my usual [neville]

At first she tried to remember every customer—their names, their faces, their orders. It was only nice of her, wasn’t it? When she was a patron of the Leaky Cauldron she’d have liked to feel valued that way. Some of it was easy. A lot of witches and wizards, especially the older ones, made themselves easily distinguishable: carried a large iridescent handbag every day or only wore emerald green. Not a small portion of them knew (had known?) her parents. The orders, on the other hand, were more difficult.

She beat herself up for assuming Mrs. Winterbloom wanted her Gillywater with ice instead of without a few times, and then it finally hit her that she was being ridiculous. What was the point? Customers would tell her what they wanted anyway. She was just making this into school again. Setting herself tasks she knew she was bad at, holding herself up to standards for no reason. Nonsense. Within a few weeks, Hannah had resolved to stop giving a fuck.

Despite her resolution, of course, Neville Longbottom’s usual had stuck in her mind easily. He came in this evening from the Diagon Alley side and gave her a wave. “Hullo, Neville,” she said, and didn’t prompt him but reached for the peppermint mead.

Hannah didn’t want to look like she was playing favorites with the patrons, but there was something she’d wanted to speak to him about. She lowered her voice so the witch at the other end of the bar couldn’t hear. Muffliato would have probably been better, but not ideal for on the job. “You work for Benny Bancroft, don’t you?” she asked. “Is he alright now?” She pressed her lips together awkwardly. “He was here last week, but we had to send him home… Seemed—agitated.”

@Neville Longbottom

February had turned out to be just as miserable as January. Weather-wise, anyway.

Neville crunched through the layer of hard, dark-colored snow that felt more like sleet under the traction of his boots as he made his way toward The Leaky Cauldron. Green eyes cast upward to the angry-looking, swirling sky that threatened to spit out a fresh layer. At least then, it might look clean, he figured, ever the optimist.

That particular evening, he was on his own, with Bancroft safe at home (his mind hadn't been all there the last few days). Either way, Neville he found himself drawn to the warmth from the windows of the familiar like a moth to a flame. It had become something of a tradition for them to make a stop on their way back to the estate after dropping some herbs off at Mullpepper's apothecary up the hill.

"Hannah, hi," Neville grinned as he shrugged off his coat and placed it gingerly on the stool beside him. It was as much of a buffer from strangers as it was a place of storage. "Can I—" The blonde witch had already pulled up the peppermint mead and his eyebrows raised, quietly impressed that she had remembered. "—thanks," Briefly, he wondered if it was a bad thing that she knew his order.

Benny? Who—? Oh, Merlin, Bancroft would love that, he thought with a smile. "I do, yeah," Neville nodded an affirmation that he worked for the man as he settled into the barstool more comfortably. It might have been a bit more strange, the two of them turning up there so often, together, if not.  "Sorry about that," He didn't know the instance she was referring to, but he could venture a guess that it hadn't gone well.

"He can be like that a bit..." Neville explained, bowing his head slightly. "Was it alright, though?" He peered around, suddenly concerned he might have been black labeled along with his mentor.

She’d been waiting for him to ask, but Neville inclined his head toward the bottle in her hand. Hannah held up the mead and he nodded.

What an awkward way to have gone about it, thought Hannah as she uncorked the bottle and poured him a glass. What would Madam Rosmerta have done? The server at the Three Broomsticks had always been so charming and personable. Hannah knew she would never be a Rosmerta, but who else did she have to compare herself with? (Was she a “Madam” now? What made Rosmerta one? Maybe a “Miss.”)

She tapped the glass with her wand to chill it and passed it to Neville over the bar. Now that she gave him a glance, she realized he was looking like he’d taken her words as more of an admonishment than she’d intended. Oh, she probably should have been more mindful about it. The only things she'd ever heard anyone say to Neville for years were admonishments. “Oh, of course it’s no bother,” she said quickly. Some disruptive nonsense happened here at least once a week. Often it was just regular magical mishaps and misunderstandings, but addled old wizards weren’t unusual. Rather less unusual than she’d expected, when she started here. “It’s… Not uncommon, honestly.”

