[ for (quotev user) ;; @ totallyrandomzoe ]

Doilies of intricate ice embroidered the edges of the glass window-sills, their pale white opaqueness gently fading into translucency against the comparatively warm clear covering, melting and fading just as others came to replace their fallen brethren. The frost was a mural; a stained glass masterpiece painting itself across the pub's walls as though it was a rejected church. In all fairness, some would've considered alcohol their savior, supposedly. Apparently the world was suffering a lack of these sorts of souls today.

While the whiteness from the windows was nearly blinding, the fingertips that poured the next shot of firewhiskey into the well-worn tumbler were tinged red with warmth. They mixed it with expertise beyond most's years, checking the ratio between the ice and drink, fizz and liquid, flavoring and pure liquor. The chills that the brisk beverage sent pulsating across the bartender's body were nothing. After a few months, every employee easily learned to block out the coldness.

Perhaps that was why you stood without a jacket or any form of layers in the midst of what would most likely wind up becoming a blizzard.

As the drink settled, meeting the standards of exact science that went into its initial crafting, you shifted your gaze from the mug to the counter, where you had to squint in order to make out figures against the illumination provided by the sunlight's slight reflection off the snow outside. The burst of light was rather odd, especially considering the fact that typically, the intermittent candle or sparse flames from playful students' wands were the only sources of light. Instead, the practically deserted building was now nearly ablaze with tinted sun rays.

Carrying the cup with one hand and shielding your eyes with another, you made your way back to the main dining room, scanning it with trained eyes, attempting to match the drink back up with its orderer. This time, it wasn't too difficult. The two gingers were standing rather confidently near the back door. Sunlight cast their shadows just as they cast their green gazes around the room, seemingly with some sense of hesitation. One shifted from foot to foot.

As you approached the customers, a glimmer of humor sparkled within your eyes, somehow brighter than the light surrounding your atmosphere. With all the grace of someone who'd come to know their customers well, you began, "You're not underage anymore, you know."

"I suppose old habits die hard?" replied the one nearest you, promptly reaching out to retrieve the glass. "Years of training don't just disappear like that."

The other one gave a nod. "To be fair, they were good habits, wouldn't you say, George?" A smirk played at the corners of his lips, and as he closed his eyes, he added in a disproportionately proud manner, "After all, never got caught."

You sighed, folding your arms. Fred and George had become frequent visitors of the pub ever since their rather dramatic exit from Hogwarts, something that you boiled down to them spitting in Umbridge's face, even when free from her grasp. They always said it was for one treat or another, but you'd grown rather dubious of the excuse lately. It had been nearly six months and to your knowledge they hadn't released a new alcoholic product yet. Still, the reason for them ordering only one drink when there were two didn't quite add up in your mind. "Good for you, then," you smiled gently, giving them a gleam of satisfaction in their self-proclaimed 'hard work.' It wasn't in your nature to pry customers, even if they were friends.

"You should learn," Fred continued, tilting his freckled face to the side and nudging his brother, who added, "yeah, you should. You're still sixteen, aren't you? Haven't you ever wanted to try it?"

"Sorry, you two." An obligatory eyeroll followed their prodding tease. "Against worker's policy."

"Because it's not against employer's policy to hire underage employees?" George quipped, sharp as ever, copying his twin's inquisitive posture.

A slight twitch of good-natured annoyance rose in your chest. Would there ever come a day when someone didn't mention how young you looked to be serving liquor? Your mouth had opened in an attempt to innocently defend your position, and just as you'd begun the first syllable the tell-tale chimes rang, signaling the arrival of another customer. "Just enjoy it," you sighed, a bubble of laughter forming in your chest at how purely defeated your voice had sounded. "Business calls."

On days like these, where the flow of patrons was slow and the day seemed to trudge by even slower, there were typically only three employees on duty, including the store's owner, Madam Rosmerta - who was probably sharing something with her fellow business-keepers in the private guest room. This left you, a simple, single barkeep, and an older man, whose primary purpose consisted of 'being a security guard.' Sure, a few bar brawls broke out every now and then, but it wasn't something that you couldn't handle yourself. No; you thought the equally plausible reason for his presence was to keep an eye on you.

Your mind kept retreating to the Weasleys' words. Was your position really that unusual? Money in the family had been scarce, what with all the turmoil in the Ministry, where you parents worked - or rather had worked, until fired because of believing in the uprising of Voldemort - and one of their closest family friends was Madam Rosmerta, and...well, who really cared? You'd needed a job, and you'd gotten one. Simple as that.

