JUST WATCH THE FIREWORKS—

“In a way fighting was just like using magic. You said the words, and they altered the universe. By merely speaking you could create damage and pain, cause tears to fall, drive people away, make yourself feel better, make your life worse.”

Biography    /     Timeline    /    Inspo 

Does it matter? No, Harry supposed hazily, it did not, although this thought was accompanied by a duller pang of apprehension. 

If anyone – if he was recognised… Merlin, don’t go there. If he had another drink he’d be able to drown that lurking, shadowy sensation in the back of his mind that tended to wear the faces of Hermione, Ron, and lately, Ginny. He’d tell them. One day. Soon. But now, a drink.

He couldn’t deny that Seamus was making an unreasonable amount of sense, even through the fug of cologne, sweat, and – for some reason – glitter. The music thumped through them; where Harry’s arm was pressed to Seamus’, he could feel the heat of Seamus’ skin.

The two drinks were outrageous and made Harry feel lightheaded just from looking at them. He shot Seamus a hapless look, but he was busy sharing a grin with the bartender (who, Harry noted, appeared not to mind Seamus’ interest). Harry automatically clinked their glasses, then peered into its lurid depths.

“I’m not going to remember my name after these, am I?” Harry asked rhetorically. He steeled himself, then took a tentative slurp through a swirly straw. The drink tasted vaguely like coconut, although Harry – having been on more than a few benders with Ron – detected rum. He swallowed thickly and blinked in the aftermath.

“Wow.” Harry surreptitiously coughed. “That’s – okay.”

The music seemed to get louder. Colours, faces. Harry realised he was ogling a particularly tall, sandy-haired man over Seamus’ shoulder and looked away, flushing. When he met Seamus’ gaze, he pitched his voice over the club burble: “How’d you know about this place anyway? This is, I mean…” 

Embarrassment caught his tongue. But Seamus was waiting, so Harry forged ahead.

“This is a gay club. Isn’t it?” 

“That’s the intention,” Seamus replied solemnly, toasting his glass in Harry’s direction and then the bartender’s (who was loitering still, despite the encroaching wave of other patrons looking for drinks, like they were so blatantly tourists to his turf that he needed to keep an eye on them) before taking a sip — the cloying taste of rum and coconut and something distinctly tropical, that belonged in Ibiza and not a sweaty, dingy sublevel club in Soho swamped his taste buds. Rum was a terrible idea. Rum was a harbinger of terrible decisions. Rum was not a respectable man’s drink.

But respectable was hardly tonight’s ambition (rarely was it ever, these days), and the dazed expression on Harry’s face as his eyes drifted over Seamus’s shoulder in the direction of the stranger behind him — his head craned to size up the towering figure behind him, who looked, he supposed just a little bit like — ha. Seamus’s eyebrows raised as he turned back to meet the hasty attempt at diverting attention. 

A smile, slow and ominous spread wide across Seamus’s lips as he took another lazy sip from his stupidly extravagant straw. “Another cracking observation, Harry,” he replied lazily, “Is that a problem?” 

“Oops.”

A bit of amber liquid sloshed out of his glass when Ron all but collapsed into the booth opposite Seamus. He used the sleeve of his sweater to mop it up, too arsed to bother with his wand (or even a napkin); raising the damp sleeve to his nose he gave it a sniff before rolling both of them up, grinning at Seamus’ remark as he did so. 

He didn’t have much experience with ghosts or spirits, unless the ones at Hogwarts counted (and he guessed they didn’t). Just why Seamus had gotten into that kind of work wasn’t something he recalled - and maybe he’d never asked - but he was happy to be a sounding board for his frustrations all the same. “Well, dunno if I’d like ghosts floating around my place either,” he offered, sipping his firewhiskey and resting both freckled elbows on the tabletop. “I’ve already got a ghoul and loads of garden gnomes - I think I’ve reached my quota.”

The liquid in his glass smelled and tasted like an open fire, burning all the way down his throat. It was an acquired taste, but even as a seasoned professional he hissed through his teeth after a particularly large gulp, blinking the water out of his already bloodshot eyes.

“It’s brutal,” he admitted with a laugh. “But it has to be, I reckon. Can’t let just anyone catch dark wizards.” He winked, then self-consciously dragged a hand over his face. “Training’s nearly over though, and some of the Aurors say training is the hardest part. I don’t know if I believe them - reckon they’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“Don’t get me started,” Seamus snorted, flicking condensation off his fingers as he considered whether or not prolonged exposure to Roger’s sermons on the importance of promoting spirit rights amongst the living had managed to sink its way through the hard protective coating his skull provided and into the squishy, sentimental matter beneath. A long sip from his pint glass followed like it might just wash away the debris of sentiments past. “I’m still trying to get the taste of all the bureaucracy out of my mouth.”

Spirit Inspector had sounded infinitely more interesting before he’d been landed with all the paperwork.