Aside from the ones who were just getting on in years, the vast majority of the Leaky’s patrons had spent a large portion of their life living through both of You-Know-Who’s reigns of terror. Many through Grindelwald’s as well. Paranoia had been written into the magical condition. Hannah hadn’t thought about it much before trying to put it into words, but they were a society well traumatized, weren’t they? She hoped their current peacetime would last until her old age—the last thing she needed was anything more destabilizing her.

The group of warlocks smoking in the corner waved her over and Hannah lifted her wand again to summon the brandy they’d been drinking. Tom had collected so much liquor over the years that the shelves went up twice her height. “Just making sure he was fine,” she said to Neville as she rounded his end of the bar. “I’m glad I could ask. Not everyone’s got someone to look out for them.”

Neville nodded again and subtly— he thought— rubbed the cold from the glass on the fabric of his pants after Hannah had pushed it carefully over the bar and to his side of the barrier. Saying 'thank you' again felt like overkill but not saying it somehow felt the same.

"Good, good," Instead he nodded affirmatively and ventured to wrap a hand around the glass again. It didn't help that his fingers were still half-frozen from outside. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the good-natured nagging of Mrs. Bancroft was swift to remind him about the knitted gloves she had stowed away in the cabin, of which he hadn't touched let alone brought out in public. Neville knew he had no right to be embarrassed (how could he?), but—

Was he Bancroft's handler, then? Worse yet, did he mind it?

"He means well," Neville prompted with a shrug and a vaguely affectionate grin. Of course, Hannah hadn't said otherwise, but he felt the need to declare it either way as if that might alleviate whatever magical barrier had been put on the place barring his future entrance. "S' just a bit—" He glanced to where Hannah had summoned a bottle of something and followed her gaze belatedly to the table of wizards in the corner.

Right, she was working.

"—passionate," Neville landed on after a moment, taking a more-than-generous mouthful of peppermint mead.

Now that she’d handed over Neville’s drink there was nothing to do with her hands, so she leaned on them behind her back against the counter until something happened. It had become her usual pose pretty quickly after starting here. Occasionally with a bit of fidgety bouncing. Some hours, of course, were so busy she hyperventilated in the bathroom afterward, and there was the occasional thrown hex or massive order or mad herbologist, but most of the time tending bar was a lot of waiting. At least at St. Mungo’s she’d been sitting down.

The thought of St Mungo’s made her regret bringing this up with Neville Longbottom, who already had enough looking out for people to be getting on with. He looked uncomfortable, didn’t he, on the other side of the bar? She wasn’t going to apologize for it, though. That was too close to discussing it, and the closest they’d ever been to discussing it was awkward eye contact over the hospital welcome desk. This was one thing she preferred about the Leaky Cauldron: when you learned people’s business, most of the time it was because they wanted to tell you.

As she walked over and poured the brandy she tried to force that to fill her head instead. If she didn’t owe customers recognition she at least thought she owed them focus. Pushing aside regret, though, was often as distracting as feeling it. At least these men were too deep in conversation to spare her more than a nod.

She put back the bottle and tucked her wand back in her pocket. Neville was still trying to explain. “Of course,” Hannah said. “Passionate” here was clearly a euphemism for “a handful,” but she had always thought highly of passion even so. She’d been more frustrated by her quietness than aloof and self-important about it like a number of the other quiet people she knew. “I imagine that makes him fun to work with,” she added cheerfully in the hopes of changing the subject. But that depended on one’s hardiness, though, she supposed. Tom was friendly, but he wasn’t exciting, and Hannah thought that meant a lot less time hyperventilating in the bathroom for her.

“So how are you doing, then?” she asked.

Neville studied the inside of his drink with the vested interest that only someone avoiding staring could muster. For whatever reason, he felt like it was an intrusion, watching Hannah while she worked. Strumming his pointer and middle fingers from where they wrapped around the mug of mead, he eventually caught her eye as she put the bottle back into place and turned to him.

With a swallow, he nodded, thankful that she hadn't read too much into what he meant by Bancroft being passionate. It was a nice way of saying a little bit bonkers if he were being honest. But he wasn't. And surely, Hannah knew that, but she was too polite to mention it. "Yeah," Neville agreed. Fun was one way of putting it, anyway, working with the man.

