Firewhiskey Folly

Neville had never been one for large gatherings. He disliked the noise and the constant nudging and bumping, and the hoarse throat cultivated from having to yell above the din rounded off a miserable night with an equally miserable morning. If he had known that so many of the locals would also be taking advantage of the last night before students inundated the place, he would have begged off and stayed in the calm of the garden. But he hadn't, so here he was, sitting between Pomona and Flitwick and opposite a rather exuberant Rhine, who seemed to be revelling in the atmosphere. Feeling grumpy, Neville wondered why he'd thought this a good idea several hours ago.

When he was much younger, The Three Broomsticks had been so alluring and charming, but now, it was a rather out-dated and tired tavern. The air felt dry, and he swore blind that the smoke from the fires and torches made his eyes itch. It was just a bit too much, and after many years of almost absolute solitude, it was bordering on painful.

He looked around at the gathered professors; they chatted and smiled, laughed and teased each other. For them, this was the last chance to relax before the mantle of professionalism settled upon their shoulders. Feeling even more miserable because of his sour mood, Neville took a deep sip of Butterbeer and hoped the warm, sweet mixture would lighten his mood. While waiting for the miraculous mood change, he noted someone's absence.

"I thought Hagrid had asked you to come down with him?"

Rhine's tankard paused en route to his mouth, and he frowned while casting quick glances around the crowded pub.

"He did," Rhine said after one last look. "I guess that he got held up."

Neville shrugged his shoulders and then grinned. "We're lucky in a way."

Rhine licked froth from his top lip and fixed Neville with a bemused stare. "How so?"

"The pub is packed! Can you imagine what it'd be like with Hagrid in here?"

Rhine let out a laugh and raised his tankard. "To absent friends!"

Neville smirked, toasted absent friends and took a swift swig. Perhaps the Butterbeer had done its job, or maybe Rhine's cheerfulness was infectious, but Neville began to feel slightly better. In a way, he was glad of the distraction; he would have most likely moped in his room about meeting the students the following evening. It still seemed ridiculous that he was about to start teaching. Was he really cut out for the role? Another sip settled his stomach. Whether he was cut out for the role or not, he had no choice. Somehow, the thought was quite reassuring.

"He's not the only absent friend," said Rhine, dragging Neville out of his thoughts. "Professors McGonagall and Snape aren't here either."

Neville had already noticed their absence, but he had attached no importance to it: Snape had been away all day, and McGonagall always seemed so busy. Besides, he wanted to preserve this mellow mood, so he was loathe to ruin it by thinking about missing professors. He smiled and nodded, acknowledging the comment, but not encouraging discussion. Rhine must have understood because he settled on draining his mug before gesturing to Neville.

"Want another?"

Neville glanced down into his mug, and upon seeing the frothy dregs, he weighed up his option. He could stay and let his mood seep out to corrupt his colleagues, or he could leave and fret back in the castle, or he could grow up and use the time to strengthen his bonds with his new colleagues. He made his decision. Looking up, he extended his arm and smiled.

"Yes, thanks, and I'll get the next round."

~X~

Several Butterbeers later and things were looking far rosier: Rhine's left cheek being the most notable. Neville sniggered into his tankard.

"It wouldn't have been so bad," Rhine said while dejectedly staring at the froth in his mug, "if she hadn't shrieked first." He sulkily lifted his drink and took a deep gulp. "Did she really have to get everyone to look over before she slapped me?"

Neville forced his features to appear sympathetic. "I guess it's a woman thing," he offered. He was about to drain his drink when he recalled how Hermione had once attacked Ron with a flock of canaries. He shuddered. "I try not to annoy to them: far safer."

Rhine sniffed and pulled a face. "I wasn't trying to annoy her." He sagged on his stool. "It was going rather well, but I always do something that ruins any chance with them."

"What did you do this time?" Neville asked, looking around for any lingering bad feeling in the loitering patrons.

