Here at the Happy Wasp
There are some things you can only tell a stranger.
The year was 2010, and the Ministry of Magic was, to say the least, practically obsolete. Things hadn't turned out the way they had always said they would. Voldemort wasn't dead, however, nor was he alive. And no, he wasn't half of either. Instead of the ministry, an oligarchy of totalitarian sorts took responsibility for the witches and wizards of England, since nobody else wanted to. The economy had plummeted, Hogwarts was razed to the ground nearly a decade before and there was plenty of talk regarding the goblins of Gringotts (who, it was said, were strongly considering the termination of all business of any sort with England due to what most people referred to as 'the state of things'). In the midst of all this, Neville Longbottom, now aged thirty, sat at the bar in a pub along Diagon Alley (one of the many that seemed to have erected itself not long after 'the state of things' got to the way they were) called The Happy Wasp.
To Neville Longbottom, the world hadn't changed much in the last ten years. He was still running a nearly-bankrupt, herbal supply shop down the street. His grandmother was still dead (she had passed eleven years ago). Frank and Alice were still confined to the loony ward at St. Mungo's (he had ceased to refer to them as 'mum and dad', that just got tiring as far as he was concerned). But had he pushed the timeframe of what he considered to be change a bit further, to say fifteen years perhaps, he would have been most obliged to count them off one by one on each of his fingers. Twice.
Dumbledore had died. The revolution had broken out the summer before his seventh year at Hogwarts. The Order of the Phoenix had dispersed itself, for what they called 'tactics' and what he called admission to defeat, and then one by one died. The Ministry of Magic, which was already a walking farce comprised of the completely clueless, was replaced with an even bigger farce comprised of the even more completely clueless. Voldemort had gone after some of Neville's closest friends. Voldemort had gone after some of Neville's more familiar acquaintances. Seamus Finnigan had been found dead in his bath at the age of twenty-two. Dean Thomas had lost the lower half of his right leg, performing his auror duties. Ginny had died. Luna had died. Hermione had died. Ron had died. And perhaps, most importantly of all, so had Harry. Although on a lighter note, he'd heard that Draco Malfoy was hit by a bad hex in action and awoke claiming to have 'found himself', then shaved his head and adapted an existence similar to that of the ancient druids in order to commune with nature. It didn't stop them from throwing him into Azkaban (where, surprisingly, he was more than willing to go—rambling senselessly about 'acquiring repentance'). At least someone was happy.
As for Neville, he'd deemed himself too weak to join the revolution. Not to say that he hadn't at all, he did—however in mere minute proportions (supplying potions ingredients here and there, concocting some new droughts every now and then, locating rare botanical species of the magical sort, etc.). After the Order had dispersed itself, he joined the few who chose not to. But unlike his more gregarious companions, he chose to work from the inside out. Needless to say, he was the only one that survived because of it.
And now, here he was, neither rich nor poor (his strangely large inheritance had seen to that), leading a considerably full life which had accounted for almost everything to date. His only qualm on the matter was that, essentially, it didn't mean anything.
There he sat, pondering whether or not to respond to the owl that he'd received the day before from Dean. He'd written to say that new developments had been made regarding the whereabouts of Voldemort, and that he needed an herbal toxicologist to analyse certain samples of evidence. The offer was tempting, but Neville's ever-present reluctance and what he considered to be a very heavy, common sensibility got in the way. After all, it always had which would explain most of his exterior character (or at least perhaps to those who claimed they knew him best—most of them were gone now). It was then, deep in thought that he was (as most of us often are) rudely awakened by half a murmur. It had done so distinctly because it audibly made out what his sentiments on 'the state of things' were.
"Miserable." She said.
Neville looked up and was almost shocked to see a familiar face—but he wasn't. She was quite a mannish young woman, despite having given off a principle façade of femininity. She was garish and he was quite familiar with her garishness. She was attractive. She was also one of his customers.
"Hi." He'd never been good with girls.
She turned her head in an owl-like manner, shooting him a knowing look.
"Bit late for you to be out, don't you think?" he said plainly.
"That's incredibly condescending coming from you." she replied.
"And why is that?"
"Well, if it's late for me, why shouldn't it be late for you?"
"I was thirsty. And anyway, even if it does sound condescending, you're a woman and it's quite dangerous. I mean, Diagon Alley isn't what it used to be, you know."
"I know. And women get thirsty too."
He chuckled.
"You own The Poison Apple?"
She was referring to his shop.
"When I can be bothered. Usually, I just leave it to Dorcas."
"Your shopkeeper."
"Right".
"I kind of figured. You aren't there most of the time, but every now and then you are."
"You seem to be there a lot." He paused to drink. "Plant fetish?" he asked jokingly.
"No, just an interest for herbal toxicology. Your shop's the only one along Diagon Alley that has anything to do with it that won't get a girl hexed on the way in." she replied with a small smile.
She wasn't so bad once you struck up a conversation. She was actually quite funny, a lot like someone he used to know.
"So," she said. "what's your name?"
