a pagan of the good times | seamus

january | the hog's head

Neville drew his hands together to generate heat. They were bare, gloveless, and sacrificed to the harsh January air outside The Hog's Head purely so he could suck down a cigarette in nervous haste. Within the dimly lit windows that he stood off to the side of was what he imagined was the safety of warmth in the Inn. Though, even after all those years, it didn't do well in convincing.

At the sound of footsteps approaching in the fresh snow, he turned on his heels to shield any lingering smoke with enough time to magically vanish the cigarette between his numb fingers— it was a hard habit to break after sneaking a smoke at his Gran's for entirely too long.

Usually, his little secret was reserved only for when he could pass it as social, to step outside a pub with the real degenerates, the people cool enough to actually casually smoke. Though, something about the prospect of getting together with everyone from Hogwarts— from that time— always made him anxious.

As it turned out, the footsteps belonged to a vaguely familiar-looking woman from what he could see of her face peeking out from under her cloak. She shuffled by to struggle with the door. "Shi— here," Neville fell forward awkwardly to pull open the old wooden threshold with force. "After... you..." The nicety fell on deaf ears as she shoved through without so much as a second glance.

Neville couldn't remember the last time that he'd been around The Hog's Head, but he was fairly certain it was for a similar occasion. This time, it was Dean's birthday. And because Seamus was throwing it, inevitably, it was going to be at his place of work. Not that Neville minded, of course, he much preferred the charm of the old pub to The Three Broomsticks. Fewer people.

Characteristically early, his eyes landed on the only other familiar person in the room— Seamus, of course, with his back to him. Neville shrugged off his coat and placed it carefully on the coat rack, popping one of the everlasting mints from Honeydukes in his mouth before making his way over to the bar. "Hi, Seamus," Why did it sound so bloody uncomfortable when he said it in his head? Neville cringed internally, mustering a grin.

@Seamus Finnigan

Aberforth would brook no nonsense for a party: no ribbons, no balloons, no banners. Seamus was frankly amazed he was fine with the cake -- its frosting was easily the most colourful thing in the Hog’s Head right now, though (Seamus hoped) at least some of the party guests would dress a touch more cheerily than the bar’s usual clientele (right now two of them were wearing brown and the other was wearing grey, and all of them were shooting doubtful looks at the sweets Seamus was setting out.) Ab, on the other side of the bar, helped himself to a handful of Bertie Bott’s; Seamus busily ignored him and kept wiping down the back table, where some cloaked witch had spilled a flask of what he suspected was blood.

Hi, Seamus -- he glanced over his shoulder and broke into a broad grin. “Neville,” he said, sticking his hand out to shake. “You’re early, I haven’t put up the streamers yet.”

He’d said it for Aberforth’s benefit, and was rewarded with a grumble from behind the bar; he laughed and stuffed the rag in his pocket. The right thing to say was, Can I get you a drink?, but that would set a precedent of customer service that the Hog’s Head wouldn’t be prepared to meet again, so he rubbed his hands on his apron. The two customers by the door must have recognised Neville; they were getting up and going before the rest of the D.A. and its multiple Aurors arrived.

Seamus cleared his throat and said, “Good to see you, then -- you still working with that, er,” he didn’t think it was polite to say any of the words he could think of in front of Aberforth, who was probably just as curmudgeonly and cantankerous as Neville’s boss seemed to be. “Herbologist bloke?”

Seamus broke into a grin and as if it was contagious, Neville found himself as a mirror. There was a brief moment mid-handshake where Neville had considered an awkward, one-armed hug but was instead distracted by the bowl of Bertie Botts. He popped a few in his mouth, careful of the combination, before turning back to his friend. Seamus was magnetic by nature (always had been, despite himself) and Neville supposed that was how he had been so swiftly put at ease.

It was as though the hours of nerves leading up to the night had disappeared in the blink of an eye. That was normal for most social gatherings, Neville figured. Inevitably, there was a level of anxiety around them, no matter the circumstances.

"I can help—" With the streamers, he offered, realizing only as he said that Seamus was taking the piss. His face flushed, chuckling as he furtively looked over his shoulder to Aberfoth who nodded in return. There was a peculiar level of comfortability he felt (and he figured he might always feel) around the people who had been in his life those years before. No matter how different they all were, there was always going to be something there that kept them together.

Neville distractedly took a half-seat on one of the old stools pressed up against the bar. "Bancroft, yeah," He was thankful for the change in direction of the conversation, even if that change meant Bancroft. "Been great," The enthusiastic nod said as much, though he meant it genuinely. "Officially moved into the cottage out there," He couldn't remember if he'd told Seamus that at the wedding. The end of the night had been a blur.

"How are you, how are things here?" He glanced around them inside The Hog's Head. "Glad you organized a private party..." He couldn't help but grin as the two older wizards vacated, voice a fraction lower. "Any chance I could get a beer, mate?" How it felt like an imposition to even ask, in a place that existed to sell such things, he would never be sure.