Rhine grimaced and flushed; the handprint glowed all the brighter. "I offered to buy her a drink, which seemed a fairly innocent offer. She decided on a Fancy Goose, which seemed more like a Transfiguration spell gone wrong...part bird and part wineglass...but in fact, is a new and rather expensive cocktail." Rhine sighed and shook his head. "I admit that picking the most expensive beverage wasn't exactly polite, but her response to the misunderstanding was almost rude."

Intrigued, Neville leant forward. "What was the misunderstanding?"

Rhine straightened and flashed Neville a sheepish grin. "The cocktail has a peculiar effect, which, as the bartender later highlighted, is written in the small print at the bottom of the cocktail list. It seems the reason the drink is called Fancy Goose is because it acts as a lesser potion. In this instance, it causes the body to experience the sensation of subtle touches."

Neville frowned while he pondered the possible outcome of such a drink. A potion which mimicked... oh!

Rhine saw his expression and nodded grimly. "Apparently, she didn't know of these effects, and when she felt them, she blamed me."

"She thought that you'd..."

"Oh yes!" Rhine said before leaning forwards and pointing back over his shoulder with his thumb. "Fancy Goose has kept our kindly bartender amused for most of the night. She pointed out to me the single and similarly red-faced gentlemen who had also unknowingly bought the drink for their dates."

"Oh," Neville said softly. "But it's hardly your fault," he soothed.

"I guess," Rhine muttered glumly. "If it's not me, then it's something else. I'm either clumsy or boring. Someone once said that I was too cautious, which was later translated as meaning completely ignoring the point of playing hard to get." He drained his mug. "That's what women should come with, you know: a translation guide."

Neville laughed and nodded in agreement. "It would make things a damn sight easier. Probably wouldn't help in many cases, though."

"Why not?" Rhine asked, his eyebrows arching up. "I'd find one incredible useful."

"Would you sit down and read it?"

"Good point," he conceded after a thoughtful pause. "Although," he added enthusiastically, "my uncle Varga found the instruction manual for a Niffler deterrent device most useful. He beat the beast over the head with it until the bugger ran off. We never had any bother from it again."

"Nifflers aren't that much of a nuisance," Neville said.

"They are if you have a mouth that is more gold than tooth."

Neville let out a laugh and shook his head. It was silly humour, and he got the impression that Rhine was making an effort to cheer him up, not just for popularity, but because... well... maybe just because he sensed that someone needed some light to chase the shadows away.

"Thanks, Randall."

"What for?" he asked with genuine surprise.

"For dragging me down here."

"Oh," Rhine said with a smile. "No need to thank me; I'm just glad that you accepted. I was terrified at the prospect of being here alone with the illustrious Faculty of Hogwarts."

He had spoken jovially enough, but Neville wondered if the jest held more truth than could have been expressed directly. Rhine was obviously more British than not...the lack of foreign accent was a strong indicator that he had only been educated abroad...but he had still left behind everything that was familiar to him. The change must be daunting. Neville felt that he could repay the favour and help Randall settle in.

Neville harrumphed and made a hyperbolic study of the empty seats next to them. "If only you'd have known that they'd have all scarpered just after ten, eh? I feel like a third wheel now," he said, feigning hurt.

"I didn't mean to offend you," Rhine said, playing along until sobering and sliding his mug onto the table. "Look, I have a bottle of Firewhiskey in my room; why don't we go back and celebrate our last night properly?"

It didn't require much thought, and Neville readily agreed. Just as they left the table, they were startled by a high-pitched shriek, and then, before the shrill echoes faded, an unmistakable 'slap' rang out. They looked at each other and had to clench their teeth to stifle the laughter.

~X~

Minerva paced her office. Her anxious footsteps unknowingly tracing the same path that Dumbledore had marched when he had been restless and forced to pace to relieve his tension. Occasionally, she would pause by the window and peer into the gathering shadows, cursing the sun for taking the light with it.

