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Strong Enough to Break by Acacia Carter

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The week would go down as one of the coldest in London's history; it did not snow much, but the cold was such that it squeezed every last bit of moisture from every surface and froze it every morning, covering everything in an ethereal layer of crackling ice that seldom melted by the time the sun went down. Molly was dimly aware of the havoc this was wreaking on the heating bills of her neighbours in her mostly Muggle neighbourhood, but the farthest it went toward affecting her was the way she nearly froze to her broomstick each evening as she came home from the Leaky.

On Wednesday, her lips had been blue and her teeth had chattered so violently that her father - who was seldom still awake when she got back from work - vowed he would finally look into expanding their fireplace to make Floo travel possible. He'd fetched her a hot cup of tea and a blanket and then sat down with her as she warmed up, which was rather strange and unexpected: the Wizengamot was out of session for the last week of the year, but her father still went into the office most mornings and it was a good deal past midnight.

"How are you enjoying the job?" he asked, sipping from his own cup.

"Well, it's not the Ministry," Molly responded, "but for what it is, it's good. I mean, it pays decently enough, and it's fun, most nights. I meet a lot of people. I know most of the regulars by name now. If I don't find anything better, Spencer says he'll teach me how to tend bar, if I want."

"Spencer's the landlord?" her father asked.

"No, he's just the barman. The landlord doesn't really run the place." Molly hesitated. "It still belongs to Professor Longbottom."

"Really? I thought he'd sold it ages ago." Her father reached up to rub his chin. "Does he still have anything to do with the place?"

"I'm not sure. He's there every Friday, but not for anything business-related. Unless you count making sure that the extra-special firewhisky still tastes good."

"Oh?" Her father's eyes narrowed slightly. "That sounds... less than good."

"It's only a glass," Molly added hurriedly. "And he nurses it all night. He's..." she stopped, wondering if she should reveal what she knew. It was not a secret, precisely, but it had still been something they'd shared, a moment of social intimacy that she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to divulge. "He's remembering," she finished simply.

Her father nodded slowly, finishing off his tea. "Ron told me Longbottom took it hard, his wife's death. Christmas was the first I'd seen him since then. He looks a lot different to how he used to."

Molly stared into her tea thoughtfully. He looked different to her, too, but she was not certain whether it was because she was looking at him in the context of an adult as compared to her teacher, or because he was a different person from when she had last known him at the end of seventh year.

"I think I'm going to finish thawing out in my bed," she said finally. "Tomorrow's Friday, which means a late night."

"Good night, then." Her father stood as well, then paused, as though considering something. "He's a good man. I might ask him around to ours sometime. He seems like he could use company that doesn't remind him of his wife."

It was with extreme effort that Molly did not swallow nervously. "He likes remembering her, actually. I think he's just now learning that remembering doesn't have to hurt." Her father shot her an odd look, and she found herself explaining. "We've been talking. He likes talking about her; at least I think he does. It just seems like no one wants to take the time to listen to him."

The look he was giving her now was somehow appraising, as though he'd heard much more than she'd actually said. She supposed it was something of an occupational hazard. "Well, don't make yourself a nuisance. Leave him be if he doesn't want to talk."

"I will. G'night, Dad."

Despite the exhaustion that seeped into her bones as she finally got warm, sleep eluded her. That knowing look, as though she'd revealed something - she hadn't revealed anything. They'd been talking, and Neville enjoyed the company. As did she. That was all.

She wondered who she was trying so hard to convince.


Friday night was always busy, but Molly had not been prepared for the influx of revellers who were, as far as she could tell, practising for the New Year's Eve festivities tomorrow night. She imagined that tomorrow night it would be even more hectic, the crowd even more boisterous, and she wondered for the third time at her sanity for volunteering to work. It wasn't that she minded missing the festivities - the parties her school friends were throwing appealed to her very little, and Dominique would be spending time with Sarah, which was not something she would dream of interfering with. It was more that if New Year's Eve was anything like tonight was, she wasn't sure she'd survive the evening with her mind intact.

