She's going to complain. She really is. She's going to find the Minister and take five minutes of his time (five minutes she knows he doesn't have, but this is important) to complain. Because even though they're all supposed to be working with a renewed sense of unity and building bridges and mending fences and all that, there are limits.
Haymitch Abernathy is beyond her limits.
Competent wizard he may be – and very useful in helping her sniff out any remaining Death Eaters – but he is a complete mess of a person. His clothes don't fit, he's always drinking out of a flask she's stopped pretending not to see, and he's in desperate need of a haircut. Plus, he fought with the Order and there's quite a bit of difference between defending yourself and actively seeking out conflict. Effie isn't a purist (no, her father is a halfblood and her mother is a Muggleborn, she has no stones to throw about purity), but she would rather prefer if nobody went around fighting anyone. It gets in the way of things she cares about.
"And he's a Gryffindor!" she finishes her tirade.
Narcissa smiles tightly from the opposite side of the magic mirror. "At least they didn't pair you with a Hufflepuff." To say the last few months have been rough would be the understatement of eternity, and she's trying her best to find the bright side in everything, even if it is small.
Effie scoffs. It's a small comfort. "Can't you or Lucius do something? I don't mind cleaning up this mess, I do mind cleaning it up with him."
"I'm afraid not, dear. Lucius barely avoided Azkaban, he doesn't have much pull with the Ministry at the moment. And I'm not particularly well-liked either."
"Albus, please. The Trinket woman will be the end of me." Haymitch flops into the chair. His glass of firewhiskey sloshes, but doesn't spill over.
"I'm sorry, Haymitch," he says, genuinely. "Her public alliances were with Voldemort – stop, his name will not kill you – and the Ministry has decreed that all pairs must have one from each side. It's the spirit of goodwill."
Haymitch snorts. He hooks his legs over the arm of the chair and slouches, staring into the fire. She's an incredible witch – could make it through Auror training if she put her mind to it – but he's not sure that makes up for the incessant prattling on about Quidditch and balls and whatever other nonsense crosses her mind that day. He says as much.
"Oh, it will be nice to have the World Cup this year."
Haymitch bangs his head on the chair. "What do you suggest I do?"
"About Effie?"
"Yes."
"Hum." He remembers her from her Hogwarts days. "Very loudly."
Haymitch slumps further into his chair.
It's snowing – the ugly, mean kind of snow – and Effie has been talking for three blocks about last week's dinner at the Malfoys' and how Lucius is looking a lot better now and Draco's getting so big and she doesn't know how Narcissa can do it all and still look so well-rested and Haymitch has had enough. "Will you please stop talking."
Effie stops in her tracks and glares at Haymitch's back until he realizes that she's not beside him anymore. She waits for him to trudge through the snow back to her. "Well, it's not like you're adding anything of value to the conversation." She sniffs the air. "When was the last time you bathed?"
"This morning and maybe I don't want to have a conversation, maybe I want to find Lestrange and go home and be done with this assignment and never have to see you and hear about parties and Quidditch trades and how many fancy rich people you can name drop ever again."
"I didn't ask for this assignment either and if you think that I'm thrilled to be working alongside a slovenly, sloppy, drunkard like you then you are so clearly delusional that they ought to put you in – stupefy!"
Haymitch ducks, expecting the curse to be thrown in his direction. It isn't. No longer ranting, Effie's turned to stare down the alley at a lump of rags and boxes. He slips his wand from his sleeve and follows her gaze. The lump moves, recovering. "Petrificus totalus." The lump freezes and falls over.
Effie motions for him to keep guard while she checks out the immobilized wizard. With their luck, it'll just be another wizard left temporarily homeless after the war and not the one they're after. She walks cautiously to the stack of boxes, wand out in case he isn't alone. She pulls back his hood and her eyebrows shoot up.
"Rabastan Lestrange," she says with a smirk, loud enough that Haymitch can hear, "you are hereby bound by the laws of the Ministry of Magic, subject to trial in the Wizengamot." She waves her wand and magical shackles appear around Rabastan's wrists and ankles. "You will be detained in Azkaban until your trial." She holds tight to his collar and hauls him upright, leaning him against the brick wall.
Determining that Rabastan was the only risk near them, Haymitch hurries to join Effie in the alley. He carefully frisks Rabastan and confiscates his wand, a few Knuts, and a handful of Every Flavor Beans from his jacket pockets. He smirks at Effie; Rabastan hasn't had a bath in at least ten days. She glares.
With Effie holding tight to Rabastan's left arm, Haymitch grabs hold of his left and apparates them to the Portkey that will transport them to Azkaban.
"I like Quidditch and parties and famous wizards because they distract me from how desperately awful things have been." Effie says quietly as they exit the Ministry, finally finished with all the paperwork surrounding Rabastan's capture. They have another assignment, of course, together.
Haymitch reaches for the flask inside his coat pocket, and then thinks better of it. "I would've missed Lestrange in the alley," he admits.
They pause on the corner. Her home is to the right, his to the left.
"I suppose asking you to get a proper haircut is out of the question."
He ponders this. "Tell you what. If you can go a week without mentioning your good friends the Malfoys, I will cut my hair."
Effie smiles and offers her gloved hand for a shake. "Deal."