𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑃𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑀𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟 | 𝑁𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒 𝐿𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑏𝑜𝑡𝑡𝑜𝑚

Chapter 7 - Firewhiskey

Neville turned to her now. "How's your ear?"

She drew her eyebrows together. As far as she was concerned, her ear was not something in need of desperate worrying over right then. "It's. . . fine. I'll brew something for the healing. Hopefully, if I keep my hair down, it won't be too obvious." She sighed as Harry began to depart from their party toward his office, walking with such a manner that Helena could read that he must be deep in thought. It didn't feel appropriate to bid him a "good" night. "See you, Harry."

"What? Oh, see you," he returned, head in a far off place. He soon disappeared up the stairs. She and Neville had been milling about in silence all that time.

"So. . . Hogsmeade trip tomorrow." She felt awkward to change the subject, but Neville was still standing there, and she certainly felt too wide awake to be concerned with heading straight back to her office. In fact, her mind now dawdled to the idea that perhaps the Fat Friar would be willing to share the kitchen stock of Firewhiskey. . .

"Oh, yeah," Neville said with a humorless laugh that seemed to deflate his chest. "That."

They lapsed into a silence for a few beats. Then, Helena faced him. "Neville?"

"Hmm?"

"I know. . . I know that what we saw tonight was disturbing. But tomorrow. . . tomorrow's Halloween, and you've got spectacular plans laid out for you, and--well, what I'm trying to say is, try to get some rest, okay? We can talk about this all tomorrow evening, of course, but for now. . ." She drifted off. She was trying to be genuine, maybe even hopeful, for him, but it came off as coy and hollow-hearted. She sagged her shoulders. "I'm sorry, I know that'll probably be impossible."

Neville caught her eye then, letting his mouth quirk up from a straight line into the smallest of smiles--the type that one musters up whenever they know someone needs it, even if the situation is not the best for it. "Hey," he said. "It's the thought that counts."

Whatever that meant, Helena figured. She returned the smile anyway, which quickly turned into a grimace. "I think I'm going to head to the kitchens now. See you tomorrow." She had not traveled but one step before Neville stopped her.

"Wait! What are you going to the kitchens for?"

"Firewhiskey," she admitted shyly, and for some reason, a bit of shame blossomed in the back of her mind. She pushed it away.

"You know, I keep a stash hidden away in my chambers. I'd be glad to give you some," he immediately offered. "I'm sure it's better than what the ghosts have to offer."

Helena pondered this for a moment. "You're sure you're alright with giving me some?"

Neville shrugged. "I don't see why not."

Casting a last glance toward the kitchens, she stepped back toward him. "Thanks."

"Anytime. Here, follow me."

Up the stairs the two of them ascended, navigating the pathway in the darkness as if the route was muscle memory by this point. Helena tried not to think about the shadows that filled in the empty gaps of the stairwell, or the clanking of the haunted armor sets as they moved past them. Most of the paintings were snoozing away within their frames. All was quiet--too quiet. Not even Peeves could be heard stirring about in some far off classroom or corridor.

"Here we are," Neville whispered as he came up to his office door. After wrestling with a key for a few moments, the handle clicked and he pushed it open, revealing a plush room accented mostly with maroon items. Two velvet chairs faced the fireplace, china cabinets full of spectacular looking plants lined the walls and windowsills, and in the corner, there was a bed, with a rather cozy looking quilt on it. Lanterns and sconces holding tall candles garnished the walls; Neville, with the wave of his wand, ignited a fire in the grate of the stone fireplace, seemingly eager to get warmed up.