Prompt: Barstool Mates
Title: Barstool Mates
Rating: PG-13…ish?
Spoilers/Warning: Public drunkenness, injury
Word Count: 695
Prompt: "Angsty Neville fic"
A/N: Written for shiiki. I hope you enjoy it.
Nevillle took another swig of his Firewhiskey, barely letting out a dry cough at the fiery feeling down his throat. He was familiar with it by now. As he was of the dimly lit bar.
A freckled hand fell on his shoulder. "Aw, mate," Seamus said, climbing onto the stool next to him with a drunken grin. "Ya bett'r take it easy. Doncha know I've gotta reputation ta keep?"
Neville grinned back, swaying in his barstool. "Eh, tha' all talk anyways."
The Irishman raised an eyebrow. "Wanna bet?"
"Not tonight," he replied, taking another drink. Curiosity suddenly occurred to him. "Wha're you doin' 'ere?"
"Jus' enjoyin' the end of the war. Like ya are."
Neville gave a bitter laugh. "Enjoyin'. Right."
"We'd always said we'd do it t'gether, righ'?" Seamus asked. "In ta Room of Requirement, 'member?"
"I remember." He gave him an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. I just . . . didn't think."
"Ya been doin' more than ya share of thinkin' all year, mate. I s'pose it's only fair."
"No one else thinks so," Neville protested, looking around at the stares from those who recognized him from the papers. "I reckon I should spen' more time in a Muggle bar. N'one knows me there."
Seamus took a swig of Neville's drink. "No Firewhiskey, though."
"Tha's true." He looked at Seamus, searching his friend's eyes as if they held answers to the millions of questions sloshing through his head like dirty bath water. "It wasn' suppose' to be like this, Seamus," he said quietly, taking another drink.
"No, it wern'," Seamus sighed. "What did we expec', though?"
He shrugged. "I dunno. Relief? Hope? Anger? Something. I just feel . . . hollow."
"Better than me, mate," Seamus said jokingly. He lifted his shirt. A long, thick, ugly gash tore through his stomach, slowly oozing blood. "I am hollow."
Neville should have felt horror. There should have been fear flowing through him. Disgust at the very least. But . . . there was nothing. Perhaps it was because he had seen it when it happened, only two weeks ago. "I knew it was too good t'be true," he sighed finally. "You're dead."
"Dead as a squirrel under a car's wheel," Seamus said with a smile.
"I'm not dead."
He shook his sandy head, still swaying as if smashed. It made the whole thing almost funny. "Not t'all. Think ya jus' had a bit t'much ta drink."
Neville couldn't disagree with him, but he felt a bit betrayed, if he were honest. He drank to get away from the memories-not to talk to them. "I wish you were here, mate," he admitted softly. "Dean needs you. I need you."
"No ya don't." For the first time, Seamus looked sad. "Ya need help."
Neville sighed and lifted his glass, paused, and set it down again. "I know."
"Neville?"
A familiar female voice whirled him around, and he barely managed to keep from falling off the barstool as he gave her a guilty smile.
His friend's face fell at the sight of him. "Oh, Neville . . . not you, too."
"Hi Ginny. Wha're y'doin' 'ere?"
"It's the Leaky Cauldron. I was passing through," she replied.
"Are you cel'bratin' too?" he asked, hoping she would laugh. Or hit him. Anything rather than look at him with those eyes that were half-angry, half-sad.
"No." And firmly took his arm. "I'll take you home. Don't think I'm giving you anything for that hangover you'll have tomorrow, though."
"Oh." He slumped off the chair without argument. He was too sloshed and ashamed to do otherwise.
"Neville . . . who were you talking to?"
He turned back to the stool that had been next to him only to find it empty. There had been no Seamus drinking and laughing with him. He was dead. Just like Colin and Fred and Parvati and so many others. Not even in the taste of Firewhiskey could he escape the memories anymore and realization seemed to pop the aimless bubble he had forced himself in the last two weeks.
When he looked at Ginny, the tears he had been unable to shed for a fortnight filled his eyes.