Experience had taught her that Severus disappeared for most of the day; just as it had taught her that Severus was left a wreck. He hid it well enough from the others. They suspected, but never had enough evidence to bring up their concerns. Even if they did, they would be honest concerns: too many owed Severus something to be anything but concerned for him rather than about him. But nothing the wizard did could hide it from her. She had made it her business to know Severus Snape almost as well as he knew himself.

His situation pained her in abiding ways. There was nothing she could do to stop what was happening. The Ministry insisted nothing untoward was going on, and they had effectively slammed the door in her face. And then there was Severus. He never complained about it! The silly sod went to the Ministry as though he could do nothing else. She wished she knew what hold they had over him; she'd snap their bloody fingers if their grip was anything less than noble!

The whole thing was infuriating, and her only solace was the Faculty's unwavering intention to help Severus Snape, whether he wanted it or not. When she had discovered what the Ministry were doing...the rummaging through stolen memories...she had consulted Filius, who had immediately leapt into action to save the mind of the man who had once kept him out of harm's way. The diminutive Charms professor knew only to well the risks of repeated memory extractions. The plan in itself had been so simple. The plan in action had been far from it.

It had taken months to figure out how they'd do it, and a further three months to construct the Pensieve; they had lost track of how long it had taken to draw together all the memories they could scrounge up about their irascible Potions master. Dumbledore's repository of memories had been a treasure...the Holy Grail of finds...and Snape had left a few in his own Pensieve that had been 'borrowed' by concerned colleagues. Filius had copied the memories as accurately as he could and placed the copies back in the shimmering bowl, storing the precious originals in specially constructed phials. It had been made all the more difficult by keeping Severus in the dark about their objectives.

She stepped over to the window and stared down into the inner courtyard. The fountain was right in the middle of her field of view. From this position...and no other...she could see the softly shimmering, pearlescent liquid, which swirled so innocently. The fountain built and sustained by so many individuals was Severus Snape's Pensieve. It was a collection of every gathered memory regarding the life and times of Severus Snape. It was now an on-going project to store the essence of a man in the hopes that should they fail in stopping the Ministry, he would not be entirely lost.

The only black cloud to her silver lining was, oddly, Neville Longbottom. The boy was sharper than he looked, and he had spent an excessive amount of time in the garden. She frowned and folded her arms across her chest. Neville and Snape had barely tolerated each other in school. Would his lingering animosity encourage him to side with the Ministry if he discovered too much? Shaking her head, she cast off her gloom. Neville was a noble man; he would do nothing which went against the school. Besides, she recalled that Severus and Neville seemed to be getting along quite well, if the last two weeks were anything to go by. The Pensieve was as safe as it always had been.

~X~

"Maybe my father was right," mumbled a dejected Rhine. He sat cross-legged on the rug before the fire, his back resting against the leather chair. He held his empty tumbler in his lap and stared apathetically at the light glinting off the cut crystal glass.

Neville lay on his back on the sofa; he was wonderfully comfortable amongst the soft cushions, and the Firewhiskey was permeating his body, soothing the muscles and relaxing the mind. Rhine's morose words cut through his delightful languor, and he twisted onto his side to study the young man.

"What was your father right about?" he asked carefully. His tongue felt sluggish, and he had to blink several times to coerce his eyes into focusing on the target of his concern.

Rhine sighed. "He says that I don't make enough effort."

Neville frowned. "You don't make enough effort to... get a girl?"

Neville found it difficult to concentrate. They'd been talking about the mystery that was woman, forayed a bit in their shared concern and dread over teaching, and discussed why it was that no matter how you packed a suitcase, what you needed first was always at the bottom of the case. Neville was also almost positive that they'd both happily shared the idea that the whole concept of flying on brooms was ridiculous when you had the Floo-network and legs, and they'd reached some consensus on the fact that Pomona was short. Beyond that, his slowly marinating brain was lost.

Rhine snorted. "It's not the effort put into getting a girl, Neville, it's..." he tilted his head back and closed his eyes "... complicated."