"Three Gillywaters, one with orange, one with ginger, and a 'something fruity, surprise me'," Molly called to Spencer as she leaned against the bar. "I dare you to put a little umbrella in the last."

Spencer flashed her a quick grin as he went to work. "Table nine looks like they'll be up for another round soon. And eleven could use a few waters; they're starting to slow down." His smile faltered slightly as his eyes flicked to the corner, and he nodded in that direction. "Looks like you'll need to go take care of seventeen again."

Molly spun to face the booth in the corner, where three witches had settled in and started chatting amiably. "I'm on it." Molly flicked another glance at the clock. Keeping that booth empty for another two hours on a busy night like this was going to be a challenge.

"I'm very sorry," she said sweetly to the three witches at the booth, "but this table is reserved."

"I don't see a sign," one of them said haughtily, while another straightened self-importantly and pointed out that the Leaky did not take reservations.

"I'd be more than happy to clear a table for you, ladies, but this booth needs to stay empty." To her great relief, four wizards at the opposite corner booth had just tossed a handful of coins on their table and stood to leave. "That table, in fact. How about I take your drink orders and they'll be ready by the time you've settled in?"

The witches made a great show of being horribly put upon, but acquiesced. Molly pocketed the coins from the table, hurriedly cleared it with her wand, and went back to the bar.

"Three starfruit daiquiris, and I'll be right back - kitchen order - and we'll probably wan to put a 'reserved' sign on Ne - on Professor Longbottom's booth."

Spencer raised an amused eyebrow at Molly's slip, and she flushed and turned away.

Time was no longer measured by seconds and minutes, but rather by tray after tray of drinks and food. The cold that was threatening to topple Muggle commerce seemed to have little sway in the warm common room, and the crowd did not thin appreciably as the evening lurched forward in plates of chips and one drink after another.

There was finally a lull in which everyone had their drinks, no one needed any food, and Molly had a moment to lean against the bar and catch her breath. "Merlin," she gasped, "where do they all come from?"

"No idea," Spencer said lightly as he pushed a tumbler across the bar. "But I think you should take this over tonight."

Molly stared stupidly at the tumbler for a moment before it dawned on her. She did not spin around to look at booth seventeen, but it was a very near thing. "He's early."

Spencer just shrugged and turned his back, whistling.

"You usually take this to him," she protested, ignoring the heat that was rising in her cheeks.

"And tonight, you should." There was nothing in his tone to indicate that Spencer was grinning, but it was clear in the way he held his shoulders that he was amused about something. "He's been there about ten minutes. I'm surprised you didn't notice him before."

Molly was, too, but Spencer seemed far too entertained for that to be it. She decided not to press the matter and grabbed the tumbler.

"Good evening," she said smoothly as she placed it in front of Neville. "We weren't expecting you for a little while longer. I'm sorry this wasn't waiting for you."

"Am I really that predictable?" Neville asked dryly.

"I - about this, yes," Molly stammered, not positive what the correct answer was. Apparently that was it, because it earned a rare smile.

"Don't worry about it. I thought I might have to wait for a table tonight." He looked down at the tumbler for firewhisky, almost appearing to withdraw from the light and noise of the common room.

Molly knew what was supposed to happen next. She was to bid him good night and leave him be until closing. She was not supposed to check back with him, was in fact supposed to ignore his booth entirely for the duration of the night.

Instead, without really knowing why, she reached out and squeezed his shoulder lightly. He started and looked up, bewildered. Suddenly shy, Molly swallowed. "I'll come check on you in a bit. Unless you'd rather I leave you alone...?

"No, I... that is, it looks busy tonight. I wouldn't want to keep you from your work."

That was not an outright no. "Maybe if it slows down and my slave driver of a boss lets me have a break." She jerked her head in the direction of the bar, and Neville glanced over; his expression changed swiftly from bemusement to embarrassment, the flicker of which he tried to hide with a hasty sip of his firewhisky. Molly turned, but Spencer had obviously stopped what he had been doing and was pulling glassware off the shelves far too nonchalantly to be completely innocent.

