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Strong Enough to Break by Acacia Carter

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It was that time of night when the barman started shooting pointed looks at the patrons still lingering over their cups. Some of the patrons were still sober enough to notice this and take their cue to leave. The others would require more blunt hints that it was time for the pub to close.

And the one in the corner, well. He got special treatment. He was allowed to stay as late as he wanted, even past closing - except he never wanted to put anyone out like that. Usually a tap on the shoulder and a gentle "It's closing time, Professor" was enough for him to gather himself if he had been crying (though he was good at hiding it if he had been) and exit. He never drank to excess and rarely spoke to the other patrons, or even the other servers. The barman himself often brought him his single tumbler of firewhisky and left him alone for the rest of the evening.

He'd been coming in at half nine and staying until closing every Friday evening for the past three years. Until Molly had begun working at The Leaky Cauldron a few months ago, she'd had no idea. Professor Longbottom had always seemed so content and grounded. Although, in hindsight, she supposed she could remember the change between the Professor Longbottom at the end of her fifth year and the Professor Longbottom at the beginning of her sixth. He had been much quieter that September, his eyes somehow softer and sadder. Classes were still fun, but in a more subdued way. At first Molly had thought it was because N.E.W.T. classes were meant to be more serious, but then she'd heard the whispers through the school.

His wife had killed herself when she lost their baby, some said; his wife had died in childbirth, others would intone with sombre authority. No, his wife wanted a divorce. His parents had died and a paperwork problem had kept St Mungo's from notifying him until it was too late to say goodbye. The rumours were almost as numerous as the students whispering them, and discovering the truth would be nearly impossible.

She'd been too scared to approach him and ask the real reason, or if anything had happened at all. It was far safer to keep a distance, and if he was hurting, he hid it well around his students. Well enough, anyway, that Molly had felt confident in her decision to ignore it. Seventh year had come and gone, she had got her N.E.W.T. in Herbology and the three other classes she'd taken, and she had assumed it would never come up again.

But her father was insistent upon her keeping herself occupied and gainfully employed after her year-long internship at her mother's old governmental offices in America. There were no job opportunities in the Ministry at the moment, and the Leaky was one of the only places willing to hire a young woman with no other practical experience whatsoever, so here she was. And every Friday evening, there Professor Longbottom was with his tumbler of firewhisky and distant eyes.

The last of the late patrons had weaved their way to the door, and Molly had finished wiping down the tables and putting the chairs up. A glance to the corner told her that the Professor was still there, staring into his empty glass tumbler. She leaned over the bar and gestured to the barman.

"He looks more... intense tonight."

The barman looked over and then nodded shortly. "It would've been their wedding anniversary today." Molly stared blankly. The barman's eyes widened. "You don't know?" She shook her head. "Damn. I thought..." The barman shook his head and took down a bottle to polish. "His wife used to be landlady here," he said in an undertone that Molly had to lean close to hear. "Every Friday night, they'd have a drink in that corner booth. Weekends, he'd help her tend bar. You'd have to be an idiot to not see they were mad for each other, and it was never going to stop, like it does in some marriages."

Molly resisted the urge to turn and look at the Professor in the corner. "What happened?"

"She died," the barman said simply. "Went into labour too early, haemorrhaged to death, and the baby died with her." He nodded in the Professor's direction. "He's technically landlord now, but he doesn't run the place. Hired someone else to do it. Doesn't live here anymore, either. Too many memories." The bottle the barman was polishing was so clean it gleamed; the barman stared at the reflection for a moment before placing it back on its shelf. "And yet he still comes here every Friday to get his usual, as though she'll be joining him as soon as I come in for my shift."

He put the bottle back on the shelf. "I'm watching my friend's dog, otherwise I'd stay. Lock up the common room once he's left. Leave the key with the night housekeeper."

Molly nodded numbly as he handed her a key. So there had been a kernel of truth to some of the rumours. Somehow, knowing that something had happened and she'd done nothing made her insides twist with guilt. Even telling herself that there was nothing she could have done did not take away the sting.

She turned the iron key over in her hand a few times before sighing and walking over to the corner booth quietly.

"Professor?" she said gently. He jumped as though startled, looking up guiltily to meet her eyes.

"Miss Weasley." He looked around the empty common room. "Oh. Time to go, then?"

"You don't have to," Molly said hurriedly. "Spencer gave me the key. I can wait until you're ready to go."