Neville wasn't sure whether to try to prise out the source of Randall's sudden despair, or to leave it and see if it was just the Firewhiskey talking. It wasn't as if they really knew each other or were friends... even if he had just downed four glasses of Randall's expensive liquor...oh hell! Frowning, Neville tried to rally his remaining neurones.

"My Gran was always saying that I needed to settle down and... have a family." He propped his head on his hand. "It was as if I had to live to someone else's agenda to find happiness." He hiccupped and then frowned. "Wasn't just her either," he added miserably. "Pomona's just as bad. What is it with old women and marrying people off?"

He looked back across at Rhine, who now looked even more miserable and was re-filling his tumbler. His insides squirmed unpleasantly. Neville knew he should have left it; he'd never been any good at offering advice and support.

The bottle grated against the hearth as Rhine clumsily deposited it to take a deep gulp of the fiery drink. He winced as it burnt a path to his stomach and squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of dizziness hit him. He knew he should have kept his mouth shut; he'd never been any good at trying to discuss his so-called problem.

Using the alcohol to batter his gloom, Rhine grinned and shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. "I guess that it's got something... hic... to do with them being interfering busybodies...hic... or they're pretty bored with all the other whatsits... you know... hobbies," he said while waving his hand in the air: amber droplets flying from the glass.

Neville swung his legs off the side of the sofa and sat up; his head suddenly felt as though it were trying to twist off, and he gripped it to stop the sensation of spinning. He snorted at his sudden regret: it was a little too late to consider just how much Firewhiskey he'd downed.

"And the worst thing is," Neville said with the intense concentration peculiar to tipsy individuals attempting sobriety, "they work in teams."

Neville shuddered at the surfacing recollections of his Gran's coffee mornings; he was sure that the only things separating those coffee mornings from intelligence debriefings at the Ministry were better crockery and table manners.

"Oh they do!" Rhine agreed emphatically. "And you'd be amazed at their information gatherer... ing skills. Nothin'... absolutely nothin' is... you know... secret... oh no! Not when great Aunt... hic... Pru... Prudence was within earshot. She revelled in holding things over your head and blabbing about... hic... personal choices."

"Choice?" Rhine continued morosely after a thoughtful silence. "As if I had any choice." He threw back his head and emptied the tumbler. Seemingly disgusted that the glass had held so little, he reached out and clumsily poured himself another. "And as if I have any choice now." Sighing, he turned to Neville and squinted up at him. "Do you think it is so wrong to love who you want?"

Neville frowned. "No," he answered softly, watching Rhine as he swayed a little. "But being with the one you love can be... a bit... you know... not quite as simple," he finished in a strained whisper.

"It should be though," said Rhine passionately.

The remaining liquor-induced lassitude was squeezed out of Neville by the melancholy crushing down, and he slumped in his seat. It should be though, he thought to himself. Of course, it should be! But it wasn't.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice Rhine move to sit next to him. The bottle came into view, and he straightened with an empty grin. He lifted his glass and was forced to chase the bottle neck around as Rhine tried to pour. Neville sighed and grabbed Rhine's hand to steady the bottle so that the tumbler actually caught some of the whiskey. Rhine grinned sheepishly before placing the bottle on the floor.

"You're a good man, Neville," Rhine said, breaking the comfortable silence.

Neville flashed a smile. He didn't feel like a good man; he felt like a failed man.

"You don't seem to think so," added Rhine gently.

"Leave it, please," Neville stated simply.

The evening wore on, and sitting on the sofa in the dimly-lit room, talking and even laughing with Rhine restored most of Neville's good mood. Rhine had been a balm all evening, and Neville realised that he was actually having a good time; he was opening up and talking about things that had stayed walled-up inside after graduating. Nothing of the darkness that loitered deep within was discussed, but he spoke of his dreams and ambitions, even mentioned about his parents languishing in St Mungo's. Not even his closest friends from school had been told quite as much. Neville felt calm and at peace.