As you turned the corner to the front of the store, absentmindedly humming some secondhand tune beneath your breath, you grabbed a flagon from off the shelf without a second thought. Usually it worked like that: grab the glass, get the order, make it, deliver it. After all, not many people wanted to stay and chit-chat with you - not inherently a bad thing, more so a blessing to your quiet disposition.

"How may I help you?" The words escaped your mouth like an animalistic reflex, something that had been interwoven between your genes, a pattern of speech and mindset that had only recently been acquired but was already so deeply rooted within your body that you couldn't put it on pause. Not even when you saw the face of your next customer.

Unmistakable chocolate eyes flitted between you and the windows, somehow still wide in the garishly glimmering light, beneath a head of soft black curls that asymmetrically framed the soft face under them. "Oh - [y/n], you work here?"

The note of surprise was unequivocal in his tone, no matter how subdued of a shock it may have initially given him. The redness in your fingertips was beginning to flood your face. "Oh! Yes, I, uh, just started recently," you replied shakily, endeavoring to keep your words even and reserved. The fact that you were so dirt poor that you had to take a job - a nearly illegal job, you might've added - wasn't exactly something you wanted your closest friends to know.

If he sensed the wavering in your statement, he kept it to himself. A slight pause ensued, just long enough to make you second-guess your believability, before he broke it. "You should've told me before," a smile was given instead, the sheer warmth of his genuine compassion somehow even more radiant than the whiteness of the light. "Given the state of things today, it looks like you could've used some company."

A breath you didn't know you were holding dislodged itself from your throat. You found yourself returning the smile, although to a lesser extent. "I don't want to get in the way of things," you continued honestly. "So, what'll you have?"

The conversation lulled for a moment, and Dean put a hand on the back of his neck, fluffing his hair up in an unsure manner, before replying simply: "Tea."

"Tea?" The stupefaction in your expression was a glaring glaze over your typical self, and you found yourself scrambling to regain your composure. You failed. To you, the prospect of ordering tea at a bar seemed stranger to you than hiring a young worker.

Nervous laughter followed. "That's alright, isn't it?" He halted before suddenly continuing, "You've got some in stock, yeah? Not too much of a trouble to make...?"

You bit your lip and swallowed any further contributions to the conversation. The slight unease was growing within you, and only intensified when you saw it, raw and reflected, in Dean's scramble for the right words. "Sugars, or milk, or?" Nevertheless, the job came first. Even if it forced you into more awkward situations, you just had to push through it - besides, why was it getting so deep under your skin? It was just an exchange between friends.

An exchange between best friends. One of whom has been keeping a secret from the other.

"A bit of milk and two sugars," he informed quickly, suddenly fascinated by his shoes.

"Loose leaf or bag?"

"Leaf."

Swallowing was something you had to force yourself to do. "Coming right up."

Eager to escape the air, suddenly claustrophobic despite your wide workspace, you ducked beneath the arc that led to the kitchen, where you fumbled around in the drawers. Usually it would've taken you seconds to find the right substances. However, 'usually' people would order alcohol, not tea.

After a few minutes of rummaging through the drawers and shelves, and even the fridge and freezer, you managed to find a nice parcel of the sweet-smelling fronds. They were surprisingly fresh. A good amount of scent had remained tied to them, so you figured they were probably applicable for use. If it'd been anything else, you would have been completely sure.

How ironic. I can mix liquor, but can't seem to pull tea together.

A simple charm and a flick of your wand later, the leaves were permeating the now-hot water, staining it dark as the color bled into the clearness. While the water absorbed the flavor, you retrieved the milk, added a small splash, and returned it to its resting place. Last but not least you obtained some sugar cubes from the back cabinet. That was what Madam Rosmerta had adequately dubbed 'the picky corner,' the cupboard that was only ever opened when a particularly demanding customer had needs that the average patron wouldn't; needs that the drink alone wouldn't quite fill. Fortunately - well, now it was fortunate - the last batch of red currant rum had been unusually bitter. The cabinet basically held nothing but sugarcubes now.

Gentle plinks filled the air as you dropped them in, followed by a few more as you grabbed a teacup from the glassware storage. There were no more than four of them, and now that number was reduced to half, with your withdrawal. The batch you'd made had wound up being a bit too much for one sitting. Thus, you did what was commonplace with all other drinks - put the extra aside. It was standard protocol to bring it to the customer nevertheless, just in case they were particularly thirsty, and you figured that it still applied to tea.