Ron, however, had stuck to his path. He’d grafted away at his training without giving up or getting himself kicked out or transferred to a more suitable position. He was on his way to making something of himself. Seamus rolled a mouthful of beer across his tongue, like it might wash the bitterness or commentary on the bang up job the auror’s department had done during the war away. It was comments like that which kept getting him shuffled further and further into the recesses of the department where people couldn’t hear him. He slunk back into the cushioned seat of the booth, snorting at the wink that did little to hide the exhaustion evident on Ron’s face. 

It was hardly Ron’s fault that he had always been a little too inclined to burning bridges.

“That one of Shacklebolt’s new reforms, is it? Not leaving the general public to deal with dark wizards,” he replied, scrubbing at the back of his neck and grimacing at the drips of condensation that skittered down his spine as a result before his brain caught up to his mouth and he took another long sip from his pint glass with a decidedly unapologetic shrug that seemed to imply, my bad, before he hastily offered up, “Is training the only thing keeping you busy these days?”

“Yes.” This whole line of questioning was a farce. Draco found himself leaning over the desk more, his tapping fingers picking up speed as his other hand pointed in the direction of the paper he had handed over. “The walls don’t bleed. They don’t take on any light. No charms work on the corners. The dark is–” His hand stilled on the desktop. Draco looking to the ceiling for a scrounge of patience as his rapidly deteriorated. “I’ve detailed this if you would just read the forms. Attempted physical violence, yes. Damage. I’ve found the birds…they’ve made their intentions known but there hasn’t been any signed letter of intent if that is what you’re inquiring. If I knew who they were, would I be here asking you to investigate? No, Finnigan. I wouldn’t be. Why would I waste my time here with you if I had a way to communicate with them?” 

The folder, his prop laid out, was flipped through once more. Some papers spilling about until Draco found the second copy of his submitted forms. He stared down at the recount of his past few months, the muscle in his jaw clenched tight as he dropped the papers in front of the most useless employee the Ministry had ever seen. “I’m the sole occupant of the Manor currently. My guests haven’t received the same level of treatment but I know they’d had their own minor experiences. My issue, if you would look down and read it, is that the corporalness of their figures isn’t unremitting. I don’t know who they’re taking the image of as every single instance I am greeted by a new occurrence. Anything else you need to ask after? I haven’t sat them down for tea and asked about their life. We’re not confidantes whispering our secrets to each other at night. They’re squatting. They need to be evicted.” Mulroy. An eyebrow was raised as his lips pursed. His once pointed finger raised for a second time, now directed at the employee’s chest then dropped. Draco’s mouth quirked upwards, doing nothing to temper down the fire in his eyes. “Have you ever had your home invaded, Finnigan? Have you had to clean up after a spirit’s little games day in and day out and not have a sanctuary to retreat to afterwards? I don’t believe you have. The Ministry’s little aurors and cursebreaker have trekked their grubby little feet through every square inch of my home. They’ve disturbed years of magical objects that came through the occupation unscated. What does your limited amount of training tell you about the results of brutish behavior like that? The amount of causes for this haunting are endless. Friends with Prickle or not, the value of a galleon hasn’t decreased in the last year. Underfunding can be changed. Personnel can be shifted. Prickle is very well aware of that.” Draco waited for the promise, more like threat, of private funding to turn the tide of their conversation. The appearance of a familiar tone wiped away any smugness the contents of a Gringotts Vault had briefly brought. Draco began reciting along. “Ghouls, Poltergeists and Spirit-adjacent Has-Beens — in the case of a dispute between the class of spirits referred to as ‘Has-Beens’ and the home-owner is requi–” His head shook in exasperation, eyes widened in disbelief. “Do you think this is a joke?” Every syllable was now clearly enunciated, sharp and quick and pointed much like the young man saying them. No traces of the affected drawl Draco usually spoke with. “I’ve read The Housing Improvement, Regulations and Provenance of Magical Buildings Act of 1874. Stop taking the piss and do your bloody fucking job or get me someone who will. There is no negotiating with these anomalies. If you’ve listened to a single thing I’ve told you, you would realized I am done with allowing just anyone to waltz into my home and make it worse. Your peddling tricksters claiming to be trained in mediation can get bent. They won’t be coming in to make this worse.”

He wasn’t sure when the papers in his hands had become clenched, on the verge of balled in his fists as he leaned farther across the reception desk. He was spitting out his words, a dark flush of anger and desperation taking over his pale complection. “Extreme trauma? I’m experiencing extreme trauma!” His hand hit the counter, forgoing the now crumpled and useless pages in favor of clutching the hard surface. “I’ve been experiencing extreme trauma for the last two years. There is not one, not one single night of sleep I’ve gotten since the ba–” Draco exhaled, stepping back and shaking his hands in Finnigan’s direction as if to wave him away. “Forget it. If you won’t…it’s pointless, isn’t it? You and your co-workers and the cursebreakers and the aurors will drag me round and round and round until I turn up dead in that bloody estate. Oh. My mistake. My fucking twat’s castle.” A hand ran through his carefully charmed locks. “And when I do, Finnigan, it’ll be on your head. Former Death Eater blood all over your hands instead of faceless and nameless evil wixen you never have to recall blowing up. All those families better off because you said it’s time for Mummy and Daddy to go alight.” 

