The speaker was a woman of striking elegance, her long hair cascading like a waterfall over her milky-white, slender shoulders. Her S-shaped curves were captivating, especially the "great terrors" at her chest, impossible to forget after a single glance.
If one word could describe her, it was alluring.
Madam Rosmerta.
The owner of the Three Broomsticks.
She exuded a unique charm called maturity, fatally attractive to many a 17- or 18-year-old.
Take Carrow, for instance. Dudley had caught him more than once sneaking glances at her, his eyes lingering on her low neckline, his Adam's apple bobbing noticeably.
An obvious gulp.
Quite the sly one.
Clearly, Carrow was smitten by Rosmerta's allure, though he was the only one at their table so affected.
Hermione, being a girl, was immune. Harry was too young to care. As for Dudley…
Dudley had little interest in Rosmerta. She might look youthful, but she was at least in her 40s. According to his information, she'd been running the Three Broomsticks since the 1970s—over twenty years ago.
He wasn't into older women.
He preferred someone younger—say, 18?
"Two butterbeers, two cherry juices, and one soda water, please," Dudley said, taking charge when Carrow remained tongue-tied.
"You're four people but ordering five drinks?" Rosmerta asked casually.
"Because I'm having two," Dudley replied.
He and Carrow would each have a butterbeer—wizarding world's specialty, worth a try. If it wasn't to his taste, he'd share the cherry juice with Hermione. The soda water, complete with a little umbrella, was for Harry.
Harry wanted the umbrella.
Men are boys at heart, and Harry was still a boy.
Even if Dudley ordered three butterbeers, Rosmerta wouldn't have allowed it. She'd sell butterbeer to young wizards, but first-years were off-limits.
Dudley's bulk was deceptive. Unless he said otherwise, no one would guess he was a first-year.
As Rosmerta walked away, Carrow reverted to his polished, gentlemanly self.
He was just indulging in a bit of eye candy. Even if he was smitten, pursuit was out of the question. Age aside, his family would never approve.
His privileged background came with sacrifices—like freedom in love and marriage.
Soon, the five drinks arrived.
The butterbeer was surprisingly refreshing, while the cherry juice was cloyingly sweet. Dudley quietly slipped some butterbeer to Hermione.
Under the dim yellow light, the group gathered around a small round table, sipping drinks and chatting. Soon, they dove into the main topic: a new money-making scheme.
A simple game—a unique board game, to be precise.
Dudley pulled a prepared proposal from his waist pouch and handed it to Carrow. As he explained, Carrow's eyes lit up.
With Dudley's genius idea and Carrow's family influence, Carrow was confident this "board game" could sweep the wizarding world.
The Galleons would pour in.
Face-to-face talks were best. Owl post was unreliable—memory lapses meant rehashing old points, and secrecy wasn't guaranteed.
"No wonder you're a Dursley," Carrow said. "Your ability and ideas are beyond ordinary."
They quickly hashed out details: how to launch, how to split profits.
Having collaborated before, they finalized terms swiftly.
The result: a 50-50 profit split.
Carrow could've pushed for more—Dudley's bottom line was a 30-70 split, with Carrow getting the larger share. After all, Dudley only provided the concept, while Carrow handled production and operations, a far greater time investment. Yet, Dudley secured half.
Taking too much.
"How much faith does this guy have in me?" Dudley wondered.
His sharp mind saw through Carrow's overt friendliness. Carrow raised his glass, and they clinked, downing the golden liquid in one go.
No one refused clean money.
The contract would be signed in a week.
Watching Carrow, eager to seal the deal, Dudley marveled. Ambitious, visionary, shrewd, honorable, and adaptable—Carrow embodied every Slytherin trait.
Don't think only certain cultures value social connections. It's universal, just called something else—like investment.
Carrow's friendliness was an investment.
Soon, Carrow excused himself to settle the bill, with plenty to do for their venture. Money waits for no one. But as he left, his eyes lingered on Rosmerta's figure—especially her hips.
Dudley glanced at his watch. It was getting late. An idea struck him. "Harry," he said.
"Fancy a trip to your place?"
Harry blinked, confused. "Back to Privet Drive?"
"No, I mean the Potter family home."
---
Godric's Hollow, also called Godric's Vale, was home to the Potter family estate. Many wizards, including a young Dumbledore, had roots here.
Unlike Hogsmeade, it wasn't purely wizarding but a mixed village of wizards and Muggle, the latter unaware of the magic in their midst.
Hogsmeade to Godric's Hollow was closer than Privet Drive to Hogsmeade. They traveled by Floo Powder, using the Three Broomsticks' fireplace.
It wasn't as dizzying as the Knight Bus, but emerging covered in fireplace soot wasn't pleasant either.
With a clap of his hands, Dudley cleaned their clothes magically.
He still thought the wizarding world needed better transportation.
They stepped out of a small shop's fireplace and walked to the village square's monument. The obelisk shimmered, transforming into a statue of three figures: a man with messy hair and glasses, a beautiful, kind-faced woman with long hair, and a baby boy in her arms.