The Professor shook his head and braced a hand on the table to get up. "I wouldn't imagine keeping you out so late -"

"Professor," Molly said, putting her hand over his to halt him. "Please. I'm already here and I don't have anywhere important to go. Stay, if you're not done yet."

The Professor hesitated, then tapped the side of his tumbler. It rang with the clear chime of good crystal. "I've been done a good while."

"I can get you another. If you want." She'd never made him his drink but she still knew it by heart. It had never before occurred to her to wonder why she paid such close attention to the details that surrounded his weekly visits.

The Professor's eyes seemed to slide out of focus slightly in consideration. "I don't want to be any trouble," he began.

"You're not. I promise."

The Professor did not drink Ogden's. The bottle his firewhisky was from did not have a label or a year or, as far as Molly could tell, a name. The stopper smelled of smoke and caramelised sugar that lingered thickly in the air like decadent perfume as she carefully poured into another tumbler. Five drops of water, a pause to let them swirl through the liquor, and then five more. Just enough to release the bouquet. Her father had taught her to drink whiskies of all sorts; she could deeply appreciate the notes she could detect in the aroma alone.

"Pour yourself one, too."

Molly spun around. "Hmm?"

The Professor was sitting back in the bench of the booth, studying the cut crystal of his tumbler. "If you're staying on my account, no reason you shouldn't have a bit as well."

Molly felt herself flush for no good reason. She was used to patrons offering to buy her a drink, but that was in overt flirtation, not... whatever this offer was. A request for simple human company? She was positive that these were the most words he'd ever said in one night before, and she could not work out why it was her he was saying them to. "I couldn't - I mean, this is your bottle -"

"Stands to reason I can share it with who I want, then." He threw a glance her way and she nearly flinched at how hollow his eyes were. "I insist."

Hesitantly, Molly took down another tumbler and poured herself a finger - not nearly as much as was in the Professor's glass. She was well aware that the little she had poured herself was still probably worth what she made in an entire shift. She added a trickle of water, stoppered the bottle, and put it back in its place in the dark cupboard under the bar.

"Thank you," the Professor said simply as Molly set the glass down before him. If he noticed the disparity between the volumes of the two glasses, he made no indication.

Awkwardly, Molly slid onto the bench opposite him, not sure what to do next. For his part the Professor took a long sip of his firewhisky, closing his eyes as he held the liquor on his tongue before swallowing. When he opened his eyes he did not meet Molly's, but stared into the depths of the glass.

The silence hung around them like a cloak, its folds settling on their shoulders in an almost tangible way. Upstairs, someone shuffled about in their rented room. The night housekeeper was making her rounds two floors above that, her shoes echoing down the stairwell. In the common room, still merrily lit with dozens of lamps and the fireplace at each end, the quiet hummed.

"I heard you talking to Spencer."

Molly nearly jumped out of her skin. The Professor was studying her calmly, eyes tight around the corners. Not knowing what else to do, Molly nodded.

"I wasn't aware that you didn't already know." A slow sip, barely wetting his lips.

Molly cleared her throat. "I didn't want to pry. I... heard a lot of things. When it happened, I mean. But I never got the truth of it and I didn't feel right..." She dropped her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It wasn't something I would have discussed with students, at any rate."

"No, I mean - I'm sorry it happened." She could feel her brow wrinkle. "Maybe 'sorry' isn't the right word."

The Professor nodded. "You mean sympathy, but that word usually doesn't fit very well with the other words we want to say. And 'my sympathies' sounds trite anyway." He took another sip of his firewhisky. "I heard that one a lot. 'You have my sympathies'. I felt like I was being attacked by a greeting card shop."

At a loss for what else to say, even if she knew the word now, Molly lifted her tumbler and sniffed at the firewhisky before taking a hesitant sip. Quite of their own accord, her eyes went wide. "Oh my," she said a moment later as she lowered the tumbler to the tabletop.

"Good, yeah?" The Professor tipped his tumbler in her direction in a casual toast.

"It's lovely." She resisted the urge to take another sip. "In fact, lovely doesn't do it justice. What is it?"

"Peverell Twenty-Five," the Professor replied promptly. "Ancient, family-run distillery. They put out one cask a year. The Leaky has been buying that cask for the last two hundred years." A slim hint of a smile quirked the corner of his mouth. "I'm just barely selfish enough to monopolise one of the bottles from it."

Molly mentally increased the worth of the firewhisky in her glass by a factor of ten as she took another, very small sip. She had the feeling that she'd never taste something like this ever again.

