Two

December 31, 2001 11:02 p.m.

I hadn't seen Neville Longbottom in over two years, and if he hadn't come in with a group of friends from school (Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, Lavender Brown, and Parvati Patil), I'm not sure I would have recognized him. Certainly not from across the crowded pub on the biggest drinking night of the year.

″Hannah!″

I was greeted with enthusiasm by my former classmates and indulged in a few moments of catching up. I had not been at The Three Broomsticks for long, maybe six months, but it was enjoyable work. Rosmerta was a good boss, the pub was rarely slammed except a handful of times a year on Hogwarts weekends or holidays, and I seemed to have a knack for hospitality. I would see more people I knew if I could get on at The Leaky Cauldron in London, but for now, this suited me just fine. I took their orders and returned to the table with drinks and two baskets of chips.

″On the house,″ I said, smiling as I set them down. These five had saved my life more than once during seventh year. It seemed a paltry offering.

Dean, Seamus, Lavender, and Parvati chorused their thanks and reached for the food, but Neville touched my arm. Just a light touch, two seconds at most, but he took the time to look me in the eye and thank me personally. No one does that in the restaurant business; despite my name tag, I never get thanked by name.

″Thanks, Hannah. Sit down and have a drink with us.″

Neville is one of those rare wizards who is good- looking and doesn't know it. Of average height, with dark blond hair and sky- blue eyes, three years of working in the Auror Department had been kind to him. He had changed during our seventh year, not only coming into his own in personality and leadership, but also in looks (Susan Bones, Lavender, Parvati, her sister Padma, and I had had more than one conversation that year about Neville's transformation). He looked different, though. That year Neville had been stressed, tense, bruised, and almost thin with the pressures of war. Now he was relaxed, fit, and— well, hot.

Speaking of which, it was oppressively hot in here. Always rosy-cheeked at the best of times, I probably resembled a sweaty pig. Lovely.

″Hannah?″

Oh, no, I had been so focused on my memories of the boy Neville that I ignored the man in front of me. I felt myself blushing further, my cheeks prickling with heat.

I held up the now- empty tray. ″A witch's work never ends,″ I said lightly.

″It must end sometime. When do you get off?″

Lavender and Parvati were watching us with intense interest, while Dean and Seamus were absorbed in a conversation about Quidditch (what else?).

″Er, we close at two.″

Neville leaned back and smiled. ″I'll wait.″