"If you get a moment, I wouldn't say no," Neville said slowly as she turned back around. Molly was astonished to see colour creeping into his cheeks. The firewhisky, she told herself, flashing a smile in farewell and preparing to make her rounds of the tables.

"I need a Butterbeer, a ginger vodka on the rocks, and a Roaster," she told Spencer some time later. "And what the hell kind of look did you shoot the Professor that he turned nine shades of red?"

"Don't know what you're talking about." Spencer plunked a pint of golden ale on the bar. "That's for twelve, on the house."

"Were you listening?" Molly demanded, reaching out to take the flagon of ale.

"Right, I can eavesdrop on a conversation happening all the way across the pub on a busy night." Pausing for a moment to look around, Spencer leaned closer. "You nearly used his given name. Now, you're not presumptuous enough to do that unless he'd given you permission, and he doesn't give that permission to just anyone." He stood back, a triumphant look on his face, and reached for a dishrag to wipe his hands. "And his eyes lit up when he walked in and saw you. He stood a little straighter. Only for a moment. But it was there."

"What exactly are you saying?" A knot twisted in her chest that made it hard to breathe; Molly was not entirely sure where it had come from.

Spencer's usually bright face was very serious. "I don't know what's between you and him, and it's none of my business if there's anything there or not. But he's never early. Ever. Seems to me like he wanted to be here tonight for something other than the comfort of routine." He threaded the dishrag in his hands through its hook near the sink. "I aim to encourage this sort of behaviour. It's been too long since I've seen anything but blankness or pain on his face."

Not entirely sure what her reaction was supposed to be, Molly turned hurriedly with the pint of ale. She imagined she could feel Spencer's gaze on her back as she made her way to table twelve; she couldn't even remember what the patron had said upon receiving the free drink. Studiously, she did not shoot a glance over at the corner booth. She did not know what she would do if she were to look over to see Neville's eyes on her. Swallow her own tongue, probably.

Why was her emotional state so obvious to everyone but her? Everyone else was so certain what she was feeling, but the gnarl within her was such a tempest that she couldn't separate the strands of feelings if she tried. Why did she have to feel everything at once whenever he crossed her mind? And why did everyone else translate it as some sort of infatuation, when she wasn't even convinced what it was?

He was not looking at her as she made her way through the tables. He looked like he did every Friday, contemplating the tabletop, his eyes soft and distant, his posture hunched and drawn inward. It was not an expression or body language that invited company, and when Spencer waved at her to take her break an hour later, Molly's stomach tightened at the notion of breaking Neville's trancelike concentration. Perhaps he'd changed his mind. Perhaps it would be a better idea to leave him to his thoughts tonight.

Given her trepidation, Molly was surprised to find herself approaching the booth with a glass of water in either hand. She stood at the edge of it for a moment before Neville appeared to notice her shadow and look up.

"Molly." So neutral. What did that mean?

"I brought you some water," Molly said uselessly, indicating the glasses she was carrying. She hesitated. "Can... can I sit?"

"Yes. Absolutely." Neville gestured at the space across from him in the booth, and Molly sank down, making a noise of appreciation.

"Merlin, it's good to sit. I've been on my feet for nearly four hours."

"It's busier than I've seen it in a long time," Neville agreed, craning his neck to look around at the patrons still in the pub.

"It's the New Year crowd," Molly said. "It'll be even busier tomorrow night, Spencer says."

"And you're working tomorrow night?" Seeming to realise how this question sounded, Neville raised the glass of water to his lips, as though to minimise the impact of the words.

"It seems like I work every night. It's not so bad - but I am a bit sad to be missing my uncles' fireworks." She nearly winced. That sounded so childish.

But Neville's face had shifted into a nostalgic expression. "It's been years since I've gone to the fireworks. George and Ron know how to put on a show."

Molly nodded. "And they outdo themselves every year. But last year I was in America, and the year before I had a terrible flu. It feels like it's been entirely too long, and I'm so close this year - but I don't think I'll be able to see them from the windows."