The conversation turned to him and Neville stiffened. He wasn't much for talking about himself. Though the warmth that was spreading across his chest and coursing in his blood (the mead was to thank) made the prospect a bit more palatable. Easier to lean into. "Good, yeah," He nodded assuredly. "Busy with—" He gestured vaguely. Well, with wrangling Bancroft mostly. "Work has been busy," He decided.

"We're working to blend this—" A drunk patron shuffled into his back and nearly sent his drink flying. "That's alright, mate," He glanced over his shoulder, unsure if the man had even apologized or if he'd just imagined it. "How are you?" He'd lost his train of thought and it was easier to talk about Hannah than it was about himself. "How long have you been here now?" He wondered.

"Since Mungo's, I mean...." Internally, Neville cursed himself. He had sworn himself to erasing seeing her there, when he was visiting.

Everyone looked satisfied with their drinks for the moment, so Hannah let herself focus on her conversation with Neville. This wasn’t uncommon. Anytime a friend or relation stopped in she felt like she ought to talk to them, and waffled about her obligation to the rest of the customers while she did. Diagon Alley service jobs put you in such an odd position. She thought about it sometimes, looking out the dim window onto Charing Cross Road as she avoided eye contact with a classmate she’d known but not well enough. If she were a Muggle working in any pub down the street then surely it would be rare that anyone she recognized sat at her counter.

Perhaps Neville had picked up on this. It was hard to tell if he wanted to be talking to her or not. He had a stiff awkwardness about him that would have shut her up, but Neville had always been sort of like that in the face of conversation. Even when he was being confident it had an air of humility. She’d liked that about him. Not that she wished that on him, or on anyone—if she had the self-assurance that so many of her peers did, Hannah had always known she’d be happier. But she liked it. She couldn’t help but appreciate seeing her neuroses in other faces.

Hopefully he was just being Neville instead of silently praying behind his politeness that she’d shut up. Hannah decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Oh, not long,” she said. “A few months. But I like it much better.” She flattened her lips into a grimace and shrugged helplessly. “I don’t think I’ve got the right temperament for the hospital—it’s sort of a miserable place to work.” It felt good admitting it, and the rest of it came out before she had the time to think better of it again. “I always admired the Healers when I was little but—staying as hopeful as you’d need to in such a tense environment is exhausting. Just sitting at the desk watching everyone go by took a lot out of me.” She’d done it when they were held prisoner in Hogwarts, but as a career? Hannah wanted happiness for herself, not another trauma: this time voluntary and with no end.

Better end on a light note. She laughed a little. “And not to mention my N.E.W.T.s.” They’d been fine, but not Healer-worthy. Even in peacetime Hannah doubted she could have been Healer-worthy.

She wiped a cloth along the counter for no reason while pretending not to be nervous that joke wouldn’t land. It had been a better one for non-Gryffindors. Had Neville even taken his exams? She knew he’d been an Auror for a time with the rest of his mates and she thought their admittance requirements had been waived. (Only Harry was left there now, to Hannah’s knowledge—perhaps they’d both had too-demanding dream careers.)

“I’m sorry, what were you blending?” she asked quickly.

Neville hadn't noticed that Hannah's gaze lingered on the window. He had been curiously studying her profile in thought when turned back to him and made eye contact again. In a breath, he was brought back to the present. "That's good," He replied immediately. She liked it there, but she hadn't been there for long. For someone so eager to not ever think about Mungos, he wondered why he had brought it up in the first place. Idiot, he cursed internally.

A sense of something hit him square in the chest. It was the same one that came about four times a day when he thought of his parents. Oftentimes it came in things that he hadn't realized he'd inadvertently associated; the clean, clinical smell of pine floor cleaner, the way that willows moved in the wind, hummingbirds (because of the way his mother's face had lit up when she saw one from the window that one time).

Neville played it off, or at least, he thought he had, taking another long drink of mead. The mint burned his throat. He didn't mind. "It is miserable, isn't it?" He agreed despite himself, his shoulder relaxing at the confession. He straightened up again. "Not that I know what it's like to—" He immediately corrected. Their experiences were entirely different.

He knew exactly what it was like to seek refuge in a place such as the one they were in.