His breath had caught up with him. The ranting without ceasing leaving him gasping or was that the panic of hitting another dead end as he went about solving a problem with the proper forms and procedure? “The haunting is severe enough to warrant an immediate closure of the site pending investigation but the grounds won’t let a halfblood in without a Malfoy on them. What clause covers that? Or will you tell me how this will delay the entire case again? Tell me how you can’t take it on if you can’t visit the grounds without me? Throw away all my paperwork and go back to your pathetic transparent display of neutrality? It’s not something I have the ability to fucking alter. Take it up with the Master of the Manor. You’ll have to visit him in the North Sea. Letters aren’t being delivered.” And Draco wasn’t being allowed visitation. 

Any suspicions Seamus may have had about whether or not Draco Malfoy had changed since their Hogwarts years were quickly being affirmed. The stark office lighting flickered delightedly overhead, as the resident poltergeist took note of the shift in atmosphere of the office and decided to throw in his own opinion.  There were goosebumps prickling up his forearms, but even the latest plunge into frigid temperatures couldn’t seem to combat his steadily rising temper. “Shove off, Malfoy. You came in here asking for help — my mistake for thinking you had anything worth listening to from the past ten months since you filed your bloody forms. But go on then — if it’s so beneath you to answer a few standard bloody questions then we’ll assume there’s been no progression or escalation since December and that you have made no effort at all to meet your obligations as the landowner in the manner of mediation or settlement than there’s no reason for the department to pursue further action.”

Notably, the last rattles from the back room plunged abruptly into deadly silence.

“You keep pointing that at me and I’ll break it,” he added bluntly, swatting away the finger that was jabbing at his chest, disgust creeping into the wrinkle of his nose as Malfoy’s tale of persecution at the hands of the Ministry was laid at his feet in the same breath that he tried to bribe his way into getting his way. He was just as spoilt and entitled as he’d always been. “Don’t talk to me about invasions, Malfoy, you might have a short memory when it comes to what happened last year but I don’t.”

And perhaps Seamus had been spending a little too much time down here in purgatory with Roger of late, if the way his spine stiffened at the complete lack of understanding that accompanied the insinuation that the spirits were squatting on Malfoy’s land. 

Seamus wasn’t sure exactly when the thrill of his fight response kicking in began to twist, but the rushing of blood in one ear and the piercing whine that began to pick up in the other had progressed past the point upon which his instincts usually started throwing punches and instead he gripped the edge of Penny’s desk as if might stop the jittering of his hands. They were talking about bylaws — not the corruption that apparently still ran deep through the roots of the Ministry, if Draco fucking Malfoy thought he could just buy what he wanted from them with his blood money. Not the same, bone-deep ache that kicked in whenever his brain was allowed to drift back to that year. Bylaws. Black and white, reams and reams of them governing the responsibilities they owed to the dead. 

“Maybe you should read it again, because you clearly didn’t understand a word of it. Of your obligations to the countless, innocent victims who died on your property and whose spirits are now trapped there — people you can’t even be bothered to put in the bare minimum effort of finding out their names or how they died in order to give them some semblance of justice. Malevolent spirits don’t just appear out of thin air, Malfoy, they didn’t ask to wind up in your dungeons or be slaughtered like they were — like they were nothing.” That could have been Dean — it could have been Dean and nobody (he) would ever have known what happened to him — it could have been Dean whose body was transfigured or buried or burnt or left out to rot on Malfoy ground while this entitled little prick complained about the inconvenience of his fury, of his protests to have his story heard. It could have been Dean and nobody fucking knew who it was and wasn’t that the problem? How many families would never know what happened to their loved ones. How many families had been wiped out of existence never to be mourned or have their stories told? “They were people and they are in pain. Your trauma can take a flying fucking le—”

Seamus froze, his white knuckled grip on the desk in front of him like it might stop him from taking a swing or reaching for his wand turned slack and the blood drained from his skin, disbelief written across his face as the impact of that memory — of the eruption of heat and noise and screams over the groan of the collapse hit like a punch to the throat. He couldn’t breathe, for a moment, his eyes fixed for the first time on Malfoy’s with a stunned certainty as he pushed on ahead like his words were nothing, just another step on the ladder to getting what he wanted, the words muffled and drowned in his ears as the ringing swallowed them up. This wasn’t fight, which he so readily embraced and it wasn’t flight, which Seamus had never been able to stomach — this was paralytic, a rabbit caught in the headlights of oncoming traffic, it was his joints dissolving and walls closing in as his knees buckled and he steadied his weight upon the back of Penny’s chair. It was a retreat inwards.

