October arrived without warning, bringing with it a wet chill that crept through the gaps in windows and doors, seeping into every stone of the castle.
A wave of colds swept through both students and staff, leaving Madam Pomfrey scrambling from bed to bed in the hospital wing. Her Pepperup Potion worked wonders, but for several hours afterward, steam would pour from the ears of the drinker like miniature chimneys.
During one unfortunate experiment, Pandora—while grinding the horn of a Longhorned Serpent—somehow conjured a personal thundercloud that rained exclusively over her head, following her wherever she went.
"I don't think it's supposed to do this…" she said, bewildered and drenched, blinking at Snape who stood dumbfounded beside her.
None of the professors could explain the bizarre magical weather, and after several days, the cloud simply vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared.
Following two days of being chased around the castle by Filch—who muttered incessantly as he trailed her with bucket and mop—Pandora finally caught a cold. Snape forced her to drink some Pepperup Potion. Her golden hair steamed furiously afterward, giving her the appearance of a girl on fire.
Rain pounded the castle for days—fat droplets striking the windows like drumbeats. The lake swelled with runoff, the flowerbeds turned to mud, and Hagrid's pumpkins ballooned to the size of garden sheds.
Only by mid-October did the skies finally clear, and sunlight poured once more over the Hogwarts grounds.
A notice appeared in the common rooms: the first Hogsmeade weekend of the term would take place that very weekend.
Snape was surprised. After the incident with the inferi, he had assumed they'd be barred from leaving the grounds. But the permission stood—and the chance to stretch his legs outside the castle after so many grey, claustrophobic days lifted his spirits considerably.
Even more enticing: a letter had arrived a few days prior, delivered by a rain-soaked owl. Madam Rosmerta had written inviting him to stop by—her best oak-aged mead was, as she put it, "awaiting a discerning palate."
"Who's the letter from?" Aiboh had asked, peering at the parchment.
"No one," Snape muttered, quickly folding the letter and slipping it into his robes.
He had to admit—there were temptations that even Occlumency couldn't defend against.
That morning, the wind howled against the windows. It was no longer the mild warmth of early autumn—cold lashed the air like whips.
"Pandora," Snape asked over breakfast, "are you going to Hogsmeade?"
"Of course!" Her eyes lit up, eager. "I'm dying for a hot butterbeer."
"Uh… yeah. I could use a drink myself," Snape nodded slowly, trying not to sound too eager.
Their walk to Hogsmeade was less than pleasant.
Even with a scarf pulled high over his face, Snape felt the cold slicing into the exposed bits of skin. It wasn't long before his cheeks were numb.
Worse, he found himself distracted by Pandora's presence. He told himself he was only going for the mead. A rare vintage like that didn't come cheap.
At the fork leading into the village, Aiboh suddenly stepped in front of him with arms spread wide.
"Hold it right there," he said with a devilish grin. "Aren't you going to invite me in for a drink? Thought we were mates."
"I never said that," Snape replied flatly, rolling his eyes.
"Cutting words," Aiboh chuckled. "But I know your game—it's not about the drink, is it?"
"W-What are you talking about?" Snape flushed slightly.
"You can't fool me. You've got other motives."
"What motives? Fine—come in if you want."
Snape slung an arm around Aiboh and began dragging him toward the Three Broomsticks.
"Oh no—wait—hang on—I've got something else to do!" Now it was Aiboh resisting, face paling.
"What? Ditching me after all that bluster? Who's stolen your heart then?"
"Please let go—I was wrong—I'm sorry!"
"Then tell me—what's so urgent?"
"Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop…"
"Ah. A fine establishment. Bit far from here though, isn't it? Hope you make it in time."
"I'm begging you…"
After a moment more of struggling, Snape relented.
"Go on, then. Merlin save you."
When he turned back, Pandora was waiting at the pub door, watching the scuffle with a fond smile.
"Stop staring," Snape grumbled as he approached. "Girls these days… Too many fanciful ideas and not enough homework."
With that, he pulled open the door and ushered her inside.
The Three Broomsticks was packed to the rafters—hot, noisy, and thick with smoke. Madam Rosmerta, radiant as ever, wore a crimson silk scarf draped over her shoulders and was laughing with a crowd of boisterous wizards at the bar.
Snape spotted a small empty table near the fireplace, just beside the right-hand window. As they navigated the crowd—braving the stench of pipe smoke and Firewhisky—Snape's gaze fell on a familiar, greasy figure.
Unkempt ginger hair, threadbare coat, grimy face—
Mundungus Fletcher.
Snape's expression soured. That weasel had fled a battlefield, left Moody to die, and looted Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. A disgrace to the Order.
Snape clutched his pocket tighter and guided Pandora toward the back, away from the rat-faced crook.
"What would you like to drink?" Pandora offered, brushing ash off the chair.
"No need—I'll get it." Snape stood. "One butterbeer for you, I remember."
Just then, Madam Rosmerta approached, balancing a tray with effortless grace. She smiled warmly at Snape, her eyes twinkling.
On the tray: an elegantly carved bottle of amber mead, two crystal glasses, and one foaming mug of butterbeer.
The mead had clearly been aged in oak, Snape thought, catching a glimpse of the label.
And as she approached, he saw the sparkle of her sea-green heels—flashing through the crowd like hints of treasure beneath turbulent waters.