Randal was also a patient and very attentive listener; such focus would have normally disturbed Neville, but Neville felt almost safely cocooned within that dark and intent gaze. Neville also found that he didn't even mind the gentle nudges and touches. There was something pleasant about the hand on his arm and the playful nudge in the ribs; something soothing in the way Randal touched the back of his hand when he spoke about some of the more painful things that had happened in his life. But when Neville began to return that tactile show of support, Randal's smiles became fewer and the young man looked uncomfortable...all hot and bothered.

"You don't look too good," Neville said after anxiety had prodded him into asking. "You're flushed. Are you feeling feverish?"

"You're hot," Randal mumbled.

"What?" asked Neville, not catching Randal's response.

"Are you hot? I'm hot. It's hot in here," Randal said in a gush, as he lunged from the sofa. "I need a glass of water. I could give you one?"

"Pardon?" Neville queried, concern giving his voice an edge that must have alarmed Randal because the man suddenly paled and backed away, mouthing silently and pointing over his shoulder.

"I could get you a glass of water... that's what I meant: get you a glass of... uhm... water," he said, faltering.

"I'm fine, thanks."

Neville stood, and still in the thrall of Firewhiskey, he wobbled and held his head...it was spinning again.

"Oh dear," he mumbled. "How much of that stuff have we drunk?"

"Too much," said Randal sadly.

"I need to lie down," Neville groaned as he collapsed back onto the sofa.

"You can stay here."

The fire popped in the hearth, and then, it seemed as though a heavy silence settled, smothering the pleasant atmosphere. There had been something behind those words; just as the clatter of small pebbles heralded something bigger and far more dangerous, so those words suddenly seemed all... portentous. His drink befuddled mind pieced together the evening, putting things into a different context, but it... no... couldn't really be like that... could it?

Neville lifted up onto his elbow and studied Randal as he stood silhouetted by the firelight. There was a tension in the previously relaxed wizard, and Neville swore that he could see the shoulders tremble ever so slightly, and as the silence stretched, so the trembling increased.

"I'm sorry," Randal blurted out. "You must think I'm a... creep or something." Randal dragged his hands over his scalp and sighed. "I didn't invite you back here to... ermm..."

"Have your wicked way?" asked Neville.

Randal gave a nervous laugh. "It may look... I wouldn't... I mean that's not to say..."

Randal stopped talking, and his hands dropped limply to his side. In the silence, Neville could hear the man's rapid, shaky breaths. Although the Wizarding world was aware of such affairs, it would never condone it openly. It seemed that so long as birth rates and bloodlines were preserved, then such dalliances could be tactfully brushed under the carpet as a peculiarity. There was no active persecution, but it just wasn't the done thing to declare your love, set up home together, and live happily ever after. Families exerted the most effective and repressive forms of control, so society never really had to concern itself with such 'oddities'.

Neville thought back on the evening's conversation, and Randal's expressed bitterness towards his father hinted at years of unhappiness and oppression, and Neville saw a man trapped between duty and personal fulfilment. It didn't stem from the same source, but they shared the same pains of imposed expectations, duty and crushed hopes.

"It's okay, Randal," Neville soothed.

"Will you tell McGonagall or Snape of my...?" asked Randal; his dread obvious in each syllable.

"I see no reason to," Neville said.

There was a hesitant pause. "Are you...?"

Neville almost choked on his tongue, and he spluttered as he gathered his thoughts. "Er... no," he replied.

"Ah, okay," said Randal rather flatly. "Well, thanks for being so open-minded."

"No worries."

"Gee... I'm rather embarrassed now," Randal confessed with a tremulous laugh.

Neville laughed good-naturedly. "At least I didn't slap you in the face."

"There is that," Randal agreed. "I suppose that we should call it a night."

Nodding, Neville stood, rather clumsily, and shuffled over to the door, with Randal on his heels. Randal gripped the doorknob, but didn't twist it. He seemed to be cogitating over some complex issue.

"I had a good time tonight, Neville," he began carefully. "I'd like to think that you did too." He sighed and looked across into Neville's eyes. "I'd still like to consider myself a potential... " he shrugged and grinned "... friend of sorts."

