"If your whole life turns out to be a lie, what will you do then?"
"If everything you knew turns out to be a hoax, what will you do then?"
Graciana Duerre Weasley, twin sister of Ron Weasley, is a troublemaker. Mischievous but a little introvert, bo...
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THREE BROOMSTICKS WAS EXTREMELY crowded, noisy, warm, and smoky. A curvy sort of woman with a pretty face was serving a bunch of rowdy warlocks up at the bar.
"That's Madam Rosmerta," said Ron. "I'll get the drinks, shall I?" he added, going slightly red.
Grace, Harry and Hermione made their way to the back of the room, where there was a small, vacant table between the window and a handsome Christmas tree, which stood next to the fireplace. Ron came back five minutes later, carrying four foaming tankards of hot butterbeer.
"Merry Christmas!" he said happily, raising his tankard.
Grace drank deeply. It was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted and seemed to heat every bit of her from the inside.
A sudden breeze ruffled her hair. The door of the Three Broomsticks had opened again. Grace looked over the rim of her tankard and choked at the same time as Harry.
Professors McGonagall and Flitwick had just entered the pub with a flurry of snowflakes, shortly followed by Hagrid, who was deep in conversation with a portly man in a lime-green bowler hat and a pinstriped cloak — Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic.
In an instant, Ron and Hermione had both placed hands on the top of Grace's and Harry's head and forced them off their stool and under the table. Dripping with butterbeer and crouching out of sight, Grace and Harry clutched their empty tankards and watched the teachers' and Fudge's feet move toward the bar, pause, then turn and walk right toward them.
The Christmas tree beside their table rose a few inches off the ground, drifted sideways, and landed with a soft thump right in front of their table, hiding them from view. Staring through the dense lower branches, Grace saw four sets of chair legs move back from the table right beside theirs, then heard the grunts and sighs of the teachers and minister as they sat down.
Next she saw another pair of feet, wearing sparkly turquoise high heels, and heard a woman's voice.
"A small gillywater —"
"Mine," said Professor McGonagall's voice.
"Four pints of mulled mead —"
"Ta, Rosmerta," said Hagrid.
"A cherry syrup and soda with ice and umbrella —"
"Mmm!" said Professor Flitwick, smacking his lips.