You emerged into a now-empty room. The light was still there, but it had begun to dim a bit, signaling the start of sunset. George and Fred must've been on their way, and Dean had, apparently, retreated to a different section of the shop.

The main hall was empty, as was the inn's dining room, private guest room, and front rooms. This left the small branch of the back left portion of the open room left - sure enough, shortly upon entering, you found Dean sitting alone in a dark corner.

"Your tea," you began, setting the glasses down on the table.

Dean seemed to have fallen into some sort of stupor, as he reacted with a superfluous amount of surprise at your reappearance. Perhaps he hadn't been expecting you in that timeframe...? Maybe he'd been lost in his thoughts. Whatever the reason, he quickly settled, that warm smile melting your heart more and more with every passing second. "Two?"

It took you a moment to realize he was referring to the two glasses. "I accidentally made a bit too much," you chuckled softly, clutching at the hem of your uniform and once again feeling like you belonged anywhere but there. "But I brought it just in case."

"Good." His quicktime reply caused you to start in place. His grin had grown a bit now, and your eyes couldn't help but be caught by his as he continued, "I was hoping you'd be able to sit for awhile."

"Huh?"

"Unless - um, unless you can't," he recovered himself from a perceived fall. "You know - if it's, rules, or something? But I thought this was your favorite, with two sugars and -"

You weren't sure whose eyes were wider now. His face grew pale at the realization of what he'd let slip, and yours grew red at internally processing it. Tea with two sugars and a bit of milk was commonplace for many people, right? That's why you hadn't even paid it a second thought when Dean had ordered it; completely disregarded the fact that it was exactly what you used to order whenever you came here in previous years, almost always by yourself.

Dean had only ever come with you once. It'd been a few days after the tragedy of the Triwizard Tournament, and you'd found yourself needing an escape from Hogwarts, but you hadn't inherently desired the loneliness that you often appreciated. During that time you'd felt like you'd needed someone more than ever...so when Dean had volunteered to go with you, for once, you hadn't declined him.

And he'd still somehow remembered your conversation.

Without acknowledging it, you'd slid into the seat across from him, face so incredibly red it was hard to believe that you were a human and not a tomato. Again, despite all attempts to control yourself, your mouth seemed to have a mind of its own. "I'll sit." It had been a whisper.

A whisper, and nothing more, and suddenly Dean's face was shining so brilliantly once more, and oh, Merlin, the redness of your face must've increased at least tenfold, at you and at him and at everything.

Unsure of what to do next, you just took a sip of your tea, feeling the redness fade away as you found yourself holed up in a comforting place. Something about tea always managed to soothe your nerves. Surprisingly, you hadn't completely ruined it - in fact, you found yourself rather enjoying your own brew. Either that, or you favored the glass's presence in front of your face; obscuring your view of Dean and his view of you.

Silence enveloped the two of you for awhile, sitting quietly and drinking your tea, each caught up down in the depths of your respective minds, equally unsure of what to say or do or think.

Only when your cup was empty did you set it down.

Dean was already finished with his.

He reached out to grab your mug, which caused you to fall into a state of sheer curiosity. There wasn't a drop left in there - besides, he'd had his own, so surely it wasn't for drinking? Why else someone would take a teacup remained unclear.

Ambiguous to you, at least; Dean seemed to have complete courage in whatever it was that he was doing. His hands gently cupped it, and he shifted it around between his grip, constantly changing angles, whether those of his head or those of the container. His expressions were so deeply curious that you couldn't help but laugh.

"What're you doing?" you inquired gently, leaning over the table in pursuit of piecing together the puzzle of his actions.

He said nothing for a few heartbeats. Then, "Reading the leaves, of course."

This absurdity caused another few airy giggles to float out from you, although this time they were a bit hollower. All the drama surrounding Divination class was a stigma that you'd attempted to stray from, especially what with Trelawney's sacking. You'd never favored it, but it had been a bit fun to try and predict the future. Some of the lessons from your third year still stuck with you now, in year six.

"And?" The previous warmth from the tea had begun to leave your body, reminding you of just how truly cold the room around you was. Your breath even made small gray trails as you continued quietly, "What do they say?"

When the cup was set back down upon the table, Dean's expression had morphed from that of the typical, cheerful attitude to something darker; something sadder. The compassion was still there, only it resembled guilt more so than anything. "A cross."