"I wouldn't have pegged you as a whisky drinker," the Professor said offhandedly.

"Nor I you," Molly countered. "I would have thought ale. Or absinthe."

"Absinthe? Really?" His puzzled smile looked quite at odds with the dark circles beneath his eyes.

Molly felt herself flush. "Well - I mean - I never knew you outside of the context as my Herbology professor," she said, stumbling toward an explanation. "And absinthe's a very herbal sort of drink, and you always had liquorice snaps in a jar on your desk. So if you like liquorice, you probably like absinthe..." she trailed off when she realised she was babbling.

"I'm surprised you noticed the liquorice." He sounded amused, though it didn't touch his face. "I don't recall you spending much time in my office."

"Twice. Once when I was taking advisory for my N.E.W.T.s, and once when you were signing off on my Herbological Society Alumnus certificate." Now why did she remember that so clearly? "I noticed because I like liquorice, and most people don't."

The Professor nodded thoughtfully. "I'd have thought you a vodka girl. Not in juice or anything like that, just straight vodka. The good kind, the stuff kept under the bar. The kind worth drinking on its own." His lips made a wry twist. "Not that I spend time analysing what liquor my students are most likely to enjoy, of course. Just an observation, since you started working here." He leaned back, lips pursed as though considering what else to say. "When I'm not here, I do enjoy absinthe," he said finally. "If it's mixed with a liberal dash of brandy. But here..." He reached forward and lifted his tumbler in demonstration.

The tiniest emphasis on the word here made something fall into place in Molly's mind. "It's what you would drink together on Fridays, wasn't it?"

The Professor's face went blank so quickly that it made Molly's stomach wrench, and she had never wanted to pluck her words out of the air more. "Yes," he said finally. "It was."

There was a pause so long, the Professor completely motionless, that Molly thought he was done talking for good, but then he picked up the glass and studied it. "Not the last few months she was alive, of course," he said, and it sounded as though he was reciting something by rote. "The last few months were sarsaparilla. We joked about it. She said I was being gallant for giving up whisky entirely while she was pregnant, and it wasn't a compliment. Called me a 'bloody Gryffindor' a fair few times." The next sip was long, and nearly emptied his glass. "I thought about giving it up entirely, after..." he said softly, almost as though he were speaking to himself. "But then she would never have approved of that." Molly lifted her own tumbler to her lips, not wanting to have to rush to finish when he was done.

"So what have you been doing with yourself?" the Professor asked abruptly. It was clear that he was done with the previous topic.

Molly shrugged offhandedly. "I spent a year in an internship in America. My mum used to work for one of the Senators of the Wizarding government there, and she pulled some strings."

"A year? Has it been that long since you graduated?" The Professor shook his head. "How did you like it?"

"It was fantastic. It was the first time I was actually treated like an adult." She felt like wincing at the childish-sounding words. "Can't get a proper cuppa for love or money, though."

That earned an amused snort; Molly felt something inside her soar at having brought a smile to his face, however brief or small. "I went on holiday in America once, in the Sonora Desert. Fascinating plants there. But I imagine you had other things to think about."

"No, I - yes, I want to go into politics," Molly said earnestly, "but Herbology's still my hobby. I had a window garden at my flat, and I went hiking when I could. Even the mundane plants over there are incredible."

"They are," the Professor agreed. "Whereabouts were you? Because there was one - Mala mujer - gods, that's a wonderful plant. Painful, but wonderful."

Molly smiled; he reminded her of the old Professor Longbottom, passionately lecturing about one plant or another. "I was in the Northwest corner. And I had a run-in of my own with a painful plant; have you heard of poison oak?"

The Professor actually groaned, for an instant flashing the first genuine smile she'd seen on him since she'd known him as the sad man in the corner booth. "I don't envy you even a little bit." He picked up his tumbler and drained it, then looked at it with a mild expression of surprise, as though he was not expecting it to already be gone. Within moments his cheerful demeanour drained from him, and he gently set the tumbler back down on the tabletop.

Molly savoured the last sip from her own glass, then stood and gathered the three tumblers on the table. "Thank you. For the drink," she added quickly. "It was really very good."

The Professor nodded. "How are you getting home?" he asked suddenly, after she'd turned to go rinse the glassware at the bar.

She turned back around. "Oh, I have a broom. I don't Apparate."

He raised an eyebrow. "There's no way I'm letting you ride a broom across London at this time of night, alone."

