THE WIZARDING GOURMET

The Hog's Head Bar is on the outskirts of Hogsmeade Village, hidden down a back alleyway and cloaked in shadows. This reviewer was apprehensive, and I began to regret deciding to come and eat at a grotty old pub which practically screamed, 'Salmonella, e. coli, come and get it here!'

Maybe I shouldn't have put off Madame Puddifoot's Tea Shop for the February issue, thinking that all of the Hogwarts couples would be thankful for a date location. I've never actually been there, but I've heard it's wonderful.

Squaring my shoulders and taking a deep breath, my friend Amara and I pushed through the door and entered the Hog's Head. The air inside was thick, and dust swirled everywhere, visible in the beam of sunlight that we let in. All of the patrons turned to look at us, and Amara squeaked in fright.

The clientele of the Hog's Head is a varied and, admittedly, sometimes frightening lot. A man with blood-stained bandages wrapped around his head sipped a Firewhisky next to a woman who looked both terribly tall and terribly short at the same time. A ghost perched on a bar stool, nursing an ethereal pint of Butterbeer. This was clearly the kind of place that students didn't enter, let alone frequent.

The proprietor, an elderly man with a yellowing beard, grunted at us. "What 'choo want?"

I thought for a moment. "Two Butterbeers, and a slice of apple pie, please sir."

He looked at me for a split second of unbroken gaze, taking in my young face, Hufflepuff tie, and Third Year Gobstones Club badge on my satchel. "Aren't you a little young to be in a pub, girl?"

"Yes, sir." I held his gaze, daring him to send me out in a rare moment of audacity. He shrugs and pulls two dusty bottles of Butterbeer from under the bar.

Amara and I took a seat at a corner table. The Butterbeer was surprisingly cold, and after I cleaned the bottle with my sleeve, I took a long sip. It was good, but then again it was the pre-bottled kind. Madame Rosmerta at the Three Broomsticks makes her own, but this kind is alright as well.

My apple pie (I can't help it, I have an unconquerable sweet tooth) was kind of withered looking, but it tasted alright. I ate it happily, as anything containing sugar will always be my downfall. Amara sipped her drink apprehensively, and made a face at the dust clinging to her fingers. The pub was so quiet; I could hear the clink of glasses as the proprietor (a man named Abeforth) set them down after washing them. There were people talking, but I couldn't make out a word they said. It would make an excellent place for a covert conversation.

After consuming our Butterbeer (and pie), we were handed the bill. It was one Galleon, eleven Sickles, and two Knuts. I made Amara chip in nine Sickles and the Knut- Butterbeer isn't that expensive, but she owed me money from a Quidditch bet last weekend.

-The Wizarding Gourmet

(Written by Jamie Pevensie)