and i?

Violet’s eyebrows lifted again, head cocking questioningly to one side. “What entertainment is on offer around here?”

"Well, it depends on the night, but you’re in luck tonight.” He gestured to a couple in a corner booth. “That couple over there, without fail, will end up in a fight. It may get physical, but even if it doesn’t, someone is going to splash a drink in the other’s face. It’s a toss-up on if they’ll also go rent a room at the inn with different people.” He pointed to the pool table. “I had that installed myself, and it’s a riot to see people try and play and treat the cue stick like a wand. You ever give billiards a shot?” 

“Hm? I didn’t catch that, sorry.”

"I asked for your opinion on this shirt. I have dinner with my dad later. I should probably try a little harder than usual, y’know?” 

“Spit?” Emma was almost annoyed at the insinuation that she would do anything of the sort. Spitting was beneath her. Instead, she reached towards the drink, and eyed it with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. She did enjoy some kinds of alcohol, but disgust was just a part of her personality. Emma picked up the glass and took a sip, her mouth immediately happy with the concoction. “You can let down the guard on your face, I won’t need to spit on you.”

Reed didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until after the exhale, after Emma gave her approval. He’d learned over the years he needed to read through the lines, and not rejecting the drink was akin to getting a compliment. If only he could mix up his words as well as he could mix alcohol. She was always leaps better than him at that. “I consider that a win,” he grins. “I s’pose I probably couldn’t convince you to indulge me some more by going to a Quidditch match with me one of these days? The Harpies are real solid this year.”

“When you learn where to stick your bloody fingers! It’s an important lesson, and I can’t legally let you off the hook until I’ve decided that it has properly sunk in.”

"Come off it. Lessons involve learning, and I’ve never been any good at that. You shouldn’t strap yourself to a lost cause.”  

“I’m just saying, I don’t stick my fingers where they don’t belong. Not mouths, not holes in doors, and definitely not in bottles. I’m not going to be the bloody tosser that gets his finger stuck or bitten off.”

“Mate, it happened one time. And the nice mediwitch said that it could have happened to anyone. When are you going to let me live?”

“As productive as ever, of course.”

"Can’t say I find much offense in that when you’re the one spending your oh-so valuable time criticizing someone else’s food choices.” 

“And here I thought you hadn’t learned anything.” Emma might have been one of the few people that recognized that Reed had more potential than he let on. It was exasperating to no end. “Go on then, surprise me. If I’m going to have one drink, then you better make it count.”

Reed nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” Mulling on the options for a moment, Reed reaches into the cooler for grapefruit juice, cherry syrup, and  Prosecco. He grabs a clean Champagne flute before combining the ingredients, garnishing the top with a Maraschino cherry and a grind of grapefruit. “Here you go. If it’s awful, you can spit in my face.” 

Violet placed her drink back on to the counter, watching as he grabbed another bottle. “But this bar is so much nicer than my flat,” she teased, eyebrow lifting. She nodded a head in the direction of the bottle. “Seems I’m not the only one who needs some extra medicinal help.”

Reed held up his bottle, guilty as charged. “Makes me a better bartender, I think, when I can sympathize with the clientele. Wouldn’t you rather me know my way around alcohol? And let me tell you this: you won’t get the same kind of entertainment at your flat as you will here.”

“And single loners stupid enough to believe that should?”

“Hey, I never said that I was the one that was picky.” Reed shrugged. “I just wanted to eat my blood pudding in peace.”

“Technically it’s an up-charge, but I figured I’d lie and call it a discount.” Emma tapped her fingers on the counter, already uncomfortable. It wasn’t public spaces that made her uncomfortable it was the necessity that others had for talking. She liked quiet, and silence, and the ability to think things through. There wasn’t a reckless bone in her body. “One drink, Reed. I’m serious. I have work to do later and I’d rather not be spinning around the room.”

“I sort of figured that out on my own since I’m not completely clueless on what prices our fathers charge.” Reed may be loose and juice with his own alcohol intake and his own life in general, but he wasn’t so careless with others. Especially not with Emma. He knew how important it was to her that she keep her head clear and straight. “Just one,” he agreed readily. “I could get you something nice and breezy, like a sangria? Or a Bellini? Or a spiked Arnold Palmer?”

“I sincerely doubt it,” Marlene deadpanned, rolling her eyes— not at Reed, but at the delinquent friend who was running behind. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be willing to try it.

“But do your worst. I don’t know much of anything about drinking that isn’t spiked floats.”

“Well, with your inexperience in mind, how about we start you off with something a little bit more tame, huh?” Reed rummages through the bar’s selection, taking a pause to think before he decided upon a spritz. He grabbed a glass, mixing some wine and soda together with a splash of elderflower liqueur. Once prepared, he set the drink in front of Marlene. “Let me know what you think. I won’t be offended if you don’t like it.”

