Magical Hogwarts

 

july 2004 | the hog's head

Seamus was late, but not badly late – late enough to be noticeable only if Ab were checking the clock, which usually was not the case. At least he’d eaten ahead of time instead of coming in specifically planning to steal some breakfast (although this was a lot more due to his dislike of Ab’s cooking than any desire to save the Hog’s Head some gold.) Ab had been sort of stingy lately anyway – there was only so much budget-stretching he could do to make up for the unfriendly atmosphere he cultivated, and trying to rebrand the Hog’s Head as a nice establishment was by now far out of the question.

(He was running late often, these days; he got lazy in the mornings, and then that carried on into getting lazy in the afternoons. Sometimes he forgot to look at a clock until Dean said, “Aren’t you going in today?” and he had to rush out. It wasn’t his fault – it was quieter at home with Dean than it was at work.)

He Apparated to the alley outside the pub – Ab didn’t like people Apparating straight in, and never had, and Seamus suspected that the willy-nilly avalanche of Apparition in on the eve of the Battle of Hogwarts had worsened it – and fixed his cloak over his shoulders (half-off in the spin) and his shirt (naturally dishevelled) before he went for the door.

The door was sticking, had been ever since a few weeks ago when Big Craig had gotten drunk and swung it open too violently; Seamus had to jimmy the handle to get in. He wasn’t sure if they were going to fix that sometime soon – he could never tell, with Ab, what property damage would be left alone (it “added character”) and what actually had to be fixed. He’d ignored the leaky tap in the loo for about five months and when Ab had noticed it, he’d asked what sort of water-wasting mansion Seamus had been raised in.

Anyway. There was someone behind the bar nosing around under the counter, and someone a bit bigger than Seamus liked for people he was going to tell what to do to be (not that this stopped him.) He stopped a little short of the bar, unsure if he wanted to be in an enclosed space when he said it, and said, irritably, “Oi, you lost? You order from the other side of the bar.”
 

 Artie had figured it would be easy getting his job back, but he didn’t think it would be that easy considering how abruptly he had quit the last time–getting sentenced to years in prison would do that to anyone–but Aberforth seemed to care even less than he had before, which Artie hadn’t thought possible. But he had been told to start whenever; that was yesterday, so Artie had come in late morning, which was early for the Hog’s Head.

He liked the monotony of the work, the quiet he could find by going up to ‘clean the rooms’, the opportunity to think. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had the time to think lately–he’d done nothing but–but he knew for a fact now that the Hog’s Head offered a higher quality of life than Azkaban. He was three days out and had completed his little checklist of requirements for his release, but the job he had now–this one–didn’t actually pay very well. On paper.

Half the reason he had ever wanted to work at the Inn was the clientele who started showing up later in the day. It wasn’t that he was expecting or hoping to run into old friends–Rocky was still in Azkaban–but he’d made new connections once before, he could do it again. If he wanted to.

Or– Artie straightened up from where he had been rummaging through the glass. He wasn’t about to start pouring anything; he was going for the appearance of being busy more than anything else. He could order from the other side of the bar. Artie raised his eyebrows before he sighed a little, wiping the confusion from his face. “I work here.” He thought he sounded sure enough that it wouldn’t be questioned, but he added a little more for effect: “Started this morning.”

Artie wiped his hand down his threadbare robes rather than the rag he was holding, then offered his hand to shake. “Artie,” he said, figuring the other man only cared what he was doing because he worked there, too.

 The other bloke straightened up, looking down at Seamus with confusion. I work here. “Ab didn’t say he’d got anyone new,” said Seamus, a little suspiciously, though – actually – not telling people things was probably Aberforth’s greatest professional asset. Nobody came to the Hog’s Head just to drink. Even fewer people came to the Hog’s Head to work. It was probably a bit of a stretch to call this a job – it was a lot more about a paycheck.

He took the other man’s proffered hand and shook it – Artie – “Seamus” – then flapped his hand in the direction of the bar – “I’ve been taking the day shifts for a few months.” Nearly two years, whatever.

Since he already knew Artie hadn’t made Aberforth’s acquaintance the way Seamus had – he knew everybody in his boat, they’d all been living in the same room for days – he was curious how he had. Aberforth had a soft spot for the down-on-their-luck no matter how much he pretended not to – it was probably some situation not unlike Seamus’s had been, back in September two years ago. Aberforth didn’t really screen people.

The Hog’s Head, of course, couldn’t afford to hire every down-on-his-luck loser out there, though; it wasn’t like the bar was ever so busy that Seamus couldn’t handle the demand. Even the D.A.’s infrequent reunions didn’t attract as much foot traffic as the Three Broomsticks did. Seamus said, “Well… er… you probably should leave tending bar to me ‘til you’ve had some training.” (Training – another thing Aberforth didn’t really do.)
 

 Ab didn’t say anything about anyone new; did that not track with Aberforth? “I’m not new,” he said, almost bristling. Not new, not technically. He’d been on a sabbatical of sorts.

They shook hands and Artie nodded again. “Seamus.” Seamus had been taking the day shifts for a few months, he said, and Artie nodded one more time. “Right.” He wasn’t about to offer him his life story– as if Seamus saying he had worked here for a few months was some sort of life story, and as if Artie saying he used to work here was any more of a story.

Artie tapped his fingers on his thigh, waiting. Seamus had been the one to interrupt, so what did he want? He got there next, telling him to get some training before he started tending bar. (Because people came to the Hog’s Head for their signature Mai Tais.) “I’m not tending bar,” he said, holding up the rag in his hand. “Cleaner,” he added with a little chuckle, because the job was a joke.

“I, er–” he blew air through pursed lips. “Worked here a few years back.” He nodded again (again). “Three years or so,” as if he didn’t know exactly how long it had been.

 I’m not new. Seamus didn’t know what that meant, but the best policy in the Hog’s Head was, when in doubt, don’t ask. He shrugged slightly – he didn’t know how this bloke could possibly not be new, as Seamus sure hadn’t noticed him before now – but didn’t pursue the topic. “Right,” he echoed. They were going to leave it at that, then. Probably for the best; if Artie’s employment history was anything like Seamus’s, they were better off not talking about it.

Even though Seamus had already been trying to console himself that he didn’t care that much if Aberforth was getting another barman in, he noted his own incredible gladness that Artie was not, in fact, tending bar. “Oh,” he said. The cleaner. The Hog’s Head didn’t seem like it had ever employed one of those before; Aberforth must like Artie. (And now Seamus had to console himself that he didn’t care that much if Aberforth was getting another stray loser in. He was discovering lately that he was a naturally jealous person.)

At least Seamus wasn’t the cleaner, though – what a shite job, the place was disgusting.

“Ah,” he said. “I started back in ‘02, like.” He didn’t know what else to say – he wasn’t about to get into how he knew Ab (and he doubted Artie was, either) – so he just nodded, tried to put his hands in his pockets before realising these robes didn’t have any, and just smoothing them down his sides instead. “So. Er, I should get to work.”
 

 Oh. Artie nodded, more or less agreeing with himself.

Seamus started in ‘02, so Artie repeated his, “Ah.” He didn’t offer his own whereabouts in 2002. He knew some people would brag about it–I was in Azkaban three days ago--but Artie wasn’t the sort. Seamus would find out on his own, most likely.

He said he needed to get back to work, and Artie waved his rag like he needed to get back to work, too. “Right,” he said, stepping out from behind the bar so Seamus could have his personal space– he certainly seemed the type. “Cheers,” he added, not cheerily, heading off to go find something to clean, or appear to.

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