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Hogwarts: Richie's Magic Research Diary
Hogwarts : Black family bloodline...
Hogwarts' Magical Food God
Hogwarts Animagus Chaos
The same day Hogwarts let out for summer, the Mirror Club held its big pitch meeting for Quidditch World Cup final broadcast ads on the top floor of the Three Broomsticks. Most wizarding businesses had never been to anything like it.
The Mirror Club was a loose network—pubs with installed Mirrors plus the handful of creators who actually made the shows.
Shops like Honeydukes, Potage's Cauldron Shop, and Twilfitt and Tatting's had zero partnership with the Club. In fact, the Mirrors' explosive growth the past two years had gutted tea rooms and soda fountains—everyone was piling into pubs instead. A lot of those owners still carried a grudge.
The wizarding market wasn't huge. One guy sold Firewhisky and champagne, another sold tea and herbal infusions, someone else pushed ice cream and lemonade. Everybody had a corner for people to chat and hang out.
Those drink shops were basically just hangout spots. Their product wasn't irreplaceable. But Mirrors? People couldn't get enough. Overnight every witch and wizard in Britain was packing the pubs.
Drink-shop owners stared at their empty tables and blamed the Club.
They'd done business side-by-side for centuries, no problems, peaceful coexistence. Then this shiny new thing showed up and nearly put them out of business?
The honeymoon with Mirrors faded fast. Shop owners couldn't just enjoy the shows like regular customers. Plus Wright's production couldn't keep up with demand for big commercial units back then.
But by the second year everything flipped.
First, their own shops could finally buy Mirrors at decent prices, so the old customers came crawling back. Then home Mirrors took off, the Daily Prophet started video news, and the raw power of advertising became obvious.
Suddenly the Club went from enemy to best friend.
A single ad that let every witch and wizard in Britain see your product, remember the name, the features, the price—and the next time they needed that kind of thing, your ad was the first thing that popped into their heads.
The Prophet's ads were conservative—never interrupted the actual news, just a quick spot at the end showing the product, a voice-over listing benefits, and the current discount.
Ten or fifteen seconds was enough to resurrect a dying shop and make it boom again.
It had happened multiple times. So when the Club announced open sponsorship slots for the World Cup final, the hunger was real.
Anyone who landed an ad during the live global broadcast—even a few seconds—could become the undisputed king of their category for years.
Since the invitation went out, plenty of businesses had stayed quiet in public but worked every angle behind the scenes. Letters to Professor Levent, to the Monks' family, to Ludo Bagman, even to Madam Rosmerta at the Three Broomsticks. Every back-channel attempt got politely blocked.
That's when merchants realized the pitch meeting was the real deal—open, transparent, no shortcuts.
About two months before summer break, the Club sent out formal invitations. The meeting would be held on the top floor of the Three Broomsticks. All partnership details would be explained on site, negotiations face-to-face.
Hogsmeade, Three Broomsticks.
Mid-morning. The Hogwarts Express had just pulled out of the station. The pub had only just opened; the ground and first floors were still quiet. The top floor was already packed—mostly local Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley shopkeepers. Everyone knew everyone, greeting each other with clinking glasses and easy banter, quickly forming little clusters.
Some talked about the current Ministry situation. Others gossiped about Mirror Club expansion or summer plans. A few rival shops were already arguing.
"You think you can get an ad slot for the final? What've you even got to sell? Tacklow Lamps? A bunch of Hinkypunk lanterns? Even if people know about them, could you actually fill the orders?"
"Piss off! Did you eat dragon dung for breakfast? Your mouth's foul. Slag and Jiggs—what the hell are you two potion shops advertising for?"
"You ate the dung! Your whole family eats Hinkypunk shit! What's wrong with our shops? We've partnered with Master Damocles Belby to produce improved Wolfsbane Potion. Every apothecary in the world is fighting for it!"
"Jiggs, stop bullshitting. Does Master Belby even know your name? Everyone knows you lot get the leftover formulas from pure-blood families. You really think you can compete?"
Local Hogsmeade resident Tacklow's eyes flickered with gloom when production came up, but he wouldn't back down. Crude insults flew, each one aimed straight for the lungs. He knew everyone's dirty laundry and wasn't afraid to use it.
His old school rival Malcolm stood nearby, knowing Tacklow's mouth was stronger than his wand arm. Worried a real fight might break out—two potion brothers against one—he grabbed Tacklow's sleeve and dragged him away.
Tacklow's face burned red. He glared at the Slag and Jiggs brothers, convinced they were mocking him. But he let Malcolm pull him to a corner anyway.
No point denying it. His lamp production was tiny. Sealing each one involved delicate alchemy. The single house-elf left in the family was old—spent all his time helping with laundry, cooking, and the kids. No energy left for lamps.
And Tacklow himself was a classic slacker—three days fishing, two days sunbathing.
He grabbed an ice-cold butterbeer, leaned against the outer wall of the corridor, and downed it in one go. A heavy sigh escaped. "Ahh…"
"Why the sudden urge to grow the business?" Malcolm jabbed. "You used to be happy just eating and waiting to die. Spent all your inheritance already?"
"I've still got enough for another hundred years of buying you drinks," Tacklow shot back. He wasn't bluffing—his family vault was fat. Only child of a pure-blood line, plenty left for decades of easy living.
"Then why are you even here?"
"Few weeks ago I bought VIP boxes for the whole family to watch the final live. Went to the vault to pay and realized Dad's gold was half gone." Tacklow looked serious. "By the time I pass it to my kids, there'll be nothing left. Can't keep living like this. Gotta leave them something."
"..."
Malcolm had zero sympathy. His own family could only afford mid-level stands. He just wanted to rob the rich idiot.
"Why are you two hiding out here?" a new voice asked. "Wright's inside explaining the sponsorship rules. Aren't you going to listen?"
A young wizard with black hair and black eyes had walked up without them noticing.
Tacklow and Malcolm were too distracted to pay attention. They answered casually, "Rules were all in the invitation letter. Nothing new. The real business starts after the speeches."