Chapter 45: Another Deal
"Professor, do you have any other recipes for brewing beer?" Rosmerta asked brightly.
"As I said, I don't actually know how to brew…"
Melvin proceeded to explain a few tavern management concepts things like adding value to the third space and encouraging impulse purchases.
"A tavern isn't a restaurant. The taste of the drink is only the foundation. The Three Broomsticks should also meet the entertainment needs of wizards like playing Celestina Warbeck's new songs during Halloween. With just a few adjustments to your operations, your business will undoubtedly thrive. We can help, and the commission is negotiable."
Rosmerta blinked in confusion.
Professor Lewynter was clearly speaking in Muggle jargon. The words made sense individually, but together they were completely foreign.
Are Hogwarts courses that difficult now? she thought. Luckily, she'd graduated decades ago otherwise she might not have passed her exams at all. Not that running a tavern required a diploma.
The hostess, who hadn't been much of a student in her youth, didn't quite follow. She only gathered that Professor Lewynter might be a bit short on money. After a moment of thought, she said kindly,
"Professor, if you need a few Galleons to get by, I'd be happy to buy your recipe. The improved mead sells wonderfully it's worth at least a few hundred Galleons. You've earned it."
Melvin was momentarily speechless. "That's… not what I meant."
Rosmerta, thinking perhaps the offer wasn't enough, added,
"If you have other recipes, I'd gladly buy more. Or I could hire you as a brewing consultant. The pay might not match Hogwarts, but you wouldn't have to work around the clock just help me check the cellar and guide the brewing process from time to time."
"Really…?"
Melvin finally understood why the Three Broomsticks was always so popular. Madam Rosmerta was truly gifted with people warm-hearted, generous, and always ready to help those in need. Though she was clearly looking out for her own business, she phrased it kindly, making it sound like she was doing him a favor.
In a sense, it was a genuine form of long-term community care.
After a pause, Melvin decided to steer the conversation elsewhere.
"Madam Rosmerta, could you tell me more about your business? How much do you sell in a day? What's your monthly revenue?"
"No problem…"
Rosmerta hesitated only briefly before explaining the tavern's situation.
Hogsmeade was an entirely magical village. The Three Broomsticks mainly served the local villagers, keeping prices low and relying on a strategy of small profits but fast turnover. Passing merchants often preferred the other inn in town the Hog's Head which attracted a mix of wizards and even non-wizards. Its drinks were stronger, its location more secluded, and the news there more… interesting.
On a typical day, Rosmerta sold up to two hundred Galleons' worth of drinks. After deducting costs, she earned twenty to thirty Galleons in profit a few hundred per month.
Part of those profits went toward maintaining connections not bribes, exactly, just friendly gestures. A few bottles for Ministry of Magic staff, a gift for the Aurors, and occasionally something for Cornelius Fudge. During raids or investigations involving dark artifacts, those small favors helped ensure her oak barrels weren't unnecessarily inspected.
She also sent drinks to Hogwarts professors, though that was trickier.
Professor McGonagall or Professor Snape would likely reject anything handed to them directly. Sending it by owl meant she had to pay postage and could only hope they'd stop by someday for a complimentary drink.
Headmaster Dumbledore rarely came to the Three Broomsticks, but he had a sweet tooth and always accepted dessert wines gladly.
And when dealing with rowdy customers, simply mentioning Dumbledore or Hogwarts was often enough to defuse trouble.
Everything was mutually beneficial.
That's how business worked.
For the solitary Madam Rosmerta, it was enough no more, no less. Over the years, she'd managed to save a modest fortune.
Rosmerta spoke of it without complaint.
"Sometimes we get Hogwarts students on weekends. You know, third-years and above can come to Hogsmeade once a month they like to stop by for a butterbeer."
Melvin nodded thoughtfully. "Let's start by increasing daily revenue to two hundred Galleons and build from there. The profits will surely rise. Anything beyond that will count as bonus income, and we'll discuss the profit split later. How does that sound?"
"…"
Rosmerta hesitated. She still preferred the simpler idea hiring him as a brewing consultant, or maybe buying a few more of his "recipes." But after a short pause, she nodded.
"As you wish, Professor Lewynter."
November 10th, the Second Saturday
Winter had arrived.
The waning Halloween moon had vanished, and the skies had remained overcast for days. Thick clouds blanketed the Scottish Highlands, and sunlight hadn't appeared for a week. The young wizards couldn't see the stars in Astronomy class and were excused from their observation reports.
The northern wind howled, stripping the willows of their last few leaves. The temperature at Hogwarts plunged; the Black Lake froze over, and every morning frost glimmered across the castle walls and grounds.
Teachers and students walked briskly through the cold, their breath steaming in the air. To keep warm, students had made makeshift hand warmers jars filled with softly glowing bluebell flames, modified by a Fire Charm so they gave heat without burning.
The young wizards' excitement remained unshaken.
Today was the first Quidditch match of the new season.
Slytherin had held the championship for five consecutive years. Gryffindor hadn't had high hopes this season their Seeker had graduated, and the new one needed training and experience. But Harry's talent had revived their spirits, and Professor McGonagall's generous gift of a Nimbus 2000 had rekindled even more hope.
If they managed to beat Slytherin today, Gryffindor's house points would climb to second place putting the House Cup within reach.
"I'm so nervous I think I'm going to throw up…"
Harry felt awful. The cold wind clawed at his throat as they walked down the path toward the Quidditch pitch. His friends had even made a banner for him, but he couldn't muster any joy.
"It's fine. You didn't eat much breakfast anyway," Ron offered helpfully.
No one seemed comforted by that. Hermione looked at Harry's pale face and whispered, "Once you're on your broom, don't think about the match. Think about something else."
"Think about something else…" Harry muttered, glancing at the Slytherin stands. "Snape's leg is still hurt. He must've tried to sneak into that corridor on the fourth floor. What do you think he was after? And what's that giant dog guarding?"
"Better think about the match," Ron said. "If you feel sick once you're up there, just fly toward Slytherin's stands and puke on Malfoy or Snape."
"Uh…"
(End of Chapter)