Neville looked thoughtful for a moment, taking another long sip of water. Their conversation dissolved into the tumult of the pub around them, and for a time the rhythm of the talking and laughing around them was the only thing that kept their private silence from growing into too great a rift.

"Don't mind Spencer," Neville said suddenly. "He's trying to look out for - well, for everybody, and he can get a little... overzealous."

Bemused, Molly glanced over at the barman. "What do you mean?"

Neville drew his finger through the ring of condensation his glass of water had left on the table, not looking up to meet her eyes. "I imagine he told you to stay away from me."

Molly's tongue suddenly felt very dry, and she took another sip of water. "He told me the opposite, actually. I think."

"Really?" Neville looked surprised, his brows curving downward in befuddlement as he also glanced toward the bar. "Interesting," was all he said after an extended beat of silence.

"My father told me not to be a nuisance." Now why had she said that? The back of her neck was suddenly very warm, and she swallowed, resisting the urge to take another drink of water to cover her discomfiture. "I'm a bad judge at when I'm being irritating, so you'll have to let me know."

Neville chuckled, and the sound felt like warm honey, relaxing her shoulders in ways she hadn't known were tense. "Molly, you are far from a nuisance. I promise."

"Still. Let me know. I don't want to be..." She didn't know what word to use to finish her thought. What didn't she want to be? There were so many qualifiers she could put in that blank. She did not want to be a bother. She did not want to be a nag. And, possibly more than anything else, she did not want to be the little girl with a crush that he tolerated. As that thought surfaced in her mind, she pressed her lips together, looking down at the table. Was that what she was? After all, fancying Professor Longbottom had practically been a rite of passage in school; she'd thought she'd escaped that cliché unscathed, but if her racing pulse had any say in the matter...

"You're not."

At his voice, Molly looked up. His eyes were not the piercing, no-nonsense eyes of Professor Longbottom; they were softer, more familiar. More intimate. They were darker in this light, green instead of hazel. He didn't even know what he was denying, and she believed him.

She did not know why that gaze frightened her. It was not the gaze of a professor upon a student, or even an older man upon someone younger. He was looking at her as an equal.

"I should get back to work," she found herself saying, swinging her legs to the side to exit the booth.

"You haven't eaten," Neville protested.

"Oh, I - I'm not hungry." She stood, straightening her apron unnecessarily. "Thank you. For letting me sit here."

He looked puzzled. "Of course. Anytime."

"I'm going to hold you to that." Curse her tongue to seven hells, why had she said that?

For the smile, she immediately decided. The smile that her quip had drawn, however brief, was worth a thousand thoughtless moments of letting her mouth run before her mind.

Her shift turned back into intervals between trays of drinks and food, of aching feet and too many people demanding her attention, until she slumped against a beam for a moment and closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. Spencer saw that - Spencer always saw when she had reached her limit - and decreed that she'd done three nights of work in six hours and it was past time she went home. He could manage, he assured her. He needed her for tomorrow night, and he would need her to not be a zombie.

She put up a token resistance, but it was not long before she'd fetched her broomstick from the cabinet and buttoned on her thick wool cloak, dreading facing the crisp, bitter weather and of half a mind to just rent a room for the evening. Stepping from the warm common room was nearly enough to take her breath away, and - not for the first time - she wished she had a warming charm on the handle of her broom.

"Cold, yeah?"

Molly nearly jumped straight out of her skin as she spun to face the door behind her. "Cripes, Neville. You startled me."

Neville chuckled, again, and if Molly hadn't been so busy shivering she may have even swooned. Which was completely inappropriate. Grown women did not swoon, certainly not at just a chuckle. "That much is obvious. Would you like a quicker way home?"

It took a moment for his offer to permeate her mind. "You don't usually leave for at least another hour."

He looked almost embarrassed. "I don't think I'll stay tonight. Too busy. I'm taking up a table." He seemed as though he wanted to say more, but if he did, the words remained in his mind, and she'd never know what they were.

"It is cold," she admitted.

"It is. Would you let me take you home?"

How could her face feel so warm in such frigid temperatures? "If you insist."

