Septima Vector lent lazily against the bar. It was getting close to closing time, the flames of the fire drawing ever nearer to embers as their glow reflected in the witch's dark eyes and the amber swirl of her drink. Rosemerta, the owner of The Three Broomsticks, swept around some tables, the quiet scratching of bristles over stone all that could be heard. Septima enjoyed evenings like this, sitting on a tall barstool, watching the fire die and having to think about nothing at all. She liked people, to a point, but there was definitely a reason that she chose to do her drinking on the pub's off evenings. Rosemerta didn't mind either, if Septima bought one drink and just sat there for hours. The two women were friends; after what they had been through during the war, they both understood the need for solitude.
The bell over the door jangled, and a man stepped in. Septima watched him as he walked towards the bar, certain she had seen his face before. There was something familiar about the large, deep eyes and the handsome line of his chin. Rosemerta seemed to know him, giving him a smile and going to pour out a Firewhisky.
"I'm going to bed," she said, sliding the glass over to the new arrival, "Septima, you can show yourself out?"
The other witch nodded and so, with a flick of her wand, the proprietor turned the sign hanging on the door to 'Closed'.
"Septima. Kingsley," she said to her guests as a way of goodbye, walking up the stairs to her lodging.
Septima's head had turned around to once again look at the man, who stood at the other end of the bar. He caught her looking and gave a polite smile.
"Good evening," he said.
The witch raised her glass in a response.
"Sorry to stare," she said with a definite drawl, "I could swear I've met you before."
The man smiled again.
"I think you have," he replied, "Kingsley Shacklebolt. Battle of Hogwarts."
Septima's mind flashed back; the crashing of stone, the rising of dust, the flying of spells. A strong pair of hands pulling her down as a curse flashed by, barely missing her cheek. A pair of large, deep eyes wide with adrenaline. A low voice like velvet asking her if she was okay.
"Of course," she said, one corner of her mouth rising up, "Hell of an introduction."
In the heat of the battle, he had struck her as some kind of mythic warrior king. In the dim light of reality, he still cut a dashing figure, though was decidedly less dishevelled and decidedly more human.
"I don't think I caught your name," he said, taking a few steps closer.
"Septima Vector."
The witch held out her hand, but did not move, forcing Kingsley to walk the rest of the bar to shake it. His hands were still cold from being outside.
"You teach?" he asked.
"I do."
"Shouldn't you be at the school?"
"Shouldn't you be at the ministry?"
Kingsley paused, surveying the woman before him, then he gave a quiet chuckle.
"Touché," he said, taking a gulp of his drink.
"I suppose," Septima went on, "that we're both off the clock?"
Kingsley smiled, "I suppose we are."
They drank in silence, not an uncomfortable one, but the kind the inevitably springs from the sleepy warmth of an advancing evening in front of a fire. The fireplace was actually all but dead at this point, so Septima gave a quick flick of her fingers and the flames crept back into life again. It was one of the few spells she could do easily without wand or speech. She glanced back at Kingsley, who, his half finished drink in hand, was staring into the newly sprung fire. Septima knew that faraway look, when the mind was somewhere that the body was not. She didn't disturb him, the wizard eventually bringing his focus back with an apologetic smile. Septima smiled in return.
"You're a long way from home, Minister" she said quietly.
Kingsley raised an eyebrow.
"I imagine," Septima continued, "that Firewhisky tastes much the same in London as in Hogsmeade."
Kingsley laughed.
"I imagine it does," he said, "I don't drink a lot of it in London, believe it or not."
Septima turned so she was facing him, propping up her face with her hand, her elbow leaning on the bar. Kingsley, who was still facing the fire, looked over her and, taking another sip, laughed again.
"Do you always show such an interest in people you've just met?" he asked with a teasing edge in his voice.
Septima grinned and shrugged.
"No, not usually. Maybe I'm in a charitable mood."
The wizard turned to face her, placing his glass on the bar and mirroring her leaning pose.
"What makes you think I'm a charity case?" he asked, a slight smile on his face.
"Your words, Darling," Septima shot back.
"At your suggestion."
Septima considered her drink, draining the last of it, before looking back at Kingsley.