Neville got a handful of Bertie Bott’s beans; Seamus marvelled momentarily at his sheer nerve (he thought it took him less aback than it usually took Dean, but it still took him aback sometimes) and rubbed a hand through his hair. It was easy with Neville in a way it wouldn’t be once everybody else started showing up -- Seamus knew he’d been well-known in seventh year, maybe even well-liked, but not like he and Neville had been able to understand each other, even when they hadn’t understood each other at all.

He followed Neville’s glance over his shoulder to Ab. With just the three of them (plus the bloke in the trench cloak by the bar, who was watching through a thick cloud of cigar smoke) it felt like the world’s stupidest reunion: Aberforth Dumbledore and the worst of the vagabonds he’d fed.

Sweets mostly figured out, Seamus settled himself against the bar, fiddling with a thread coming loose on his robe’s sleeve. Bancroft. So Neville had moved out of his gran’s house -- that was probably good news, though Seamus had never been able to work out what he thought of Augusta Longbottom. She terrified the daylights out of him, had even before he’d seen her at the battle. All the fierceness his own mother was capable of, with a vulture on her hat. Didn’t help, either, that the hat made him think of Snape, since third year.

He said, “That’s good, then -- bit of your own space.” It was about time, probably.

Neville always seemed uncomfortable talking about himself; Seamus was unsurprised to have the conversation turned back on himself. “Pretty good, m’self,” he said. “Hog’s Head is the Hog’s Head.” Neither bustling nor booming but at least not bankrupt. Ab had scored a fantastic deal on hag-brewed mead last month, ordered too much, and was now trying desperately to get rid of it. “It’s a living,” he settled for saying. A living he was enjoying, despite himself.

He glanced back at his friend -- “You’re in the wrong place if you want a beer, mate,” he said drily, but grinned and swung around the bar, rapped his hands on the taps, grabbing a glass and flipping it right-side up in his hand. “Mopsus Hopsus or house brew?” He filled the glass and slid it across the bar -- “Don’t have the mead,” he advised, “Ab and I think it’s got gurdyroot in it, tastes foul. So what are you up to lately, anyway?”

Neville took a moment to wonder— a bit of his own space. He let out something of a thoughtful sigh as a grin pulled at his mouth knowingly. Space was not something he had gotten since moving permanently onto the estate, not that it was what he was after in the first place. Augusta was inclined to leave him to his own devices (something he both appreciated and deeply questioned). Bancroft, on the other hand, didn't see much use in knocking at any point.

"Something like that..." He mused, eyebrows raising, affectionate despite himself.

"Bancroft isn't one for personal space," Neville added, his heart going a bit faster at even a fraction of exposing himself. Talking about his personal life had never been easy, but he was getting better at it, he thought. Give him 3 pints and he would have no trouble delving into his deepest and darkest.

As Seamus spoke about the Hog's Head, the wizard found himself following where he had gestured around them, a quiet astonishment obvious over his features as it so often was. Neville had a hard time hiding the way that he was feeling. Truthfully, he admired people like Seamus who made a living out of being social creatures— their ability to just be around other people. He knew Ab's place wasn't much for it, but the sentiment remained, always.

"Oh—" Having fallen for it again, Neville opening his mouth to ask for something other than beer before pausing, realizing Seamus had been joking. The man's sense of humor was hard for him to follow on the best of days. "That's alright," His face flushed as he grappled with the glass slid across the bar to him, much less coordinatedly by comparison.

"Just work, really," He took a mouthful of beer, then another to ease the tension he'd singlehandedly created. "Think I might still be nursing a sore head from the wedding..." Neville caught Seamus' eye and smiled good-naturedly, teasing. They had been some of the last left standing that night, he Dean and Seamus.

Seamus had never properly met Bancroft – at best, he had watched Neville speak with him from afar, and told Dean his mum used to work for a bloke that used to dress sort of like that. “What’s he like?” he said curiously. Though it hadn’t been much of a surprise that Neville had left the Aurors – maybe more of a surprise than it had been when Ron did – he’d never known quite what to think of where he’d wound up working afterward.

Though – he allowed – it was a sight more useful to society than what Seamus or Ron were doing. Or just useful in a more obvious way.

The wedding? The last wedding Seamus had been to had been in July: he, Dean, and Neville had lingered out in the meadow after the rest of the D.A. had gone back to the party, and then once Neville had left, Dean had pronounced his love for Seamus and Seamus had almost started a brush fire. But Neville didn’t know that; neither Seamus nor Dean had gone so far as to tell any of their mates that they were like, in love now, at first because it felt obnoxious to announce, and later because it had just been so long. Neville was probably just thinking about how they’d all done shots with the Minister for Magic, and Harry had given up first.

“Good one,” he said reminiscently. “Guess when you’ve got as big a family as the Weasleys have, you learn how to throw a party.” At least he assumed it’d been the Weasleys; from what he remembered, living with Harry, he had nowhere near good enough time-management for event planning. He raised his eyebrows at Neville. “How long d’you reckon we’ve got to wait on the next one?” Ron, obviously, unless Neville had some secret flame.