A/N — Written for Assignment 7, Muggle Art, Task 4
Harry wipes down the bar-top, sending a rueful smile Hermione's way.
"Didn't think we'd wind up here, did you?" he asks in that self-depreciating way of his. It's a defence mechanism, he knows, but it is one he has yet to outgrow. Hermione raises a quizzical eyebrow, a look that says 'What do you mean?' and 'I know what you're doing,' and 'I can wait you out,' all at once.
It is a look Harry does not enjoy, but one he appreciates nonetheless, even as he chooses to ignore it. "Me, working behind a bar, in this dingy pub, serving butterbeer and —"
"Do you enjoy it?" Hermione interrupts. Her expression is neutral, features blank, though even after al these years Harry is unsure if the expression is carefully placed to mask her true feelings or if she is genuinely unconcerned with his answer. "I'll take one of those butterbeers, please," she adds. Her tone does not change, her expression remains the same, and she waits.
"Yeah, I —" Harry has to pause, attempting to work out which of her questions he is trying to answer. "Yeah," he says, "coming right up." Her expression tightens minutely, a narrowing of her eyes, a slight pursing of her lips, and Harry knows he has chosen the wrong question. No matter.
He pops the cap off a bottle of butterbeer, wiping the dust from the lip of the bottle as discreetly as he can. Aberforth may not mind the mess, but Harry is somewhat embarrassed by it, even when he is serving someone he has known for the majority of his formative years.
He doesn't bother giving her a glass, there is nothing his rag can do to help clean those, and he is not allowed to pull his wand out whilst on shift. Something about magic and alcohol not combining very well. He is to use it in emergencies only, though he thinks it is quite possible Aberforth just made that up to see what he would do.
Nothing, is the answer. Simple. Easy. Harry will not needlessly question this rule because he enjoys it. He likes doing things with his hands, even if it is something as mundane as pouring a pint. There is something satisfying about it.
So, "Yes," he says to Hermione, "yes, I do enjoy working here," because it is the truth.
And she smiles for the first time since she had walked in, a closed-lip smile that shows mostly in her eyes. She is happy for him, he realises, she does not judge him for this decision. This choice of a simple life.
"I'm glad," she says, and takes a swallow from her bottle of butterbeer.