There was nothing more frustrating to Emma than someone unwilling to live up to their potential. It felt like a waste, and with Reed it was more acute than ever. He wasn’t stupid, but he was reckless, and angry, and didn’t have the temperament suited for most jobs. It shouldn’t have bothered her, but it did. “My leisure time and my advising time are entirely different things. Right now you’re getting it for free. If you wanted me as your lawyer, it’d be 450 galleons an hour, with a discount.” None of the rates were even close to that for the average person. Usually 100 galleons an hour was the tipping point, and anything beyond that it was assumed that it was a corporation, not a single person.

“So I’d qualify for a discount, huh?” Reed flapped his arms, choosing to hang onto the few words that he actually liked and putting his own spin on them. Even if her fees did seem rather exorbitant. She probably ought to charge him more for all of her troubles over the years when it came to having to deal with him. “Since you are here on your leisure, why don’t we actually relax, hm?” He gestured toward the array of liquors. “We don’t have fine wine or anything, but I can whip you up something, if you like. I promise you that this gig here is one thing that not even I can probably screw up.” 

“Surely people who eat swine blood don’t deserve an opinion.”

"Surely people who marry their cousins shouldn’t pretend to be picky.” 

Emma scoffed. “You were fairly good at Quidditch if I remember right. You could’ve pursued that more. But you didn’t.” She was never in the habit of coddling or actually making people feel better. Instead, Emma liked to see results. There was no reason except his own lack of motivation that he had to be stuck working as a bartender. Her own prejudices seeped through at the thought, but she couldn’t help it, and didn’t bother trying. “Besides, my hourly rates would be too expensive.”

Reed wasn’t disciplined enough for Quidditch at a professional level. His coach had told him as much. He was too much of a ticking time bomb. “Guess I missed the one opportunity I had then, huh?” It’s not as if Reed was hurting for money, really. Outside of his drinking habit, he wasn’t someone who spent an exorbitant amount of money on fancy things, so he had been building a nice nest egg, planning to use it for a vacation. He was stifled here; he needed a moment to breathe more fresh air. “And how much is this advise session costing me? I like to think I’m not so piss poor and beneath you that I can’t afford an hour of your leisure time.” He didn’t know why he was pushing his luck with his loose-lipped words. Then again, there was rarely much rational thought behind his actions, as Emma had just pointed out. 

Andromeda takes the glass gratefully before taking a drink and wrinkling her nose at the taste of whiskey. She’d always been a wine drinker but she had left the decision up to the bartender in front of her. Plus it didn’t taste terrible- just the burn of whiskey was a little much for her, always had been. As the young man in front of her spoke she realised he did look sort of familiar. He was pureblood wasn’t he a… Buchanan? “Well marry a muggleborn and see how their opinion of you changes.” She jokes with a bitter laugh before shaking her head. “I’m sorry I’m not really much fun to be around am i?” She asks before taking another drink as she considered his next words. “I suppose you do have a point there. I married for love while all of them had their husbands handpicked for them by outdated practices and practical incest.”

Reed snorted at the idea. Not because he was opposed to the idea of marrying a muggleborn, but marriage in general wasn’t in the cards for him. He waved off her question again. “I’d rather be around you than the rest of your family, to be frank.” Pureblood society, while it had always been in his sphere, was a place where he had never truly fit in. He wasn’t nearly as ostracized as Andromeda was, though. He was a failure, sure, but not quite a blood traitor like the label Andromeda carried. “See, there’s a bright side. You didn’t have to marry your cousin . You got a choice.” Reed wasn’t deemed fit enough to be betrothed to anyway. He wasn’t seen as enough of an asset for that. “I’m sure it sucks to be cast out, even if you think differently from your family. They’re still family, and family’s complicated. What’s better though, duty or love?” Reed sincerely didn’t know. He hadn’t really chose either. 

Andromeda watched Reed clean the shot glasses for a long moment before speaking. “A good drink can’t fix years of blood supremacy and prejudice- or make my family stop hating me for choosing to be happy.” She plays idly with her wedding band before looking up at Reed again. “Sorry you don’t need to hear about my problems. You’re just looking to serve some drinks and finish your shift aren’t you?” She laughs a little uneasily before considering what she could order to make up for it. “Why don’t you pour me whatever might make you feel better if you were throwing yourself a pity party…?”

Damn, that got deep fast. Reed hums lowly in consideration, both in her words and of what drink he should mix up for her. He settled on a whiskey sour, setting it down in front of her. He shrugged, not to make light of her situation but to roll off the idea that she needed to be sorry. “My family doesn’t approve of my life either. It’s just, uh, not quite that drastic for me.” He didn’t spare much thought to all of it, to blood supremacy and the like, though he knew that it continued to brew and spread. “What I find works best for me isn’t to throw a pity party, but more of a celebration, y’know? They are the ones that are stuck so far up their own asses that they’re missing out.” 

She could feel the words as they hit her. There was no denying that he wasn’t just talking about some people. He was talking about her, and her ambition that never seemed to die out. Every day she wanted more, and the only way to get more, was to push herself. She could feel other people in her field gaining on her, biting at her ankles, waiting for her to stumble. But she wouldn’t fall, not now. Especially not for a boy that preferred the bottle to a pen. “Maybe some people should actually think.” Emma watched as the man that had been in the middle of this started to shy away, drink in hand. This wasn’t what he had signed up for.