina Warbeck on my parents' wireless!"
"I heard that was because you started drinking at nine o'clock in the morning," Blaise remarked slyly.
Reg looked affronted as Rosmerta and Leanne burst out laughing. Blaise merely smirked, handing her a handful of galleons and accepting about half of the tankards, which he levitated over the heads of two dozen or so customers to the table around which the trainees were grouped. Rosmerta raised her own wand and, with one simple Wingardium Leviosa, sent the remaining tankards on their way.
"Cheers, Madame Rosmerta," said Leanne. Reg, however, raised his eyebrow. "You're chastising me for getting drunk but breaking your own rules?" He indicated a sign hanging behind the bar, emblazoned with the legend 'No wizardry permitted in this pub!' with a smirk.
She rolled her eyes. "My pub, my rules. Besides, you know that's only there for the drunks. Remember that time Mundungus Fletcher set fire to his own hair?"
"How could I forget?" Reg replied, taking a sip of his firewhiskey, which seemed to reinvigorate him somewhat. "I'd best be back to the group. They have a tendency to forget all common sense unless they're watched over constantly." Rosmerta laughed uproariously, letting Reg shoulder his way back through the crowd to his trainees.
Unfortunately, Reg didn't watch over his apprentices constantly. As the hours passed, the group became merrier and rowdier, with frequent trips to the bar for more rounds of butterbeer and firewhiskey. The magical maintainers-to-be attracted a crowd of interested customers and hecklers, one of whom cheerfully goaded that the snowstorm earlier in the day had been more of a 'light flurry' than a proper blizzard.
"Oh yeah?" said one of the trainees, leaping to his feet. It was Anthony Goldstein, Rosmerta recognised, flushed with alcohol and anger. His fellow trainees had similar expressions on their faces: several of them started fingering their wands in their pockets.
"Cool it, Tony," said Reg from somewhere near the bottom of his third firewhiskey. Anthony ignored him, as did the heckler, whom Rosmerta now recognised as Mundungus Fletcher. She hadn't realised it was him without his trademark cloud of pipe smoke.
"I mean, even I could do better!" Mundungus jeered. Several trainees had now drawn their wands and the pub had fallen silent, watching the confrontation.
"Oh yeah? Think you can do better than this?" shouted Anthony, who drew his wand to the cheers of his fellows – she hurried out from behind the bar, her own wand raised, with a cry of "No magic in my pub!" – and slashed it through the air. Whatever slurred spell he cast was lost in the collective gasp of the customers, but the violet sparks released caught everyone's eye. For perhaps half a second, in which Rosmerta knew something terrible was about to take place, nothing happened, but then –
CRASH!
With an almighty, cataclysmic outburst of noise, the world exploded. Rosmerta was thrown forward, the ceiling falling down as the floor raced up to meet her. There was screaming, there were things – tankards, tables, people – thrown in every direction, there was torturous crunching, grinding sound and then... silence.
Ears ringing, gasping for breath, Rosmerta lay where she had fallen, half buried under something, too dazed to move. Slowly, ever so slowly, the world began to right itself. Her eyes focused; the ringing in her ears stopped. She became aware of a niggling pain in her arm and movement somewhere near her waist.
"Rosmerta! Rosmerta!" a voice cried. She tried to bring up a hand to rub at her face, but found she couldn't. Forcing down the rising panic, she tried to make sense of her surroundings. Everything she could see was grey. For a moment, this frightened her more than anything. Had she hit her head that hard? But no... Her breath was making little ripples in the grey by her mouth, like how waves rippled the sea bed. The grey was... dust?
"Rosmerta!" The voice cried again. The speaker sounded terrified. Rosmerta tried to get up, to tell the person that it was alright, to ask what the hell had happened to her pub, but found she couldn't. Truly frightened now, and more confused than ever, she started to struggle against whatever was holding her down.
"No! Rosmerta, no! Stay still! Leanne, you're meant to be keeping her still!" Leanne? She knew that name. Suddenly, Rosmerta realised who the speaker was.
"Reg?" She croaked. Her throat felt as though it was clogged with dust. She cleared it, and tried again. "Reg? What's happened? Why... why can't I move?" From somewhere nearby, a voice muttered a "Thank Merlin, she's conscious."
"Rosmerta, it's okay, it's okay," soothed Reg. Judging from his voice, the wizard was somewhere close by. "Try and stay still. The bar was knocked over and it fell on you. We've got to keep you still in case it broke your back." He was speaking very gently.
