To Bet On Losing Dogs {Fred Weasley, ACT II}

Chapter 9

Clank!

Eleanor slammed the shot glass back onto the bar top, the whiskey burning her throat as it warmed the empty, cold pit in her chest. She bit down on her tongue, holding a cough at bay. She rather preferred her drinks mixed, but this evening wasn't about preferences. It was simply about ingesting as much alcohol as she could as quickly as possible. She needed the pounding in her head to fade, needed the bitter voice in her head to fade.

She had never failed this badly, this frequently, in her entire life. Magic always came easily to her. Maybe the written exams were a struggle, sure, but the rest of it wasn't. And yet, here she was, an absolute and total failure. She was no auror, that much was obvious. How was she supposed to protect the muggles of the world when she couldn't even defend herself against Moody? How could she save Harry from Voldemort? She wanted to puke at the mere thought.

And now Draco. Their session had been incredibly underwhelming, absolutely no progress made in terms of "saving Draco's soul." They barely spoke, simple corrections and advice their only exchanges. She couldn't save Draco from himself, nor from Voldemort. Her younger self would be disgusted by her sorry state. By her complete and utter uselessness.

Harry wasn't speaking to her. Draco was a Death Eater. Fred had slipped through her fingertips once more, their relationship in the balance, his days once again spent at Angelina's side. Eleanor Potter herself only a shell of the witch she used to be, her magic diluted and her worth next to nothing.

Her mind wandered back to Fred, to where his nights were being spent. Was it cold wherever they were? Did Fred and Angelina find themselves in some awful romance novel situation in which the room they'd booked only had one bed? Were they forced to curl up next to one another, their bodies shivering beneath thin sheets? Did they find warmth in each other's body heat? Did they revisit memories from a shared past of stolen kisses and shared breaths?

"Another round please." Elanor wiped away the leftover trace of firewhiskey from her bottom lip with her thumb, her fingers shaking. "Or maybe make that another two."

The Hog's Head was bustling about as much as an inn of such stature could. Each shabby wooden table was occupied, mainly by men she noticed with a small twinge of fear, all of whom had their cloaks drawn and their heads lowered in conversation amongst one another. The bar was a little less crowded, only two other men sitting a few stools down, draining their beer in silence.

In retrospect, she should have considered choosing the Three Broomsticks for her dealings, and yet she knew this was the smarter choice. The Hog's Head was nothing if not discreet, and better yet she was assured not to run into any lurking Order members. She certainly didn't need her affairs being reported back to Dumbledore.

"I should have cut you off an hour ago."

Aberforth's voice startled her, causing her hand to knock over the empty shot glass that lay forgotten on the bar. In all her years at Hogwarts, through all her many excursions to Hogsmeade, the man had maybe spoken a total of five sentences to her. Rather, Aberforth Dumbledore kept his thoughts to himself, his face nor his words betraying him. He allowed his patrons a safe space to entertain their questionable dealings all as well as he was paid. Not once had he batted an eye as young wizards and witches visited the bar for a night of underaged drinking. Not once had Eleanor witnessed him cut a customer off.

"Well, that would have hurt my feelings very much."

The bartender furrowed his brow, analyzing her intently with the sharp stare that reminded her of his brother. Her stomach lined with ice as his eyes bore into hers, the contents of her stomach churning to a heavy slush. It was only in the eyes that the two carried any resemblance of one another at all, and in this moment, with judgement clouding his vision, she felt the headmaster's presence.