Cold rarely bothered him these days. In fact, he preferred it. The manor had once been a place of warmth. Sunshine gleaming through the atrium, his mother’s favored part of the house where tea was always served. These days the estate dealt in frigid temperatures warming charms couldn’t make a dent in, the icy rage it’s newest head of household dealt in matching. The offices of the Spirit Division seemed tropical compared to his estate and, much like any time he came into the Ministry, Draco found himself going through the motions to roll up his sleeves until he remembered the sight of ink on one’s forearm could turn an already sour interaction rotten.

Draco’s gaze shot towards the back room. Politeness that Finnigan didn’t deserve preventing him from showing any concern towards the congested snores filtering into the main reception area. Typical. Wizards living off the dime of the public, donations– no, thefts from families like his just so they could sleep the day away and skirt duty along with it. Slowly his glancing settled onto Seamus’ face, Draco’s composure breaking for a flash to display a smirk at whatever long gone wixen was intent on bothering the Irish man. 

He meant to respond, intended to snap, but his eyes drifted once more. Down behind Finnigan on the desk he may as well have been loitering at, since he was stricken with a case of idleness when it came to work, lay a smattering of familiar figurines. He had seen similar ones gracing the shelves of his mother’s study for years and years. Her own little knick knacks being young woman instead of cats but the design, the quality of hand painted details and choice of color all but shouting being made by the same sculptor. He never knew what she found appealing about them and seeing that Finnigan shared her fondness for them, Draco knew he had made the correct choice.

“Obviously. Ten months ago. In December.” He wouldn’t come in half-cocked to a department in such disarray that invisible beasties were required to corral the workers without following proper procedure. It was paramont you followed bureaucracy. Submitted every dismal and ridiculous form, followed all lines of insulting questions just so no one could say you had done something incorrectly. But, typically, Finnigan pushed the definition of insulting.

A quick intake of breath was the only sign Draco gave that he was uncomfortable. “Yes. From June of ‘97 until the spring of ‘98. May, what was it? I can never seem to remember the date my home became unoccupied by that living nightmare.” His voice kicked up in pitch as he drawled on, finger unconsciously tapping a beat of increasing frequency on the desk’s top. “All the deaths I know of are detailed in the forms I submitted. Do you need a copy of those as well? There were some muggles, werewolves, the like, that I never learned the names of. Some that weren’t discovered until after the fact. Magical Law Enforcement should have notes on their findings available. Heirlooms and antiques, yes. Nothing older than the thirteenth century. As for earth works, the wolves desecrated the gardens. If I knew what they were so desperately digging for, I would have written as much in my forms.”

The snoring, if such a violent act of breathing could be considered such, had kicked up a notch and, even through his haze of Ministry incompetence induced anger, Draco struggled to keep his focus. “You’re joking.” He didn’t have weeks. The bags under his eyes, the sickly pallor of his skin said as much. “You’ve been processing my case for ten months, Finnigan. Nonfesiance does not even begin to cover the level of inadequacy your department has displayed. Schedule my inspection for this month or I’ll raise this issue with Prickle. Your bias is entirely transparent. I’ve followed my end of this arrangement to the letter and it’s clear that your capacity to be neutral is flawed.” More nights spent in objective horror, checking over his shoulder for the sound of footsteps or, worse, the feeling of the dark trying to envelop him as he tinkered away. “The Advocates to the Wizarding World are sure to be interested in this situation, wouldn’t you say? I’ll mention it to Prickle when I meet with her along with your jest for your occupation. And, no. I’m not going to give my gold away to one of those cracked cauldrons. I have no desire for mediation. I want them gone. Today.”

If Seamus was at all phased by a ten month waiting period he gave no indication of it, instead folding his arms as he leaned into Penny’s desk and tried to remember precisely which department he’d been docked in last Christmas. They all started to blur together after a while. ‘The date my home became unoccupied by that living nightmare’ was such a blatantly disrespectful Malfoy way to refer to the date of the Battle of Hogwarts, as if the grim triumph of that harrowing day could be rendered down to an overdue eviction of a Dark Lord claiming squatter’s rights on Malfoy’s castle or wherever the fuck he lived. His fingertips dug into the muscles of his arms, lightly at first but with increasing force until nails bit into the flesh as Malfoy rattled through the deaths that had occurred within his home with a lack of care that began to chip away at Seamus’s decidedly lacking restraint. 

No wonder whoever had received his request had pushed it to another pile, if it had made it to a pile at all (Seamus couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t have set it alight if he’d been present at the time.) If Seamus had learned anything over the space of the last month in the Spirit Division, and he had done his utmost best not to despite taking something of a shine to the field work of the department, it was that there was a certain reverence required in dealings with the restless dead. Seamus doubted that Malfoy had ever shown reverence or respect for anything in his life. He was all but begging to be haunted.

Nonetheless, Seamus barrelled cheerfully ahead on the checklist. “In the past ten months have any of your undead visitors displayed any of the classic signs of a violent haunting or intention to become so? Bleeding from the walls or windows? Physical violence? Attempted possessions? Damages to property of persons? Warning messages? Have they shown any inclination to identify themselves or their origin? Have you noticed that their displeasure is directed at any individual in particular, or do they object to the presence of anyone being in their environment?”