Neville hesitated, and he saw Randal's Adam's apple bob as the man took nervous swallows. The green eyes which usually sparkled with some inner mirth were dark and serious...quite fascinating, thought Neville before blushing. Randal's stance was somehow different; it was less... flouncy, more direct and noticeable. Neville frowned; most of Randal's life had been one act after another: hiding what he was, disguising his reactions, enjoying what he didn't want. Here, Randal wasn't anything other than himself: no pretence and no disguises.

"I enjoyed myself," Neville confirmed honestly, and his lips twitched into a gentle smile when Randal exhaled in relief and slumped against the architrave.

"Good," said Randal. "I promise that it'll be tea from now on." He drew a cross over his heart and grinned impishly.

Neville laughed. "It'll have to be; we're teachers now," he said with mock piousness.

They both hesitated. Randal knew why he didn't want Neville to leave, but Neville wasn't sure why he wanted to stay. He wasn't.... No, of course not; he wasn't... interested. But...

Randal had had far more encounters in the same vein of this, and although this one had ended rather happily, he was used to people leaving, and so, he smiled and opened the door. It was easier to let people go than pretend something could happen. Despite Neville's words, he suspected...and feared...that Neville would keep his distance. It was best to do these things quickly.

"Goodnight, Neville."

~X~

"Come on, Severus." Minerva spoke with more enthusiasm than she felt. "Almost there."

Next to her, the wizard grunted and tried to straighten himself so that his weight wasn't entirely on the older woman's shoulder. If her grip around his waist was anything to go by, she was strong enough to carry him, but he had his pride... even if it had been battered down and now whimpered like a whipped dog.

Snape was exhausted. And he ached... and he had this terrible feeling of having left something important behind. Even his forehead was too tired to frown, so he sighed and shuffled along the corridor to his room. Minerva always met him. He hoped she would be there, yet wished she wouldn't be. The impact of these 'appointments' crippled him, and although some basic part of him needed human contact and affection, anther part hated the knowledge that someone saw him so weakened. In truth, he'd wither without her by his side, and he wished that he could gather the strength to tell her openly how he felt, but he wasn't. Lily had been the last to hear such words.

"Just a few more ste..."

Her words died on her tongue, and she stopped dead. Door hinges had creaked up ahead. Peering along the corridor, she tried to see which door had opened. Closer than she would have liked, she saw a shadow fall onto the tiled floor as a figure moved to stand on the threshold of one of the rooms. Dragging Snape against the stone wall, she cast a Disillusionment Charm upon them both and watched with wide eyes.

Who could possibly be up and about at this hour? she thought with some exasperation. The shadow shifted, and Neville of all people staggered into the corridor. Clutching his head...obviously not from Butterbeers! thought Minerva wryly...he turned back as Rhine appeared in the doorway, looking as equally uncomfortable.

Snape snorted softly and whispered, "Who would have thought it?" He let out a dry chuckle. "The receptionist was right about him."

Minerva tutted and ignored Snape's cryptic comment; she was focused on the muted conversation between the two suffering wizards. She was directing all her energies into mentally hurrying Neville along...honestly, how long does it take to say 'thank you and goodnight'?

The room was always cold. She tutted under her breath and helped Snape down onto the settee. It was as far as he would let her help him. Flicking her wrist, she lit a fire in the hearth and Conjured a blanket. She was gratified to see him scowl. If he had the energy to sneer, then she knew he'd recover.

Snape knew better than to resist...her tactics for ensuring compliance had succeeded months ago...so when she dragged the blanket up, he allowed her to tuck him in without fuss.

"I'll expect to see you at the Great Feast tomorrow," she said firmly, which translated as, 'you'd better rest until the Great feast, or else!'

Snape nodded and Minerva left. He waited until the door clicked closed, and then he curled up on the settee, clutching the edge of the blanket up to his nose. Trembling beneath the woollen cover, he tried to recall what had happened earlier that day, and to his horror, he couldn't remember.