"I think I do." He offered his arm and, dismounting from her broom, she took it. The warmth beneath her fingers only stoked the fire she felt in her cheeks and somewhere deep in her core, flaring to life in a way that stole her breath and was not quelled even by the horrific compression of the Apparition that followed.

She did not want to let go of his arm. It was solid, flexing just slightly beneath her touch, and she wanted to tighten her grip and draw herself closer. Closer to the warmth, closer to the essence of - something - that seemed to radiate outward from him.

She let her arm drop and swallowed. "Thank you."

There was the tiniest flicker of - was that disappointment? "You're welcome. Um, if you want... I can just bring you home on Friday nights. We can consider it a standing offer."

Molly licked her lips. "I don't want to be a bother -"

"I told you. You're not."

She needed to get inside. She needed to be alone, where she could examine the myriad emotions flooding her body without distraction. "I'll let you know. Thank you. Happy New Year."

He blinked. "Happy New Year."

He reached out to squeeze her shoulder. He looked surprised that he did. Like last week, the snow swirled as he Disapparated, and like last week, Molly watched the snow settle after he had.

She watched the space where he'd been for a long time, until her shivers were nearly convulsions and she turned toward the front door.


Midnight drew nearer, drink by drink, tray by tray.

Molly barely had time to breathe. Spencer had had another server come in for this evening, and between the two of them they could barely keep the common room satisfied.

There was a table of wizards in the corner that had grown progressively grabbier as the night went on and their tab grew, until one of them openly reached out and grasped at her chest as she went by. He missed - his aim had deteriorated after nearly a dozen helpings of gin and tonic - but the slap she had delivered had echoed throughout the entire pub.

Not long after, Spencer had called her into the back room.

"I'm sorry," she apologised, though she wasn't sorry at all, "I know I'm not supposed to - I mean, I know I'm supposed to bring it to you to take care of -"

Spencer looked bemused for a moment. "No. You handled that beautifully. I should have cut them off an hour ago. No, I mean - I'm giving you an early night."

Her jaw must have been hanging open for some time before Molly noticed. "You can't be serious. I went home early last night. This is one of the busiest nights of the year - you need me -"

"I have Olivia," Spencer said firmly. "And you have a visitor."

Molly stared blankly. "I have a what?"

Spencer leaned over to look at the state of the common room for a moment. "A pub has a soul," he said absently. "Any good barman can feel it. The Leaky used to have a solid one. A soul folks could count on. Since Hannah died... well, that soul's been... subdued."

"O...kay?" Molly said slowly.

"The soul's waking back up." Spencer shook his head. "Molly, he hasn't come on a Saturday since... I can't even remember when. And on this night, in particular..."

"You're not making any sense." He was making perfect sense, somewhere deep in her mind where ultimate truths lived.

"I can get by with Olivia. You have a visitor."

And with that, he pushed by her to go back to the bar.

She should not have been surprised to see Neville upon entering the common room. Spencer had as much as shouted his name. And yet, when her eyes lighted upon him, her stomach swooped and her breath caught in her throat.

He looked almost nervous as he strode across the common room. Her mind didn't seem to be working properly; one moment he was at the door, the next he was beside her.

"You'll want your cloak," he said, the bluff casualness of it marred only slightly by his hesitant tone. "It's cold out there."

"Out... no, it's too crowded out there," she said faintly. Why was she objecting? What was she objecting to?

The crooked smile he flashed her made her heart skip a beat. "Not where we're going."

She could not remember going to get her cloak, or buttoning it. In the common room, busy and lit with blazing hearth fires as it was, it was too much, and she felt like a bonfire herself.

"This way." He gestured expansively at the doorway - not to the back and the entrance to Diagon Alley, but the stairs to the upper floors of the building.

Stairs. For a wild moment she thought maybe he was taking her to a room, but no - that was absolutely ridiculous. Intrigued, she climbed, Neville slightly behind her.

The Leaky Cauldron had three floors aside from the ground floor, but he took her up four flights - there was a door that he unlocked with an intricate brass key, and the cold outside was like a wall as he swung the door open to reveal the rooftop.