The eerie calm that usually preceded an upheaval rolled in over him as the last, dying gasps of Bob’s death-rattles faded into silence in the back room and Malfoy’s haughty demands began to rise in scale. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, Mulroy, but there’s been a significant boom in hauntings and spiritual occupations in this country in the past year. You and your manor aren’t any more important than anyone else who submitted their forms and followed procedures, but go on then. Go have a chat with Prickle about the single-most underfunded and understaffed department in the Ministry being mean to you. Me ‘n Prickle go way back.” 

That fleeting moment of serenity flickered and gave into something far less gentle as Seamus lit up at the prospect of a fight. “And while you’re at it, a bit of light reading for you.” Rummaging through the stack of binders carefully organised beneath the counter that rose over Penny’s desk he retrieved an unbound copy of The Housing Improvement, Regulations and Provenance of Magical Buildings Act of 1874, flipping the helpfully tabbed pages to the right page before reading aloud, “Section 117(a) — In Co-Habitation with Ghosts, Ghouls, Poltergeists and Spirit-adjacent Has-Beens — in the case of a dispute between the class of spirits referred to as ‘Has-Beens’ and the home-owner, the limey twat who’s castle is being haunted—  is required to enter into a period of negotiation with the occupying spirits before seeking severance or exorcism services. In the event that acceptable terms cannot be met between both parties, the git with the hair will then engage with an accredited agency for the purposes of mediation and or removal.” 

The Leaky Cauldron was nearly empty. There were a couple of wizards chatting at a table and a man asleep with his head on the bar, but Ron had to admit he’d expected more traffic on a Wednesday night. He wasn’t complaining, though; the last thing he needed was more eyes upon him, something he still hadn’t quite gotten used to in the war’s aftermath.  He hurried over to the bar, catching a glimpse of himself in a cracked mirror behind it. His ginger hair was tousled and his eyes were bleary, and there were a few lines still etched into his left cheek from his pillowcase. He was rubbing his face when Tom the barkeep finally arrived in front of him, traveling on ancient legs, but even through his fingers Ron caught the sparkle in the old man’s eye. “You’re late, Weasley,” said Tom, to which Ron smirked. “I was pulling one of those,” he grumbled, nodding to the snoring wizard several chairs away. “Firewhisky, Tom. Thanks.” For such an old man, Tom was surprisingly quick when it came to pouring liquor. Three fingers of firewhisky were passed across the bar in no time, and Ron gave an appreciative nod before turning away, glass in hand. He blinked, rubbing his eyes again. The Cauldron was never well-lit, but he and Seamus were creatures of habit; his friend was seated at their usual table in the corner, and Ron tried and failed to stifle a yawn as he approached. “Oi. How’s the ghosts?” @seamxs

The Leaky Cauldron warranted a certain amount of good behaviour.

It was a hub of London’s wizarding society, a reliable spot for people watching or unambitious pub grub or, as it may be, meeting old school friends who had built up something of a routine. Seamus appreciated that about Ron — he knew precisely what he liked.

“Haunting,” he replied around a loud, jaw-cracking yawn spurred on by Ron’s own as he rolled himself up into a mostly seated position from an ungainly sprawl in the booth seats hugging the wall and curled his fingers around his dewy pint glass, elbows thunking heavily atop the sticky table. Ron was starting early on the spirits today. Seamus had discovered early on in his latest transfer that there really was such a thing as too many spirits in your day. “It’s rough as a bear’s arse down there without Penny around, Roger’s out on inspections and I spent all morning talking bylaws with an estate agent who wants to evict the resident ghost for disrupting the peace.” Seamus had met the ghost in question. He could understand the impulse.

Soho slid past in a pleasant blur. Harry felt warm and giddy, and when Seamus planted his hands on his shoulders, he had another deeper sensation of excitement. He’d had just enough to feel reckless and impulsive. Who cared if anyone saw them? Who cared if Harry and Seamus, maybe, in some dark side street, hands and tongues and something else –

His face burned at the mental image even as he noticed their surroundings start to change. Men. There were suddenly a lot of men. Harry continued to be propelled along by Seamus, though he felt resistance rise in his limbs, and when Seamus shoved him down some dim stairs and into the pulsating pit of a club, Harry had to actively fight the urge to turn right back around and apparate to his miserable Grimmuald nest.

There were so many men. 

Strobe lights flashed in the darkness. Bare chests and toned torsos gyrated to an intense beat. Glassy faces and open mouths. Sweat pooled in the small of Harry’s back and gathered beneath his armpits. Harry could do little but march onwards, Seamus pushing his shoulders, until they were at the bar, and a bloke wearing a leather cap and what looked like a studded harness planted himself in front of them and slid an assessing gaze up Harry’s thin t-shirt, denim jacket, jeans, and (he recalled, suddenly) his trainers with a hole in the toe.