He winced at the thought of re-establishing any real connections to another human being. He practically lived as a hermit as it was. Only three people (that he knew of) had his address and kept in contact with him—Dean (understandably, he was the last of Neville's old-time friends), Dorcas (his shopkeeper) and the mediwizard in charge of his parents, Dr. Alembick Fritz (a kindly German wizard who updated Neville every now and then on their condition). So he did the only thing he thought reasonable: he lied.
"Francis." He said.
"Mine too." She replied sarcastically.
"What a coincidence."
"Now what's your real name?"
"What makes you think it isn't?"
"Well, the truth just sounds different."
"Does it?"
"Oh, absolutely."
He paused for a while, as if to give off the impression that he was really going to tell her his name.
"Harry." He finally said.
"Harry." She said. "Interesting. You know, I've know quite a few Toms and Dicks, and in fact, more of the latter than the former much to my dismay, but I've never known any Harrys."
"Well, now you do."
"Sure. But seriously now, what's your real name?"
She was relentless.
"Neville." He said, half-laughing. "what's yours?"
"Iris." She replied.
"Well, Iris, you must be a very trusting person."
"Not usually, but I figure, if I'm bound to die at any given time I should change that."
"Don't say that, you're young. You've got your whole life ahead of you. I mean, you're probably, what, twenty-one, twenty two…?"
She gave him an odd look.
"Actually, sixteen—but thank you."
He was suddenly taken aback.
"What?" she resounded.
"Nothing, it just occurred to me that when I was your age, you were two years old."
"Fast maths. But if it counts, you don't look thirty."
He smirked.
"Go home." He said, reaching for his glass of firewhisky. "Your parents are probably worried sick. Like I said before, it's a bit late for you to be out."
"I don't have any. Parents, that is. I mean, I used to, but they died. The explosion of '05."
That struck a nerve. He knew what she was talking about. There had been an explosion at King's Cross five years back, and the muggles had dubbed them as 'terrorist attacks', but as always the wizarding world knew better. That was how Luna had died.
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"That's alright. You didn't set it off."
But he knew just as well that had he been there, he could've tried to stop it.
"Who takes care of you now?" he asked. "That is, if you don't mind my asking."
"Not at all. Erm, my brother. He's a bit older than you actually. He graduated Hogwarts."
"In which case, he must be much older than me."
She laughed.
"He used to play quidditch. But since the restrictions were put up, he's been relegated to broom designing."
"Oh really? What's his name? Maybe I've heard of him."
"Nah, I doubt it. He was strictly minor league. Never got the chance to go major. It kills him."
"Ah, I see. But you know, that doesn't give you an excuse to be wandering around Diagon Alley in the middle of the night."
"I'm not wandering, I'm sitting here at The Happy Wasp talking to you."
"Don't be philosophical. It isn't wise and you know it."
"What? Being philosophical or sitting here at The Happy Wasp talking to you?"
"Both."
"Now who's being philosophical?"
She really was relentless. He couldn't see any other option but to deal with her right there.
"You just don't give up, do you?"
"Well, I try."
"Interesting. So is there any particular reason you're out in the middle of the night?"
"Is there any particular reason that you are?"
"That's different. I don't need a reason, I'm a legal adult. You're a year shy of getting that privilege of doing things for no reason."
"Everything has a reason."
"What did I tell you about being philosophical?"
"Sorry. Actually, it's kind of my brother's fault."
"Let me guess, teenage rebellion?"
"Please, I've got as much edge as a bagel. No, it's just he doesn't really get to spend much time with me lately and he's been on this rampage of giving me things I don't ask for."
"Now see, most teenagers would be quite all right with that."
"I'm not. It makes me feel like I'm being bought. And it's not as though I'm particularly fond of him either. I mean, I like him and he's my brother and all, but he's really always just been more of a relative than family, and I don't think it's just because of the age difference, though I wouldn't expect you to know what that feels like."
"Don't be so assuming."
"Prey tell."
"I grew up with my gran. My parents were never really a big part of my life."
"Oh, I get it."
"No, trust me, you don't. They're mentally incapable of functioning."
"Oh."
"Yeah. At least your parents are dead, mine are wasting away in the mental ward at St. Mungo's."
"You mean, they're still alive?"
"Sure. They're perfectly healthy otherwise, or at least that's what Dr. Fritz says."
"I'm sorry."
"Thanks, but I guess even you know that, when you think about it, it isn't too bad. You know, being alone."
"Oh, definitely. People always tell you that the only way to happiness is through other people but what they never mention is that it's about ten times worse than not having anything to do with them in the first place."
"Yeah. I agree. You're really just better off not getting attached to anyone because eventually they all disappear."
"Yeah."
It suddenly struck Neville a bit odd that he and Iris had something so uncanny in common, but for the first time, his reluctance and common sensibility didn't get in the way. It didn't bother him that he was practically twice her age or that she was old enough to be his younger sister. He thought he was overcome with a sense of comfort knowing that he wasn't the only one who pondered, and quite pessimistically at that.
"And for the record, Francis is my middle my name. I wasn't lying the first time." He retorted.
She smiled.
"So tell me, does it get any better?"
"What, life?"
She nodded.
"Of course not. If it did, I wouldn't be miserable."