"Are we supposed to be up here?" she whispered as she stepped through the doorway, snow and ice crunching under her feet against the clay roofing tiles.

That smile. He seemed freer with them around her, as though they weren't a precious commodity. "I kind of own the building. It's okay."

He took a few steps, ice cracking beneath his feet. "I used to bring everyone up here. I hate being jostled around in crowds - and up here, the fireworks are fantastic." He turned to look at her, and in the dark she could almost imagine him being - well, young. Excited. Exuberant. "Harry proposed to Ginny up here. And Hermione told Ron she was pregnant up here. This place has a lot of memories."

It felt as though a great hand had closed around her throat. "I... why did you bring me up here?"

Neville seemed to deflate slightly. "The fireworks. You wanted to see them. So did I. And this is the best place for it." He cleared his throat and gestured toward one of the chimneys that protruded from the roof. "If we get cold, those are lovely to lean against. And there are no crowds. You... I thought you were worried about that."

She could see the crowd beneath them - a sea of hair, mostly, shifting with the patterns of people trying to get from one place to another through people who were perfectly satisfied being where they were. "It's perfect," she said softly. "I - I just worry that I'm... intruding."

"On what?" Neville looked around. "There isn't much here to intrude upon."

"Your memories." She turned to face him, heart thundering. "This was... is... a special place. I don't belong here."

For a moment he looked taken aback. "I get to decide that. And tonight, you belong here."

Below, the susurrus of the crowd became a fevered murmur, and at the end of the long cobblestone walk, a great 60 made of purple sparks manifested, accompanied by a wave of cheers.

"I didn't realise midnight was so close," Molly breathed.

"We got up here just in time, then," Neville said, taking a step to be next to her.

Next to her. The heat she could feel on her right side had to be pure imagination - it was not possible that simple body heat would be able to cross a space so far. She was startlingly aware of where he was - not just where he was standing, but where he was in relation to her, where his hands were, how far he was in centimetres and miles from touching her.

49

48

"No one can see us up here," she said suddenly.

For a moment he opened his mouth as though to answer, but instead he snapped it shut and dug his hands into the pockets of his cloak.

45

44

43

She shifted her feet, the angle of the roof awkward to stand on in one position for any amount of time. For a terrifying moment she nearly lost her balance until a steadying hand caught at her upper arm."Be careful. It's icy up here."

He didn't let go. She didn't move, in case it reminded him he was still holding her and wasn't intending to.

38

37

"How many people have you brought up here?" Molly asked, not tearing her eyes from the bright purple numbers.

"Not many," Neville responded. His voice sounded... doubtful. "Just the important ones."

31

30

29

28

"So am I important?"

25

24

"I think you might be."

20

19

18

Molly was fairly certain that Neville could hear her heart beating a staccato against her ribs, even over the chanting of the crowd below. Their breaths puffed white smoke against the clear, sharp air that enveloped them.

She did not feel the cold. She could not feel anything except the imaginary heat to her right.

10

9

"You know," she said, and she was very proud that her voice was not shaking at all, "it's customary to kiss someone at midnight. For good luck in the new year."

8

7

She did not steal a glance out of the corner of her eye; that would have been childish. Instead she turned completely to face the man holding her arm.

Her timing had been perfect. She had not left him any time to think, to consider what she'd said; there was only time enough for it to register. His lips parted slightly in astonishment as he looked down at her, one side of his face in dark shadow, the other illuminated by the purple numbers in the sky.

3

2

"I..." he began uselessly.

1

There was a deafening harmonic whistle as five rockets shot up into the sky, and for a split second Molly worried that she'd been entirely wrong. She'd missed the optimal moment, she'd given him a second to think about it and feel guilty and -

As the rockets exploded in a cascade of red and gold and silver sparks, a hand went to the nape of her neck, cradling the back of her head. And then he was holding her against him, lips pressed against hers, shaming the blooms of colour in the sky above them with an intensity and fervour that she'd imagined could only exist in books, in music, in art.