"No one."
Rating: PG-13…ish?
Spoilers/Warning: Public drunkenness, injury
Word Count: 695
Prompt: "Angsty Neville fic"
A/N: Written for shiiki. I hope you enjoy it.
Nevillle took another swig of his Firewhiskey, barely letting out a dry cough at the fiery feeling down his throat. He was familiar with it by now. As he was of the dimly lit bar.
A freckled hand fell on his shoulder. "Aw, mate," Seamus said, climbing onto the stool next to him with a drunken grin. "Ya bett'r take it easy. Doncha know I've gotta reputation ta keep?"
Neville grinned back, swaying in his barstool. "Eh, tha' all talk anyways."
The Irishman raised an eyebrow. "Wanna bet?"
"Not tonight," he replied, taking another drink. Curiosity suddenly occurred to him. "Wha're you doin' 'ere?"
"Jus' enjoyin' the end of the war. Like ya are."
Neville gave a bitter laugh. "Enjoyin'. Right."
"We'd always said we'd do it t'gether, righ'?" Seamus asked. "In ta Room of Requirement, 'member?"
"I remember." He gave him an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. I just . . . didn't think."
"Ya been doin' more than ya share of thinkin' all year, mate. I s'pose it's only fair."
"No one else thinks so," Neville protested, looking around at the stares from those who recognized him from the papers. "I reckon I should spen' more time in a Muggle bar. N'one knows me there."
Seamus took a swig of Neville's drink. "No Firewhiskey, though."
"Tha's true." He looked at Seamus, searching his friend's eyes as if they held answers to the millions of questions sloshing through his head like dirty bath water. "It wasn' suppose' to be like this, Seamus," he said quietly, taking another drink.
"No, it wern'," Seamus sighed. "What did we expec', though?"
He shrugged. "I dunno. Relief? Hope? Anger? Something. I just feel . . . hollow."
"Better than me, mate," Seamus said jokingly. He lifted his shirt. A long, thick, ugly gash tore through his stomach, slowly oozing blood. "I am hollow."
Neville should have felt horror. There should have been fear flowing through him. Disgust at the very least. But . . . there was nothing. Perhaps it was because he had seen it when it happened, only two weeks ago. "I knew it was too good t'be true," he sighed finally. "You're dead."
"Dead as a squirrel under a car's wheel," Seamus said with a smile.
"I'm not dead."
He shook his sandy head, still swaying as if smashed. It made the whole thing almost funny. "Not t'all. Think ya jus' had a bit t'much ta drink."
Neville couldn't disagree with him, but he felt a bit betrayed, if he were honest. He drank to get away from the memories-not to talk to them. "I wish you were here, mate," he admitted softly. "Dean needs you. I need you."
"No ya don't." For the first time, Seamus looked sad. "Ya need help."
Neville sighed and lifted his glass, paused, and set it down again. "I know."
"Neville?"
A familiar female voice whirled him around, and he barely managed to keep from falling off the barstool as he gave her a guilty smile.
His friend's face fell at the sight of him. "Oh, Neville . . . not you, too."
"Hi Ginny. Wha're y'doin' 'ere?"
"It's the Leaky Cauldron. I was passing through," she replied.
"Are you cel'bratin' too?" he asked, hoping she would laugh. Or hit him. Anything rather than look at him with those eyes that were half-angry, half-sad.
"No." And firmly took his arm. "I'll take you home. Don't think I'm giving you anything for that hangover you'll have tomorrow, though."
"Oh." He slumped off the chair without argument. He was too sloshed and ashamed to do otherwise.
"Neville . . . who were you talking to?"
He turned back to the stool that had been next to him only to find it empty. There had been no Seamus drinking and laughing with him. He was dead. Just like Colin and Fred and Parvati and so many others. Not even in the taste of Firewhiskey could he escape the memories anymore and realization seemed to pop the aimless bubble he had forced himself in the last two weeks.
When he looked at Ginny, the tears he had been unable to shed for a fortnight filled his eyes.
"No one."