A/N: I'm not going to lie; I actually forgot that this one existed, so I'm picking it up again now in hopes that it will soon become a finished story. Enjoy!
Also, I do not own the Harry Potter universe, no matter how badly I would like to have all of that money.
~*~
Harry was dozing on a ragged excuse for a sofa in the tight, cluttered space that was the Healer apprentices' "break room" when he became aware of a circle of heat forming on the rear end of his trousers. Jerking upright, he snatched a small, golden object from his back pocket with one hand and reached for his glasses, which lay nestled between an overturned paper coffee cup and the remnants of a blueberry muffin on a gouged wooden end table, with the other. His vision restored, he peered down at the lines of small script now etched on his old DA coin.
Harry-
Something's wrong. Hermione's here at the Cauldron. I think you'd better drop by.
-Neville
Typical Neville, Harry thought, rubbing his eyes with one hand. Simple, to the point, and completely devoid of anything resembling a detail.
Pulling his wand from the inconspicuous holster on his belt, he tapped it to the coin and watched as Neville's words melted away into nothingness, leaving the golden surface smooth. This done, he paused for a moment and then tapped a second time, etching a new message into the coin.
Neville-
I'm about to be on call for another hour. What's going on?
-Harry
One final tap sent a wave of heat through the metal as the message was whisked off to rewrite itself on Neville's coin. With nothing left to do but wait for a reply, Harry leaned back against the couch and checked the clock above the door. Six-twenty. He had ten minutes until he would be back with Healer Smethwick for the evening, waiting for some poor soul to arrive with an extra head or an uncontrollable need to laugh constantly, so that he could observe the Healer and learn the proper ways to deal with such things.
Fiddling with the mock Galleon in his hand, he wondered what could have worried Neville enough for him to make use of it again. Harry and a few loyal DA members had hurriedly revamped the coins minutes before entering the fray of the Battle at Hogwarts, putting them back to work as a quick means of communication in a desperate attempt to gain some sort of tactical advantage over more skilled and experienced opponents, but few of them had actually continued to tote the things around afterwards. As far as Harry knew, he, Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Luna were the only people who still faithfully carried their coins.
The Galleon warmed again, turning Harry's attention to the message now being scrawled on it.
Harry-
I know, but it would probably be best if you got here as soon as you can. I don't know what's going on, exactly, but something has Hermione in a right state. Let's just say she's not exactly here for tea and crumpets.
-Neville
"Not exactly here for…" Harry breathed, then shook his head. "Merlin, Neville, can you drag it out any longer?"
Three more quick taps sent a fourth message flying through space and time before finally directing it to the round piece of gold in Neville's palm.
Neville-
Are you trying to tell me that Hermione is actually using a pub as a pub? Strange, but it doesn't seem all that awful.
-Harry
Leaning against a wall in the Leaky Cauldron's kitchen, a twenty-year-old Neville Longbottom heaved a frustrated sigh and pushed his hair back with one hand. Discretion and evasiveness were deeply rooted in his nature, and it was sometimes difficult for him to spell things out for people who asked for the simple facts. This was a boon for a pub owner who sometimes found himself overhearing the law-skirting kind of "business transaction" from the far end of the bar near closing time, but not so helpful when it came to getting others to do as he asked.
On the verge of telling Harry to just forget it, he leaned slightly to the right to peek around the doorframe and check on the pub. No one new seemed to have arrived; the only patrons were a pair of wizards dressed in shades of dark blue-Magical Law Enforcement personnel on a break, no doubt-in a booth in the far corner, a shabby older man nursing a cup of coffee that he had purchased approximately two hours before, and a pale, brown-haired young woman in black and purple robes, who sat on a stool at the bar, staring blankly into the depths of a half-full glass of Firewhiskey. It was her empty, lost expression, highlighted by the waning evening light, that tugged at his heartstrings and urged him to try to get Harry's attention one more time. With another sigh, he withdrew into the kitchen and gave his fake Galleon three smart raps.
Harry-
Look, whenever you get the chance, could you please come by? I wouldn't bother you at work like this, except she's been through half a bottle of Firewhiskey already, and it's only been a half-hour.
-Neville
Harry ran a fingertip over the small lettering on his coin, silently mouthing the words in disbelief. This done, he leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, and tried to work the situation out in his head. He felt guilty for having been a bit short with Neville. Obviously, something really was wrong. Hermione rarely drank anything stronger than Butterbeer, and even when she did, she never strayed as far as a half-bottle of Firewhiskey-ever.
He fidgeted nervously and checked the clock again. Only one minute until he needed to return to Smethwick's side. Suddenly, the single hour ahead of him seemed as though it would go on for weeks. He wanted desperately to go to his friend and make sure that she was all right, but he had no choice. St. Mungo's kept its Healer apprentices on a very short leash. As the clock struck half past six, he gave his coin three final taps and tucked both Galleon and wand away. Moments later, the creaky, worn break room door closed with a bang as he reluctantly returned to work.
Miles away, Neville sighed with relief as he read the new message on his coin.
Neville-
I'll be there as soon as I can. I'd really appreciate it if you kept an eye on her until then.
Thanks,
-Harry
Glad that Harry had finally shown a little gratitude, Neville tucked the fake Galleon back into a pocket of his jeans, assumed what he hoped was a casual expression, and stepped back into his usual spot behind the bar. Faithful to his friend's request, he glanced at the young woman seated nearby. Catching his eye, she offered him a small smile of supplication and nudged her empty glass in his direction. He stifled a sigh and dutifully retrieved the bottle of Firewhiskey from behind the bar. As much as he hated to contribute to whatever problem she was having, he couldn't very well refuse to serve her as long as she kept paying him. Besides, cutting her off at the Cauldron would only send her to some other nearby pub, out of his sight.
She's much safer here, he told himself as he tipped the smallest passable measure of Firewhiskey into her glass, where there's someone to realize that something isn't right.
He was on the verge of feeling better when she smiled at him a second time. It was an empty smile, one of simple politeness.
"Thanks, Nev," she said, tilting her glass towards him in a gesture of recognition before downing most of the contents in one swallow. He couldn't help but notice her slurred speech, the spots of red on her cheeks, and the thought of how ill she would probably be later that evening effectively drained away any traces of optimism. He felt like scum.
"I feel bad bothering you all the time, though," she continued as she set the glass down on the wooden bar with a clunk. "How much would it take to get you to leave the bottle?"
He forced a similar empty grin and, bound by duty, named the price. As she rummaged in her bag for the right coins, he looked over her head at the clock on the far wall. Something told him that it was going to be a long hour.