Firewhisky (A Love Story)

Part 1

A/N: Another side project while I'm neglecting OMAM – I know, I'm sorry! I am working on it (and having to be very careful with the last chapters, which is why they're taking so long to write). I'm also just relishing the opportunity to write about a different set of characters when the inspiration comes to me – which seems to mostly be filling in the gaps in Harry Potter canon. Sorry, Jo! I'm sure you could do better.

This is a two-parter. Part Two will be coming in the next few days.

Neville was on the lash again.

Hannah thought that that habit had been kicked into the fire, along with Rita Skeeter's column on their supposed Firewhisky-dependency and carelessness around Neville's students. "I've a-never been drunk around them," Neville said forcefully that night, more than a little sloshed, whilst Hannah tore the crumpled copy of The Daily Prophet to bits and prodded it through the grate with the tip of her wand. "Never."

"I know, darling," Hannah told her husband, knowing this was all her fault.

She wasn't sure if he meant to sit down in front the bar of the Leaky Cauldron one day after his work at the Ministry, or if he only meant to pass through to Diagon Alley and couldn't make it through the throngs. She had seen him often enough, his head bobbing amongst the crowds at her busiest time as she rushed to get out drinks to thirsty workers whilst Tom, three months away from a much-needed retirement, slept on the floor beneath the bar. It was a busy evening, the last muggy night before the Quidditch World Cup, and wagers were flying about the pub, little paper aeroplanes zooming past heads, careening into ears and backing out again, shaking out creases and bits of wax.

"Hello," Neville had said to her as he took the only empty spot at the far end of the bar, smiling wanly and flicking away a paper plane with the deftness of someone used to it at the Ministry.

"Hello," Hannah replied, not sure why she was blushing.

"Firewhisky, please?" Neville asked.

Hannah smiled. "Long day?" she asked. She wished it weren't so loud she had to shout.

Neville let out an uneasy sigh.

"Coming up," Hannah said. She poured him a fifth, then stole another glance at his lacklustre expression and topped it up to a dram. "On the house," she said, voice low as she slid his glass across the bar. He pulled coins from his pocket, sending sweet wrappers scattering, but she shook her head. "Free drink for war heroes," she added with false cheer, pouring a splash into a spare empty glass for herself.

"Oof," Neville grunted, and Hannah added, with a painfully false German accent, "Don' mention ze war!"

Neville's expression turned from hangdog to puzzled.

"Muggle thing," Hannah added, blushing again, then downed her mouthful of Firewhisky and rushed to serve her other customers.

She was surprised to find him still there, his drink drained, a half hour later when orders started to slow.

"I've been ignoring you!" she said. "I'm so sorry! Can I pour you another?"

She thought perhaps it was the drink, or maybe the demands of the long workday, but his expression reminded her strikingly of the days several years before, of long evenings and stolen study periods in the Room of Requirement, trading charms for counter-jinxes. Also, the first anniversary of her mother's death, when, feeling rather tear-stained, she'd settled into her favourite seat in the library only to find she'd sat on a bouquet of forget-me-nots. Across the room, half-hidden in the Herbology section, Neville waved at her shyly.