The Three Broomsticks

Those who understood, understood. Those who pretended to understand might understand in the future. Those who did not understand would never understand.

By the end of the class, only a handful of students had successfully cast the Driving Charm.

Elphias Doge left the classroom with an expectant smile.

He believed this class would change many things.

"Hmph—you were just lucky, Wayne!"

Draco passed by Vincent's desk.

"Malfoy, do you think I'd challenge an unfamiliar field?"

Mispronouncing one syllable of the Levitation Charm would turn it into the Cattle-Calling Charm, but in a sense, that was also a form of exploration.

Having confidence was one thing. Courage was more important.

Vincent stood up without even looking over.

He walked out of the classroom, then turned around as if he had remembered something.

He raised his left hand and caught the Alder Wand flying out of the drawer.

Draco instantly became a clown.

Vincent did not even need to cast a spell. He could retrieve his wand just by reaching out.

Judging purely by magical power, Vincent was at least at the level of a sixth-year student.

"Old Vin's always had pretty good luck." James walked past Draco with a mocking grin.

"He wasn't like certain idiots who knew they couldn't win and still charged in headfirst."

Alfred gave Draco a glance as he passed.

Draco was trembling with rage, looking as though he might faint at any moment.

"Old James, you're not wrong. This is actually a kind of courage."

He suddenly turned back with a smile. "It's just a little stupid. They never learn their lesson."

Neville burst out laughing like a pig.

Every one of the Little Lions was clutching their stomachs and laughing.

The familiar feeling was back.

Draco clenched his fists and ran straight out of the classroom.

Crabbe and Goyle immediately shoved through the crowd and hurried after him.

Blaise Zabini was angry too, but he felt even more humiliated.

Pansy had been planning to retaliate somehow, but when she saw Daphne and Hermione leave the classroom together, her expression became even more vicious.

Go ahead and laugh!

Sooner or later, you'll have your time to cry!

Vincent, back in the common room, had no idea what happened afterward.

Not until he heard the Little Lions' hearty laughter.

Fine, then. The prize money would have to go up again.

As expected, Wizard Cards announced a major piece of news that Saturday.

Two hundred thousand Gold Galleons was more than enough to hold a national tournament.

"Bro, you're heading out again?"

"I'll probably have to go out once a week from now on."

Fred and George clutched their chests in grief. "No, you can't be so heartless!"

Vincent habitually pushed their big faces aside with one hand. "I need to learn a little escape spell, the kind I can't learn at school."

The twins grabbed his hand and shook it in perfect sync.

"Don't leave us behind~"

"Ahem—you can just find Rolf instead."

Apparition was magic taught to sixth- and seventh-year students. If Vincent only wanted to learn the basics, there was no need for him to seek out Sam.

The key was intercontinental travel.

"No fun~" Seeing that he was resolute, Fred and George gave up on following him.

It was convenient, sure, but even if they learned it, they could not use it at school.

He passed through the secret passage and quietly emerged from Honeydukes' cellar.

The snow in Hogsmeade had already melted, and wandering around in a black cloak was genuinely conspicuous.

Fortunately, his destination was not far away—right outside The Three Broomsticks.

Vincent arrived on time, yet he did not see even a trace of Sam.

In a good mood, he entered the nearly empty pub and immediately spotted the man, thoroughly drunk.

The proprietor, Madam Rosmerta, sat beside him. Though she appeared to be at least forty, she still retained her charm in both face and figure.

She gently pulled Sam up, allowing him to lean back against the chair instead of lying facedown on the table.

In that instant, Vincent thought of many things.

"Ahem—ma'am, he's my friend."

Rosmerta looked him over suspiciously.

He was tall and thin, with a deep voice, wrapped in a black cloak that concealed his face.

Vincent took out a bottle of green hangover potion. "I brewed this potion myself. He'll wake up soon."

He roughly pried open Sam's mouth and poured the entire bottle down his throat.

"Mr. Chavez has been here since this morning." Rosmerta looked away with some sympathy.

"He's had nearly a gallon of redcurrant rum. I've never seen anyone drink that much."

Vincent looked toward the wooden tankard on the table.

There was still a little red liquid left inside. With that included, it was probably enough to make a gallon.

That was roughly 4.5 liters—he had been drinking rum like beer.

Sam suddenly let out a burp, seeming as though he was about to wake up.

"He must give you quite a headache, right?"

"Not really." Madam Rosmerta chuckled. "Mr. Chavez is very interesting. I like the stories he tells."

It was bad enough that he gave out his name, but he even went around telling stories after a few drinks?

Vincent swore that if this man got himself locked up again, he would not pay his bail even if it killed him.

"Ugh—" Sam, with his head tilted back, seemed extremely uncomfortable.

Rosmerta clapped her hands, and a wooden bucket flew over from the bar.

She steadied Sam's head. "Sir—? Could you help?"

"Of course." Vincent suppressed his disgust, steadied Sam's shoulder with one hand, then drove an elbow into his huge belly.

"Bleurgh—" Sam vomited violently.

His undigested breakfast mixed with rum, and the indescribable stench struck straight at the soul.

All the customers who had come in for a daytime drink covered their mouths and fled the pub.

Vincent's face stiffened with regret.

If he had known this would happen, he would have arranged to meet somewhere else.

No, from the moment he had stepped into the pub, he should have turned around and gone back to the castle.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. He slapped Sam across the face.

"Sir?" Madam Rosmerta was startled.

"Chavez hasn't paid his bill yet, has he?"

"Uh—no."

Slap. Another hard strike across the face.

"Ma'am, I'm waking him up."

Her eyelid twitched.

Rather than friends, they looked more like enemies.

Sam had already opened his eyes groggily from the pain, yet Vincent showed no sign of stopping.

The moment Sam's mind cleared, he felt that his face was both sore and burning.

He tried to struggle, but he had no strength anywhere in his body.

"My potion is fine. He must just be too drunk."

Vincent slapped him twice more before pressing him back into the chair with lingering satisfaction.

His face was red-purple. Bradley would have been very pleased to see it.

"Ass—"

Slap. Another strike across the face.

Sam, unable to finish his curse, glared furiously at the cloaked man before him.

They had no grudge against each other, so why had he slapped him so many times?

"Ma'am, how much is the bill altogether?"

"One Galleon and thirteen Sickles in total."

Vincent pocketed the change. "I'm truly sorry about today. I promise he'll never do this again."

"It's all right." Rosmerta picked up a hot towel.

"Mr. Chavez, putting this on your face will make it feel much better."

With the hot towel placed over his face, Sam suddenly remembered something.

Only the Wayne family knew he had come to Britain, and Vincent was the only person who had arranged to meet him here today.

"Wayne!?"

"Slap slap slap slap—"

With the towel between them, it really did not hurt as much as before.