Molly let slip a disbelieving laugh. "Are you my father now? I'm twenty years old, and I've ridden home far later than this before."

"I know your father," the Professor said seriously, "and he'd have my head if I didn't see you home properly after keeping you out this late."

This time the laugh was intentional. "It's not as though you're bringing me back from a date past curfew," she said, and if she didn't know better, she'd have thought one of his eyebrows twitched at the words. "I was at work late. It happens from time to time. The broom has a built-in Disillusionment Charm, I'll be fine."

"It's below freezing out there. Let me spare you the chill, at least."

Molly bit her lip in consideration. It was bitterly cold, and it had been snowing off and on since six. She had not been looking forward to the ride home, even if it was only fifteen minutes. "Give me a moment to rinse these and lock up," she said finally. "I'll meet you outside."

After a cursory rinse, the glasses were not precisely clean, but it was alcohol - it wasn't as though they weren't sanitary. And really, even the trace remnants of that firewhisky would improve anything that was poured into those tumblers. She turned the key until she heard the bolt throw, left it on its nail by the door for the night housekeeper to pick up, and stepped out into the frigid December air.

"That was quick," the Professor commented, drawing his wand from his thick woollen overcloak.

"There wasn't much to do," she replied. She suddenly felt very shy. He was going to Apparate with her Side-Along, which meant she'd be taking his arm, but should she just take it, or wait for him to offer? It was not something that happened often, and she was unaware of the etiquette, if there was any. And then, of course, he was - or had been - her teacher, but somehow that perception had shifted and he wavered between Professor Longbottom and... she wasn't quite sure what. Another adult she knew, if only a little bit. Certainly not enough to simply grab his arm without invitation.

He saved her from certain mortification by offering his arm as he asked her the address. She told him, and he looked thoughtful for a moment as he tried to puzzle out where it was, then nodded and placed his hand over hers on his arm.

"Are you ready?"

Molly swallowed, very aware that she was unable to tell whether the jump in her stomach was due to his hand on hers or the anticipation of the suffocating compression of Apparition. "As I'll ever be."

It was every bit as unpleasant as she remembered it being; as she staggered against the gate at their landing, she wondered privately to herself why anyone would ever prefer this as a mode of travel. "Thank you," she managed over the complaints of her stomach.

"Of course." The Professor cleared his throat, and Molly looked up, surprised to see that he looked decidedly out of sorts. "I... know you were just doing your job, but... thank you. I don't think I realised how much I needed company tonight."

The queasiness in her stomach forgotten, Molly nodded. "I wasn't just doing my job, otherwise I'd have just kicked you out," she said before she could even consider whether the words were wise. "Anytime you need someone..."

The silence stretched for a very long time as they stood in the cold, looking at one another. Molly knew she should look away and bid him goodnight, but she felt frozen, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

An owl hooted in a tree nearby, and the moment shattered. Molly cleared her throat. "Good night, Professor." She opened the gate and had stepped through before she heard his response.

"I'm not really your professor any longer. If... if you wanted, you could use my given name." A pause, and though her back was turned, she could see the crooked grin in her mind. "You've more or less earned it, listening to me babble on tonight."

Molly could not fathom the mix of emotions that washed over her, nor could she explain why her mouth had gone suddenly dry. Were she of a more irrational mind, she could have blamed it on the firewhisky; being more reasonable than that, she knew it was unlikely. Rather than let the silence grow again, she glanced over her shoulder before she became immobilised by her own indecision.

He did not look like Professor Longbottom. Professor Longbottom wore khaki work robes with the Hogwarts crest on the breast, when he bothered to wear robes at all, and had a penetrating, sardonic gaze that somehow spoke volumes as to why he did not care about her excuse for not finishing her essay. He did not stand in the snow in front of her parents' house in a wool cloak and an inexplicably hopeful expression on his face, illuminated from the back by the single flickering street lamp.

She licked her lips. The moisture cooled immediately in the late winter night air. "Good night... Neville. Thank you."

Neville's face was unreadable. "Good night, Molly. And thank you."

The snow swirled as he Disapparated. Molly stared at the space where he had been, ignoring the chill of the air around her.

Her mind was a complete jumble. It was not worth the effort to sort it out tonight. It wasn't until she was pulling her blankets over her that she allowed herself a moment to contemplate the taste that still lingered in her mouth, the remnants of fine firewhisky and the somehow soft contours of Neville's name.