What were they blending? The question caught him off guard because he had completely forgotten that he mentioned it at all. "Oh, right!" He fumbled with his glass and eventually set it down safely on the bar and out of his unstable grasp. "It's nothing really," He began, though the fire in his eyes said otherwise. He was sure that Hannah was busy but he was incapable of stopping himself when he got going.

"Just a blend to help alleviate pain without the whole—" He gestured vaguely to his temple (brain, by proxy). "Numbness of it all," In short.

He agreed with her about the hospital. Hannah supposed it wasn’t hard to find St. Mungo’s miserable when one’s parents were permanent residents. It occurred to her how much more lingeringly painful it would be for her mother to be alive but a stranger, how relieved she was that her family’s personal tragedy had been sharp and quick—and then she felt promptly awful for thinking it.

Hannah looked around. “Not that no one here’s ever miserable, obviously,” she said, brushing all her foolish pondering aside. Wizards took a good deal of comfort in liquor, and quite reasonably given recent history. Maybe she was kidding herself. “I don’t know why, it just feels easier.”

Neville looked a little surprised when she forced the conversation back into his hands. Should she have kept going on about her feelings? (Did she have any more in words ready to whip out?)  She tried to move past it and moved her hand to her wand—he’d set his empty glass wobbling around on its edge—but he steadied it before magical intervention was necessary.

His project was an anaesthetic. “Oh, that sounds useful,” she said, for lack of anything more insightful to offer. Why did Neville have to be achieving things? Was there a way to politely ask a friend about their work without putting herself in the position to give an intelligent comment on it? She wasn’t wrong, it did sound useful, but she didn’t want Neville to think she was too stupid to have a real conversation about it. Or worse, that she was politely deflecting interest. There was no way she could do that when he looked so fired up about it.

Hannah wondered if she’d ever looked like that. She wasn’t sure she was lucky enough to care that much about anything.

Neville settled both hands around his mug, studying distractedly as a thumb ran over the surface in a slow circular motion. He glanced back up to Hannah as she alluded to the nuances of the change of pace as far as work was concerned. It was easier. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a kneejerk reaction to hearing people talk about themselves. Anything to not talk about himself.

"That's good," He commented with a quick nod. "Suppose in a bar, people are a bit more.... open," He let out a laugh of a breath. If he was any indication, maybe not.

It sounded useful she said. Neville straightened up in the barstool with quiet pride. "It could be," His tone was inherently appreciative. That is, if it ever came to be. He tried not to get ahead of himself as far as professional successes were concerned. Those kinds of things were gone as quickly as they came. It was a fickle game.

He couldn't help himself, though. "Next month we'll know a bit more about the potency," He took a quick drink. "Have to wait for the moon--" An older wizard approached the bar to order and Neville paused in return. As it turned out, having a conversation when someone was working wasn't all that easy. That's alright he mouthed with a smile, even though she hadn't asked.

Neville smiled. Conversational victory. Even though she hadn’t really done anything and he was probably just thinking about his experiments now, Hannah congratulated herself.

“Yeah, some,” she said. “I like when people get—open. Makes conversations easier.” Not that they tended to be meaningful ones, but from a customer service standpoint it sure did take less out of her. “I mean—” She giggled. “Better them than me, anyway.” On her list of selfish reasons, this was the most purely so. Setting herself up with an advantage. Social closeness without putting the effort in. Even before working here she’d enjoyed being drunk among her drunk friends far less than being sober among them.

This was, of course, not something she generally admitted to men she was supplying mead. “You know. Whatever.”

It was getting busier. Hannah had to duck out of the meaningful conversation on Neville’s very important research to get a firewhiskey for the man at the other end of the bar. The contrite little oh-don’t-worry look on his face made her feel like such a dick. “I’m so sorry!” she said, in the stupid over-the-top voice she always found herself using when she felt like she was being a dick. “I should probably…be working, and stuff.” A pair of witches had queued up next and were eyeing her judgmentally. She shook her head before standing up. “But you should come back and let me know if it turns out; I promise I want to know!"

And if it didn’t he could have another drink.

“I’ll think good moon thoughts for you!” she called as she skipped out from behind the bar, holding up crossed fingers.

[out]