"Okay, but how about this. What if you were given the chance to do it all over again, provided that you did it all exactly the same way, would you?"
"Hmm…"
Neville thought about it for a while and, for whatever reason, found nothing going through his mind with the exception of a single word.
"Yes."
"Then you don't believe in it."
"In what?"
"In what you said earlier, about people not being worth getting attached to because eventually they'll all just leave."
"Oh, I believe it."
"If you really did, you wouldn't want to go through it all again exactly the same way."
"But you don't know how it used to be, you were probably too young to remember what was going on before 'the state of things' got to the way they were."
"Again with the condescending."
"Sorry."
"And anyway, why do they call it 'the state of things'? Why can't they just address it as it is?"
"Well that depends. What do you think 'it' is?"
"Blatant stupidity and, to a certain extent, anarchy."
"Well, everyone knows that."
"Exactly, so why can't they just come right out and say it?"
"Iris, not everyone is as willing as you are to see things as they really are. People like to believe that there's something beyond it that serves a greater purpose, it's their way of getting themselves to sleep at night."
"You aren't sleeping."
"Neither are you, and that's the difference between people like us and people like them."
That seemed to shut her up for a while, but soon he was met with another query.
"One last question." She said.
"What?"
"Would you rather be one of them?"
"Of course not."
"Good."
It was then that she shut up, and as he feared, possibly forever. Conversation was all that they had going, but at this point he'd begun to notice some other things about her as well. Like the fact that her eyes were a rather glassy shade of dark blue or that she had a tendency to tuck her black hair behind her ears quite often. But what had caught him the most when he'd least expected it was her insight. And that, he thought, was what made her most attractive. However, he also, suddenly, became incredibly aware of himself; constantly reminding himself that when he was her age she was aged two and that he was just too old for her as it already was and that he was better off leaving her alone. The only problem was that he didn't want to.
"I should get going." She said suddenly, after finishing her butterbeer.
"You should, and you shouldn't." He blurted out uncontrollably. The firewhisky was taking its toll.
"I thought it was too late for me to be out."
"It is, but see, now it's even later than it was earlier which should logically be followed by the assumption that it's even more dangerous."
"Well then, what do you propose we do about that?"
"Let me walk you home."
She laughed.
"Thanks for the offer, but I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."
"Oh, bollocks. You and I both know that anything could happen between here and wherever it is you're headed."
"Avery Street."
"Oh."
Avery Street was right across the way from The Happy Wasp. It would explain why she seemed so comfortable being out so late.
"But you can walk me home anyway, if you like."
"What're you playing at?"
"Well, you just might be outstanding in the capacity of pissing off my brother."
"Now, how is that a good thing?"
"It isn't, but it'd probably shove him into actually carrying out a conversation with me as opposed to say… giving me something else I didn't ask for in the first place."
He laughed slightly.
"Okay."
The walk to Avery Street remained vivid in Neville's mind for the rest of his life. He spent it hoping that she wouldn't catch him looking at her.
"Tell me something." She said as they exited the vicinity of the pub. "D'you ever think that everything is arbitrarily pre-arranged?"
"To a certain extent, yes, but otherwise I think it's really up to you."
"Define 'otherwise'."
"Well, I suppose…" he let out a long breath ".. I don't know. I mean, things like love, I guess, are up to you."
"Oh I don't believe in love. Wait! Let me re-phrase that. I don't believe in romance, but I believe in love."
"Why not?" he asked, almost defensively.
"Romance is disillusioning. It's temporary. Love is something, I think, that goes beyond that."
"Well how would you define it?"
"What?"
"Love."
"I can't."
"So don't patronize it."
"Can you?
"What?"
"Define love."
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes? What is that supposed to mean?"
"It's supposed to mean that you can never really define it without experiencing it."
"Have you?"
"Experienced it? I'd like to think so, but the only problem with that was that I never got to tell her I…you know."
"Oh. Can I ask why?"
"She died. Shock. The explosion of '05."
"I thought I hit a nerve when I mentioned my parents."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's supposed to mean that you wear your heart on your sleeve."
"Oh thanks, now I'm really miserable."
"It's a compliment."
"Well thank you." he replied sarcastically.
She stopped walking when they arrived in front of a rather dark building (rather dark meaning that all the lights were turned off save for the one on the third floor). Neville was half relieved and half sorry that they had reached their destination.
"Well, this is it." She said. "Any last words, Mr. Neville…?"
"Longbottom. And no, I don't really have anything to say, except maybe thanks. It was nice talking to you. There are some things you can only tell a stranger."
"And some strangers are more familiar than others. Goodnight Neville."
"Goodnight Iris."
And with that, she turned and walked up the steps to the front door of the apartment building and into the building itself, leaving Neville altogether taken and feeling somewhat used. But for what it was worth, she was right. Some strangers were more familiar than others.
The very next morning, Neville Longbottom picked up a quill and jotted down a hasty reply to Auror Dean Thomas' owl that had arrived two days before, and in it he accepted the position he was offered. Ever so occasionally, when he was asked why he chose to take it, he said it was because some strangers were more familiar than others. And that left whomever had asked him puzzled in thought.
THE END