"It hurts, Reg," she murmured. "But I can feel my legs. My back is fine... Why can't you just levitate it off me?" Rosmerta felt someone's hands – Leanne's, she guessed – tighten momentarily around her. She blinked, trying to figure out what had happened. Her bar falling over couldn't have caused that much damage and... was that rubble blocking her view of the rest of the pub?
"We're trying to think of a way to do that safely, Rosmerta. Don't worry, though! You'll be back on your feet in no time." Reg said, making an obvious effort to sound cheerful.
"You better do it, Reg," a familiar voice said. A patron, maybe?
"Okay, okay..." Reg muttered. He took a deep breath – an inhalation that the entire pub seemed to share – before he tentatively said, "Levioso." The pressure on her lower half slowly eased, until finally it was gone. Several pairs of hands seized her and dragged her away from the bar. Unsteadily, she clambered to her feet.
For the first time, Rosmerta got a look at the state of her precious 'sticks. It looked as though the roof had fallen in; most of the ceiling had collapsed – she saw the end of her bed dangling into the chasm and her pyjamas now decorated the classic brooms mounted on one wall - as had the wall between the main room and the private sitting room. Piles of rubble were everywhere and dust covered everything. The bar had been knocked over and held down by a supporting roof beam, which still rested on the end of the bar. Rosmerta immediately realised why she had been kept still: the beam looked as though it was supporting the rest of the ceiling. Hastily moving the bar to free her could have brought down the rest of the ceiling.
The customers were sitting on piles of rubble or huddled in groups. The injured had been laid out on a cleared spot of floor. There weren't many, thankfully, but the sight of them all covered in blood made Rosmerta's stomach turn. She knew all their names. Tears welled up in her eyes.
"What happened?" she whispered. Memories were flooding back of the war; of the destruction and death. What could have caused this?
"We've been snowed in," said Blaise, who was leaning against the door frame looking bizarrely unruffled. It took a moment for her to comprehend what he said.
"What?"
"Snowed in," repeated Blaise. "Apparently, magic and a drunken Goldstein doesn't mix well." He indicated Anthony, who was knelt on the floor, head in his hands. He looked up, shamefaced, as his name was spoken. The shock of the last few minutes seemed to have sobered him up somewhat.
"I am so, so sorry, Madame Rosmerta," he croaked. She chose not to acknowledge him.
"What do you mean, we've been snowed in?" She glanced round, and for the first time noticed how the door had buckled. Around the edges and through the splintered panels there was a glimpse of... snow? The cracked windows, too, seemed to be showing nothing but the white stuff. Then Rosmerta noticed the fireplace. The fire had gone out, and the entire thing was packed to the brim with snow.
They couldn't use the floo.
"What?" Rosmerta gasped weakly. "How... how did this happen?"
"Well, from what I can assume, it was a mixture between the mispronunciation of the spell and the wonky wand movement that caused this," said Reg, who had carefully lowered the bar back onto the floor. The ceiling creaked but thankfully stayed put.
"And what, exactly, is 'this'?" asked Rosmerta.
Blaise answered. "It appears that, instead of causing a snowstorm, Goldstein here" – he clapped Anthony on the shoulder – "caused a mass snowfall onto the pub, the force of which was enough to bring down the roof, clog the chimneys and block the doors and windows."
Rosmerta gaped at him, before glaring at Anthony. "Can't you read?" she growled, jabbing her finger towards where her 'no magic' sign had once hung.
"Um, Rosmerta..." Reg said, looking apprehensive. "That's not the worst news." She whirled around to face him, incredulous.
"How could this situation possibly be any worse?" She hissed, feeling anger begin to bubble in the pit of her stomach.
Reg swallowed, looking slightly terrified. "Due to the unstable nature of the building, I don't think it's safe to try to remove the snow with magic. It's contributing to the support of the building. The whole thing might collapse and since nobody here knows any structural spells –"
"Reginald," she ground out through clenched teeth, "you work in magical maintenance."
"Specialising in atmospheric charms," he snapped. "Believe you me, I wish I knew how to do this, but I don't."
"So you're telling me that we're trapped in here?" Rosmerta said, her voice shooting through an octave.
"...Yes" said Reg. She stared at him, appalled, before whirling around to face his group of trainees. "You lot," she hissed. The group jumped up, looking apprehensive. Slowly, she stalked towards them, looking each of them in the eye. "You," she said, pointing at one. "You and you and you... You lot cheered him on. And you!" Anthony Goldstein leapt to his feet. "You did this!"
The singled-out trainees unconsciously formed a line. Bit by bit, she paced up the line and back again, tapping her foot as she turned.
Tap. Tap. Tap.