“Here for a long time, boys?” the bartender asked over the thumping music. “Or fancy something short and fun?”

Harry stared at him, then Seamus, then back. Blinking rapidly, Harry said, “Uh.”

The bartender shared a look with Seamus and picked up a bottle that glowed blue in the low club light. “Leave with me, eh?”

As the guy busied himself with making drinks - were those paper umbrellas? - Harry turned around fully to face Seamus.

“Where exactly,” he enunciated, “are we.”

That had gone better than expected.

The open-mouthed gawking, shifting from the dancefloor to the bartender to, eventually, Seamus himself was less accusatory than simply bewildered. Crowds were where Seamus was most at home, the bass that shuddered through the floorboards and ricocheted inside his chest muffled and awash in that same drowned quality that the world only ever took on when thoughts and even the persistent ringing in his ear was crowded out. They were the proverbial sore thumbs amidst a sea of sweat and leather, but the unifying force of the heat of the basement had already begun to claim them; Seamus’s hair drooping into his eyes with the humidity of the room and his shirt beginning to stick to the base of his spine. Seamus had never found a room he couldn’t bluff his way into.

There was no mistaking Harry’s question, even as his words bubbled and floated over the furious beat, a bark of laughter dismissing the seriousness of his tone as Seamus leaned in to yell back, over the crescendo of sound, “Does it matter?”

To him it didn’t. Every anonymous face and body crammed into this basement couldn’t care less about who they were or where they came from. They might care about the state of Harry’s shoes, but that would just require a bit of misdirection. Peeling his own jacket off to combat the flush of warmth creeping up his spine he leaned in closer to Harry to be better heard.

“When’s the last time that nobody knew who you were?” earned a sidelong glance from the bartender and a mouthed, “He replaced Robbie in Take That,” which earned a bemused double-take as he shook their drinks, like he was trying to picture it, and with the warm buzz of earlier pints fizzing it’s way straight to his head, Seamus found he didn’t really care.  

(It was becoming increasingly difficult, lately, to remind himself that sometimes he should.)

It had been five months of advisory meetings. One day a month, Draco had been ignoring his own self-imposed avoidance of the grand underground building that had once been the site of his father’s arrest. The site of the Dark Lord’s puppet regime. The location of a hearing now resulting in the apparent need to check-in with the Malfoy heir once a fucking month and review the terms of his relative freedom. A mess of wand examinations– as if he was too thick to cast the necessary spells to appear innocent and regretful of past shameful behavior. A far too lengthy meeting with a career advisor, the very witch who had pushed him to sit for his N.E.W.T.s (after forcing his hand on the W.O.M.B.A.T.s) in the bowels of the Ministry with a proctor standing by waiting for the moment Draco would set off their oh-so-carefully-crafted-anti-cheating charms. He never did.

A wand check, Prior Incantato. A career conversation, brochures from Departments that would never have him. A reminder of his restrictions, lest Draco even dream of casting a jinx or fleeing the country for a weekend away. The day of advisory meetings always drained him. Leaving the somewhat always tense young man more tense and reactionary than he enjoyed being. His shoulders tight and raised, spine straight as if he was waiting for the next dirty look or muttered comment. The spit on his shoes or jinxes shot in passing almost guaranteed to come.

If he, someone who had spent a year locked away in a manor destroyed by a madman and his band of merry followers (some werewolves who took too fond of a fascination with the award-winning gardens his mother cherished), could bite his tongue and do what was asked of him, why were the Departments in place in their government unable to do the same? This wasn’t his first time taking the lifts down and down, following the maze of hallways in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures this way and that way until he found himself in the frigid offices of the Spirit Division. It was just the first time he had brought proof of their nonfeasance.

Nose wrinkled at the sight of not just the walking disaster that was Finnigan, Draco pinched expression didn’t drop as he dropped the folder of governmental bylaws on what he supposed was intended to be a reception desk. “Did I say I was looking for the Pest Advisory Board? I don’t recall opening my mouth to speak until now. Hello, Finnigan. Does your department not receive owls in this infected shoebox they’ve shuffled you to or should I go ahead with my assumption that your lot chooses to not answer them?” He flipped open the folder, pages quickly being turned and forgotten in light on the one specific page he sought out. A page that was plucked from the pile and pushed in the pyromaniac’s direction. “I have a problem concerning Spirits. As a public serving government official, you should know that requires a in-home inspection. One that is usually scheduled by owl.”

Oh, it was going to be one of those days.

The Spirit Division received, on average, far fewer intrepid members of the public willing to make the trek to their frigid little icebox of an office  to complain than most ministry departments, but Seamus could feel the promise of it burgeoning in the air, like the distant rumbling of thunder (or perhaps that was just Bob’s slow, rhythmic snoring.) His ears pricked up as he rolled out of his chair, wincing as his knee buckled and aborting his trek towards the front desk to lean heavily back against the front his own, next to an army of tiny porcelain figurines wielding baguettes and berets, arms folded as a glint of a certain kind of fervour rose in his eyes and he did his best to appear casual. Seamus had been told many times he wasn’t supposed to enjoy these conversations — the latest of which had gotten him relegated down here in the first place. Fortunately, being told something did not make it so.

