Characters/Pairings: Neville/Hannah, Rolf/Luna (mentioned)
Summary: She knows how to read people and he, well, he doesn't know what he needs.
Timeline: Post-war
Author's Note: I should be studying for a huge test, but whatever. This popped into my head and I couldn't resist.
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter.
He could fall into those huge silver eyes. It's clichéd, it's stupid, and worst of all, it's utterly unrequited.
Rolf is a sweet and clever boy, Neville knows, and Rolf's perfect for Luna in a way that he will never be. Rolf and Luna are adorable together—that's what he honestly thinks. And yet there's still some little part of Neville that wants Luna to adore him and coo over him and call him her love, her dove, her only.
Oh well, he thinks as he drags his feet into the Hog's Head. It's not like it would ever have happened.
"Butterbeer?" asks a familiar voice as he falls onto a stool. He can see the end of one long blonde braid in the corner of his vision. "Hello?" the voice falters as Neville looks up.
"Hannah." His voice cracks from the crying he hasn't done. "You work here now?" Merlin, Neville hates how weak he sounds right now, how utterly defeated he must seem.
"Bartender," she says, and there's a note of pride there. "What'll it be today?"
"Firewhiskey," he orders, because he needs something strong, and because butterbeer reminds him too strongly of Luna. Neville isn't really the sort to drag himself out to bars and get utterly trashed, but he might as well make an exception. First real broken heart deserves a special celebration, he figures.
The scarlet liquid comes down in front of him in a wide glass goblet, and he downs half of it before remembering how it burns. "Neville," Hannah says again as he's gagging, and he just watches how her braid hits her back as she moves to get some more ice, thwack thwack thwack against her purple sweater. "You okay?" He feels a strong finger lift his chin. She's propped herself up against the old knotted counter, amber eyes wide with concern. Neville feels a strange urge to play with the end of the blonde braid that's tickling his hand. It's a more honeyed color than Luna's wispy locks.
"Yeah, I'm fine." He throws his head back and takes another sip of firewhiskey, the burn a welcome distraction in his throat.
Hannah wants to tell him "liar," start some witty banter, but as she watches his face settle into a grimmer expression that she hasn't seen since the end of the war, she decides to stay silent. She prepares another firewhiskey and sets it behind the counter for later. With whatever has Neville so down—and she has a very keen hunch as to what it could be—there's no doubt he'll need another shot.
Three firewhiskeys and four tearbursts later, Hannah is the one who carries Neville up to her flat, propped against her shoulders. He's half a foot taller than her, but she finally gets his skinny frame into a stable position. "You okay?" she asks, because it's something she's comfortable asking, and because she honestly doesn't expect an answer.
His eyes are half-lidded. "Yeah, thanks, Hannah," and his eyelids slip shut. "Sorry."
"You idiot," she mutters affectionately under her breath, pulling the door open. "Stop lying to me. I can tell."