"You've come all the way to Scotland to drink in an empty bar," she said.
"Which tells you what?" Kingsley's voice was softer than it had previously been, the game wavering.
His companion caught the subtle shift in his tone and took a moment to answer.
"Pilgrimage," she said slowly, "Or escape. Or maybe a bit of both."
Another laugh. This time it was hollow.
A silence once again consumed the room, this time a little icier. Kingsley had turned around and was staring at the bar. Septima felt a blush rising in her cheeks.
"I'm sorry," she said honestly, "I didn't mean to…"
"No," Kingsley shook his head, the charming smile returning to his face, "it's alright."
"I just recognised the look," Septima said with a wry reflectiveness, "Seen it before, mostly in windows and mirrors when I come back from somewhere other than the room I'm in."
There was something raw in her voice when she added, "I think war does that to you."
Kingsley drank the last of his whiskey, sliding his empty glass next to Septima's with a gentle clink.
"Sometimes," he said quietly, "I just stop. And I wonder how we got here. So many people dead and displaced and traumatised. And then I wonder how we'll ever get past it. How do we move on from this defining who we are? Who are the people that will move us past this? And then I realise I'm expected to be one of those people and I just…"
He trailed off. Septima gazed at him intently. He was definitely human now. And yet, somehow, that made him no less impressive than the mythic vision who had appeared to her through battle smoke.
"We used to listen to Potterwatch," the witch said, "when we could get away for a moment. Huddled on a bed or in someone's office. I sat for an hour in a store room once. We listened because it made us feel hopeful. Because the people on the radio sounded like those people, the ones who could move us past it all. You sounded like that. My colleagues, people who know you, when they listened, they said 'that man is going to do it. He's the real thing.' They knew it to be true. And, from what I can gather, they still think that."
"And what did you say?" Kingsley asked, "When you listened."
Septima leant back on her barstool, crossing her legs and pursing her lips, surveying him as if deciding whether or not to tell him the truth.
"I said," each word was considered, rolled around in her mouth with a mixture of apprehension and enjoyment, "that that was the man I was going to marry."
A pause. Kingsley was obviously taken aback, his mouth hanging open as he stammered in an attempt at a response, running his hand over his head like an embarrassed school boy.
"And now that you've met me?" there was a smile on his lips.
Septima, clearly enjoying the effect of her words, just shrugged.
"I haven't soured to the idea. Though you did save my life, so I'm probably biased."
"Anybody would've done the same."
"But you were the one who did."
Kingsley gave a chuckle, "you certainly know how to lift a man's spirits. I could use someone like you more often."
"How?" a question that coupled with a suggestive eyebrow raise.
"I meant a job," Kingsley held up his hands in joking defence.
Septima leant closer, smiling her one cornered smile.
"Darling, I'd do it for free if you'd buy me dinner first."
Kingsley laughed, a full laugh, rich and smooth as befit the timbre of his voice. Septima shivered just slightly.
"What do you want to eat?" he asked teasingly.
"Oysters," Septima replied, more than happy to play his game.
"Expensive oysters?"
"Obviously."
"I know a guy."
"I bet you do."
"I'll get the first dozen."
"I'll get the second."
"Sounds like a deal."
"Sounds like a date."
They stayed in the bar talking until a groggy Rosemetra came downstairs and told them it really was time to leave. Kingsley walked Septima back to the Hogwarts gate, their steps taking them slowly as the cold night became the crisp early morning.
"And now," Kingsley grinned, as they stood before the gate, neither wanting to leave first, "now that you have lost all respect for your government, what do you think?"
"I think that I won't have fruit cake and my family will be a nightmare to put into a harmonious seating chart," Septima said matter-of-factly, "but I'm determined not to let that stop me."
Kingsley nodded, his eyes sparkling.
"I'll send you an owl about those oysters," he said seriously.
"Please do," was her simple and sincere response.
Kingsley raised a hand in a final goodbye and then started back toward Hogsmeade. Septima watched him go, her arms wrapped around her chest against the cold. Her eyes followed him until, far away enough away, he suddenly vanished in a smooth, soundless whip. She let out a sigh and then she opened the gate to go home, reflecting on quickly drinking alone had lost its appeal.