A/N: So this is the sequel. Tell me what you think by pressing that little Go button next to Submit Review.
She's back again.
It's been the same every night for almost two weeks now. She comes in around eight and leaves at midnight. She orders one firewhisky, drinks it within ten minutes, and sits there with an empty bottle for the rest of the night. She never talks to anyone, never says a word. She just looks so utterly –
A horrendously loud belch interrupts my thoughts. One of the blokes at the bar smiles and burps again, apparently quite proud of himself. "'Nother rum, mate?"
I cast the girl another glance, sigh, and turn away. Duty calls. I raise an eyebrow at the belcher – his name is Laurence Starbright. He's about six feet tall, always needs a shave… and he's one of the regulars.
"You sure that's a good idea?" I ask him.
He waves a careless hand. "I'll Apparate home. No sweat."
I roll my eyes and give in. "All right, hang on."
If there's one thing I know about Laurence, it's that he's got more splinching horror stories than you've got fingers and toes. I dilute his alcohol with water, just to be safe.
Besides, he's so drunk now he'll never be able to tell the difference.
I slide Laurence's glass across the bar to him; he catches it while it's still moving and offers me a drunken salute. Several other men laugh, and I grin.
Now that Laurence is distracted with his alcohol, I'm free to watch the girl again. I wipe my hands on my pants (sanitary, I know) and lean back against the counter, just looking at her.
She has the potential to be beautiful, if she'd only take care of herself. Her dark hair is tangled and dull; her emerald eyes have a sad and lonesome appearance. The way her fingers grip the bottle, you'd think it was the only thing she had left in the world. As though everything else has deserted her.
Bloody hell. She's looking up – she's seen me staring!
Trying to fix things the only way I know how, I walk over to her isolated corner of the bar. Her gaze doesn't waver once. I smile nervously.
"Do you… do you want a drink?"
"No, I'm okay." Her voice is soft and careful.
"But…" I point stupidly at her firewhisky. "The bottle's empty."
She looks at me again. "I know."
That doesn't really leave me with much to say. I swallow hard. "Um. Right. Just let me know if you need anything."
She nods and smiles hesitantly. I'm about to turn away, but at the last second I spin around and ask her one more thing. "I'm sorry, but… what's your name?"
"Skylar. Skylar Clark."
x x x
Week three. She's here again. Same seat, same drink, same appearance. I don't speak to her again, and she doesn't initiate conversation either. Sometimes I wish she would.
About the middle of week four, however, a group of rowdy young men come into the bar. I hate it when these sorts of people show up: the type that demands at least three firewhiskies even though they can get drunk off one. Nobody else seems to like them either; after their second round of drinks, Laurence and his friends get up and leave the bar. The rest slip away one by one, until Skylar's the only person left. I hope for her sake they're too drunk to notice her.
But of course they do.
One of the loudest ones, a fellow with black hair and a thunderous laugh, sidles over to her, firewhisky still in hand.
"Hello, beautiful," he says, his mates egging him on from a couple seats away.
She nods, and she's trying to appear calm, I can tell. But the way she's spinning the bottle around in her hands gives her away.
Perhaps Loudmouth sees this as well, because he's not giving up just yet. "Can I buy you a drink?"
I'm putting down the towel I've been fiddling with and walking over, all set to tell him to shove off and leave her alone, when suddenly she speaks. Her voice is so quiet that we all lean in a bit to hear it.
"Yes," she says. "Yes, you can."
He whoops and his friends cheer and I groan under my breath.
"One firewhisky, mate!" the tall one shouts. Skylar smiles hesitantly as I bring it over to her, whispers a thank-you.
I just cross my fingers and hope she can hold her liquor well.
And she does. For the second bottle, anyway. But the third, and the fourth… they don't go as smoothly. She changes before my eyes. She goes from the quiet, soft-spoken girl that she's been for the past few weeks to a badly behaved teenager that nearly evacuates half of my bar with her raucous laughter.
I'm starting to get fed up, although I'm not sure if I'm more annoyed with her for accepting the alcohol or him for offering it in the first place. Either way, as the jokes get dirtier and the voices get louder, I find myself wishing that they'd just leave.
I guess you should be careful what you wish for.
By the time they stand up to go, they've had about five firewhiskies apiece. Everyone staggers to their feet and troops outside, presumably to Apparate home. And I'm fine with that. Really, I don't care if they splinch or not, as long as they get out of my bar. But then I see Loudmouth leading Skylar out by the hand. She's plainly drunk – her head's lolling to one side and hell, she can barely stand upright. But I'm guessing that was Loudmouth's plan all along, because a gigantic smirk is lighting up his face. Clearly he thinks he's going to get some action tonight.
And if there's one thing I can't stand, it's that smirk.
They're almost to the door when I grab Skylar by the wrist. Loudmouth jerks her other hand, glaring at me.
I don't even bother speaking to him. Instead I turn to her. "Skylar, what's going on?"
Her eyes are fogged with unfamiliarity. Or drunkenness. Or both.
"What are you doing?" Loudmouth asks me, obviously perturbed.
I round on him, deciding to wing it. "I think the question is what are you doing with my girlfriend?"
He shrinks back, his hand slipping off Skylar's wrist. "Oh, sorry mate. My fault."
"Yeah, it is."
He skulks out the door. "And don't bother coming round again!" I shout after him.
Skylar staggers into me, apparently oblivious to what just happened. "I don't feel s'good," she murmurs.
I look down at her, sighing. While I might have just saved her from Loudmouth, it now means I have to deal with her.
"Oy, Tommy!"
"Yeah, boss?"
"Think you could lock up for me?"
"Sure, boss."
"Thanks."
I feel a sudden weight against my chest and look down again to see she's more or less fallen asleep against me. I rub my eyes with the hand that's not crushed underneath her and sigh again. It's going to be a long night.
x x x
The good news is, she only throws up once. The bad news is I have to crack open my last jar of Mrs. Scower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover and scrub it out of my carpet while she passes out on my bed.
So of course I'm left with the ratty old couch.
I don't sleep too well. In fact, when she jerks into consciousness about eight hours later, I'm already up.
Skylar, on the other hand, is not as cheerful as I am. There are dark purple shadows under her eyes, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that she has a massive hangover.
"Ohhh," she moans, clutching her head in her hands.
"Do you want something for that?"
She nods wordlessly. I rifle through the cupboards in the kitchen until I find what I'm looking for – my trusty old hangover potion. I toss it over to her and she downs it in two gulps.
"Better?"
She grins shakily. "A bit."
I allow the girl a sympathetic smile before sitting down across from her and adopting my best business-like manner. "Now, Skylar. I've been watching you for about a month, and I think you need a job."
Her eyes darken. "Who asked you?"
I put up my hands. "Nobody. I'm just trying to help, honestly. I mean, after I saved your arse last night the least you could do is say thank-you."
The memories are obviously rushing back, and for a moment she looks guilty. I wait, but she doesn't say anything. Oh well.
"Back to what I was saying. I'm willing to let you work at my bar. I admit, the pay's not great, but considering you're usually there for at least four hours every night… I figure you might as well make yourself useful and earn a little money."
Skylar looks at me dubiously. "You're just going to give me a job?"
"Yeah, I am."
She doesn't respond right away, so I stand up and start heading toward the door. "In any case, I have to be at work right now – I'm actually late as it is. So you can come tonight and give me your answer."
"Wha – well – uh…" she splutters. Apparently my grand show of generosity has put her at a loss for words. Then, just as my hand grazes the doorknob, she bursts out with, "Who are you?"
I look back at her and grin. "I'm Charlie, of course. Charlie Weasley."