Your warm breath hitched in your throat. A cross; trials and suffering.

Trials and suffering.

Trials and suffering.

"So it's true," he breathed, and you barely perceived it in time, "about - why you're here. About your parents? And - the ministry...?"

"W-what?" If the air was chilly, you were ice; completely and solidly frozen through, without a chance of thawing come summertime. "How did - why...?" The only thing left alive and flowing was the river of your thoughts, which were now accumulating into a tsunami, crashing against your brain and eroding away the part of you that had tried to desperately hard to keep your troubles to yourself. How did he know? Why did he care?

His gaze no longer met yours. "When you started disappearing - near the beginning of the year. I sort of thought that maybe something was going on. And then there was an article in the paper, and...[y/n]..." he broke off, pained.

The fluctuation of sadness in his tone made you grit your teeth. It was hard enough trying to keep your emotions to yourself, even more now, when your best friend was in turmoil and it was all because of you, because you'd done it, you'd kept it from him. Kept that because I didn't want to hurt him but oh I've hurt him, I've hurt him, I don't want to see him hurting I wanted to save him keep him safe why is he hurting oh it's me it's me please just smile please, smile, smile or I'm going to cry.

"...Why didn't you tell me?"

The faint pressure behind your eyes was now the force of a thousand armies, and your jaw was so set that it was amazing you hadn't broken your own tooth from the exertion, and your hands were shaking worse than when you'd encountered your Boggart, because this was fear, this was true and genuine fear. "I'm sorry." The two words were choked.

"[Y/n] - I thought that -"

"I thought that it was better," you murmured, "better if you didn't - know. Didn't get caught up in all this." But I was stupid, so stupid, how could I not have seen it coming, you're my best friend and you know me and how did I not see this coming. "J-just because I thought that the stuff a-at school, that's enough problems, already, but...I..."

"You should've said something."

The placated reply was not what you'd been expecting.

You blinked the tears back, refocusing your vision once more on Dean's face. Again you were melt with sympathy, but...there was something else there, too. You couldn't quite place it, but it was something warmer. "I know. I'm sorry, Dean, I'm so sorry, I didn't want any of this to happen..."

Dean suddenly had one of your hands in his. "[Y/n]. You don't have to apologize. I was just thinking that if I'd known, then maybe I could've helped you."

"You have." Your voice was on the brink of breaking. "You have, so, so much, Dean. So much more than you know. I love you."

At this point it didn't matter what slipped, because you had no secrets anymore, it was all out on the table; your closed cover had been opened and now every page of your book was being read aloud to an overly-attentive audience.

"That's why I wanted you to tell me," he whispered, "because I care about you. I love you, too, [y/n]."

You were scared to meet his gaze again. You didn't want that mournful frown, the scrunched eyebrows, the pools of concern melding into his chocolate eyes. But you looked up.

And there, like a single light among the darkened world, smiled Dean.

You threw your arms around him. The thin table proved an ineffective barrier, and you managed to hold him tightly just around his shoulders, and that grin, so truthful and hopeful and caring, was the best bug you'd ever caught, and that only made you squeeze him tighter. "Thank you. So much. For being my friend. For this." Your voice was nearly inaudible. By now the pressure of sorrow in your voice had been pushed back, replaced with the strain of pure, untainted joy, relief in a world where there was previously none to be found.

He returned the embrace, and you were a hugging mess, completely alone together in the empty room filled only with love and healing hearts.

Reluctantly, you broke away first, your face burning as red as a light at holidays, but you no longer cared. You swiftly took Dean's teacup off his plate and nearly dropped it as soon as you saw the pattern that the leaves had arranged themselves into.

Dean's look changed into something of mild concern. "[Y/n]? What's wrong?"

The butterflies in your stomach had flooded your heart and mind, and you smiled, so widely and honestly and wholeheartedly that it felt like the first time in forever, and you couldn't hold a small appreciative giggle back as you turned the cup to face him.

Almost immediately upon sight of it, his face was flooded with redness, too, and he let out a somewhat embarrassed chuckle, which you contributed to, until it was just sheer laughter, small and quiet but special and shared between only those who'd seen what you had.

A small heart lay at the bottom of his cup.

______________________________________________

Dean is such a precious person, he deserves so much more love than I see him getting. I was super excited to write this, and thank you so much for requesting it! I had a fun time planning this out; I'm so sorry about the wait for it, though.

I hope you enjoyed, nonetheless!

With love,

- Petri ♥