“Wasn’t aware we’d done any reclassifications lately but I suppose we can fit you in,” Seamus offered cheerfully. Admittedly, Seamus didn’t have to try of late to always be the biggest pest in the room, but he may just concede the title to Malfoy for the afternoon if he was planning on making himself at home down here. A Cheshire smile settled over his lips as his eyes dipped to the prop that Malfoy had lugged along with him to leaf dramatically through, before another puff of cold breath washed over the back of his neck and he jerked away from his desk, lurching towards the front reception with a snap of, “Oh give off Max,” as the wall left behind him oozed.

Their most persistent resident poltergeist could be such a stickler for regulations and bylaws. 

Limping the both too far and not far enough distance between his desk and the front desk that Penny usually occupied, his eyes narrowed as he crooked his finger in the direction of whatever section of his prevailing nemesis, the endless bylaws governing his little corner of the Ministry, Malfoy was determined to shove under his nose. “Give us a look then Malloy, I’m assuming you’ve submitted the forms already?” Seizing upon the page with a wrinkle of his nose he pretended to skim it, forehead furrowing deeply while in the back, a loud snort interrupted the harmonious chorus of snoring, followed immediately by the sound of violent choking interrupting the peace as Bob ran through his familiar pattern of death rattles that steadily grew louder with each passing moment. Seamus cheerfully forged on ahead through the checklist pasted to the inside of Penny’s desk.

The noise of the pub was loud and getting louder, enough that Harry only caught one in two words from Seamus’ soundlessly moving mouth. The bustling conversation of half a dozen old men and a television was hardly a recipe for getting hammered, but when Harry tipped his head back and laughed openly at Seamus’ joke, he vaguely realised that he was, probably, maybe, rather pissed.

Then Seamus was up and out, and Harry hurried after him, grabbing his denim jacket and bumping through the crowd. “Wait - Seamus -” Harry was halfway into his jacket when he pushed through the pub door. Cool night air came upon him in a wave, stilling the heat in his cheeks and sweeping away the beer fug from his mind. Harry blinked, dazed, for a moment, before recognising that Seamus was already halfway down the street.

London in the evening was a marvel: crowds of merry young people wove along the pavements, black cabs slid past, music from passing venues thumped out into the mellow dark. Harry caught up to Seamus and their elbows knocked together.

“Thanks for waiting,” he panted, adjusting his glasses. “What’s this idea of yours, then? Because if it’s more beer, I’ll have to beg off, I don’t think I could do another round -” Breaking off, Harry peered across a busy intersection and exclaimed. “Hey! Is that Neville? There, d’you see?” He stared intently at the person in question, though he realised slowly that the hair and build were different, not as sandy-haired as Neville, nor as…

“Seamus,” Harry said abruptly, “you’re not kidnapping me, are you?”

Soho by night was a performance, streets aglow and alive with the buzz of crowds spilling from the pubs and wafts of smoke billowing from clusters of figures huddled together on the curbs and figures weaving in and around them while traffic swept past, bikes and buses and a steady stream of cars and black cabs. It felt slick and sharp and utterly foreign to the spilled roar of laughter and live music that collided messily in Eyre Square of a weekend. London liked to bare its teeth, but sometimes Soho would tip you a wink while it was at it. 

Seamus tipped his head up to the sky, ink-black and soured with light pollution, and drew in a deep breath of cold night air as the sound of scuffling feet upon the sidewalk mixed with the chatter of the night, knocking elbows as an eruption of laughter off to his side swallowed up Harry’s complaints. There was an ever-present itch attached to the night with a few pints in him, an undrawn hand he’d yet to take a peek at, but he glanced over, snorting and knocking his shoulder pointedly into Harry’s in response, “A few pints down and you’re already calling it quits? You've been stuck in the gaff too long. I’ve got a—”

His head turned and his body followed after, a clumsy pirouette spent on trying to catch a glimpse of Neville, or as the case may be, not-Neville. “If I was kidnapping you there’d be a van,” he offered as he made the full turn, throwing an arm cheerfully across Harry’s shoulders and clamping a hand into the shoulder of his jacket lest Harry take that as a sign he should attempt to make a getaway. Perhaps, under some arbitrary legal definition, this could be deemed an abduction. “No, no, just up ahead —”

If Harry noticed the diversifying clientele that were loitering around the end of the alley they turned into Seamus wasn’t about to give him the opportunity to change his mind, he had direction now and the plumes of smoke and significantly increased leather demographic (not entirely usual but it had been a while since Seamus had last strayed down here) were not about to sway his course. 

Thank.

The lights were at it again.

It was hardly a new occurrence, not in an office so heavily trafficked by hitchhiking spirits of varying dispositions, but as they buzzed and blinked and rattled violently overhead as if to prove a point for the third time in the past ten minutes, Seamus heaved a sigh and dragged his boots back off the desk upon which they’d been perched, cracking open his eyes to squint up at the dripping ceiling and wincing at the vibrant flickering. “I’ll box you up again if you don’t knock that off, Max.”

A cold puff of air washed over the back of his neck, like someone blowing across the skin, and Seamus jerked away like a startled cat, hissing in dismay at the heavy thunk of his kneecap and the stack of frequently ignored files that slid off of his desk to fan out across the office floor. It was at this moment, as Seamus cradled his knee and groaned, “Alright boyo, I think we’ve made our point already,” that something truly extraordinary happened.

The door to the office opened.

Harry was four pints down and he was having a good time. The revelation seemed extraordinary, suddenly, here at the bottom of a pint glass. Seamus was good fun, a laugh, they’d been rambling through conversations that spanned the Hogwarts renovations to the state of muggle football. They were both halfbloods with a foot in each world: it was refreshing to be with someone who understood what that was like - and, perhaps most importantly, liked the muggles as much as he did magic.

Harry accepted a fresh pint with a wonky grin. Beer thundered hotly in his system: drinking since four, nothing but a handful of bar peanuts, get in. Seamus’ elbow knocked against his where they sat at the bar. Harry swallowed a mouthful and put down his glass, pushing a shelf of messy hair out of his eyes and adjusting his glasses. Seamus’ joke made him gesture in resignation, smirking all the while.

“You got me,” he replied happily, his smirk broadening into a grin as Seamus laughed. “Look, look, it’s not that I want to be a pariah, I have this issue at the moment, with the house my godfather left me, it’s sort of, well -” Harry frowned thoughtfully, hand curled around his beer. “It sort of hates me. And sometimes it tries to trap me. And when I do escape, I find a bunch of mangy twits from the Prophet camping on my doorstep.” Harry shrugged. “Rock and a hard place. Anyway, what’ve you been up to? Only time I ever see you is when we’re bloody pissed off our heads.”

The ghost of the pints that came before swooped in to laugh with him as his empty glass was replaced with a fresh one and the hum of background noise and an exclamation from the group clustered around the telly flattened out, sharply, into a piercing, tinny ringing, Harry’s voice bobbing happily overhead like Seamus had slipped beneath an unknown surface without even noticing. Something about being trapped by a house? Seamus could relate, he supposed, there wasn’t a room he entered these days that didn’t feel at least a little bit like a trap — and he’d been with the Spirit Division long enough now to know what those old houses could be like. Bloodthirsty fuckers, the lot of them. Seamus snorted around the foam of his beer, tilting his good ear a little further towards Harry as he zigged away from a call to sincerity, “You mean me mam isn’t going to get her Lorcan D’eath LPs signed? Don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me for this, not with Witch Weekly saying you’re due a comeback any time now.”

Had he connected those dots? Seamus’s nose wrinkled in consideration for a moment before he plowed on ahead, leaving that particular station behind in favour of the tracks up ahead with something just a little feral in the swift emptying of his glass that followed the question of what he’d been up to lately. Seamus wasn’t entirely sure that even Harry had the constitution for all of that and if he was asking questions they’d been sitting still for too long.

“Oh, a bit of this,” he replied lightly, thumping the glass onto the bar and injecting a punch of mystery into his smile to adorn the crack of his knuckles,  “Bit of that. Can’t say I’ve had any journalists trying to move in but there's a fox’s been going through my bins. Furry little prick has a taste for Blishens—” Escape punctured through the buzzing in his ear, Seamus’s empty pint glass nudged away by the back of his hand as he rolled towards Harry, bracing himself against the bar upon his elbow and inclined his head in the direction of the door, “Speaking of — sounds like you could stand to spent less time in the house,” digging into the pocket of his jacket between sickles and knuts and sticks of gum he seized triumphantly upon a crumpled ten pound note and dropped it onto the bar in the shadow of his empty glass. Next came the words that precisely nobody in his life ever seemed to want to hear: “I have an idea.”

The Dog & Duck was far too upmarket for one of Seamus’s regular haunts, an old-worldy charm lingering over the clinking of pint glasses and low rumble of a telly in the corner with Tottenham versus West Ham playing in the corner, surrounded by elderly gents in tweed and tasteful scarves. It was the kind of place that cared what you spilt on the carpet.  It was also the kind of place that made for the perfect trap when inviting old schoolmates out for a drink — but that didn’t mean it had to be where they ended up.

“One more for the road?”

A raise of his empty pint glass in the barkeep’s direction and a sidelong smile in Harry’s direction belied the agitated energy jittering away beneath his surface. He’d had an impulse lately, one never to be trusted, and it was telling him that tonight was not meant to end in a few quiet pints at a stately gentleman’s pub where he could hear every little cog in his brain ticking over (quiet had never been Seamus’s forte) when two blocks away lay adventures untold. Thankfully, Harry didn’t seem quite so suspicious of his company as some of his other friends lately.