WHO: Baz Snell & Jeremy Dearborn WHAT: Drinking WHEN: 28 August, 2017 WHERE: A gross bar WARNINGS: We didn't kill anyone.
London’s Museum of Quidditch was one of Baz’s favorite places in the world. He pored over letters from the 14th century that described the first Quidditch matches in rich detail. He admired the early ‘Blooder’ prototypes, the ancient Quaffles, the Golden Snidgets flitting about their glass enclosure. Today, there had been a new exhibit focused on the history of the Chudley Cannons, though none of it was new information to him. It was for the best. It would’ve been harder for him to keep his fanaticism in check — for Jeremy’s sake — if he had actually learned something new.
No, he had showed restraint at the museum. Baz was used to dealing with people who were indifferent to Quidditch, and he tried to keep any eager explanations to a minimum. He hadn’t actually wanted Jeremy to fall asleep.
Now, though, they were at a nearby pub, a quiet little place that smelled of stale cigarettes and ale. It wasn’t the most glamorous location, but the food was decent and the drinks were strong. They were sitting in a worn wooden booth, a bag of rock candy splayed out on the table between them. Tapping the side of his glass, Baz flashed Jeremy an enthusiastic grin. “I know that wasn’t your idea of fun, but it couldn’t have been the worst thing you’ve ever done.”
“Nah,” Jeremy replied as he reached for a piece of rock candy, its presence doing a lot to soothe the aftermath of being confronted with so much orange at one time. He knew that by now he’d never get Quidditch — not in the way most people did and definitely not in the way Baz did — but the years of feigning interest meant that he wasn’t always bored out of his mind when confronted with the topic. He’d only yawned a few times!
“Actually, you’ve done it, Baz. I’ve seen the light and now I want to spend the rest of my life documenting Quidditch. Do you suppose they’re hiring?”
Baz let out a loud huff of laughter as he reached for his own piece of candy. He pointed the candy at Jeremy’s chest as he said, “Don’t joke, Jez. I’ll be tempted to have Rosier fired and have you step in as my new co-host.”
Stifling a dumb grin, he took a moment to imagine the Rosier’s reaction to being fired before continuing. “Actually, if you could become a Quidditch expert in the next day, that’d make my life a lot easier.”
“And break up you and Rosier? Wouldn’t dream of it. Besides, I’m very happy with my current job that’s only bound to get more exciting what with the Death Eaters and the dementors running around.” Not that exciting had to be a good thing. In this case it felt a lot like impending doom in the most melodramatic way possible. Shrugging, Jeremy took a drink.
“Besides, my face is too pretty for the wireless.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that. So’s mine, though,” was Baz’s flippant reply. He gave Jeremy an amused look as he reached for his own drink. Death Eaters and dementors were sobering thoughts, though, and the smile slid off his face as he thought about how vital Healers would be in the days to come. Baz sipped at his beer, then propped an elbow up on the somewhat grimy tabletop. Leaning his chin against a propped fist, he sighed.
“I think your job is about to become too exciting, mate.” He started to lean back in the booth, then thought better of it. “I’d rather things be boring and Death Eater-free so people don’t have to, you know, flee the country.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Jeremy said with a roll of his eyes, fingers drumming against his glass. “I feel like this is all something I am not emotionally equipped to handle and also don’t want to be emotionally equipped to handle but also pretending it’s not happening is about as far from practical as it gets. So that leaves us —” A pause. “— somewhere, I guess.”
“I guess, but, impracticality aside, I’m a big fan of pretending it’s not happening.” Baz was only half-joking. His job required a position of neutrality; a faux-cheerful ‘everything is fine’ was the WWN’s new mantra. He took a swig of his beer before continuing, in a low voice, “Pretending everything is fine makes it a lot easier to pretend my parents are just, you know, going on a trip. Or, I don’t know, that we won’t be killed if we don’t toe the line and do whatever the DEs in charge say.”
Jeremy was a little too familiar with the notion of being killed for not listening to the Death Eaters to think he could really pretend that wasn’t a thing for very long, but that was a topic he wasn’t really in the mood to explore. “Are they leaving then?” he asked, leaning forward. It wasn’t a bad idea. “Owen said Zef was considering it but I don’t know if they’ve decided anything yet.”
“Yeah, they’re going to Rio as soon as possible. I think they’re aiming for the 29th,” he replied, brows knitting together as an uncharacteristically solemn expression passed over his face. “And yeah, he told me that too.” He paused long enough to polish off the rest of his beer before adding, “It’s complete bullshit. And I hate feeling like there’s nothing I can do.”
“So do I.” Jeremy punctuated the statement by finishing off his drink and setting it down with a slightly louder than necessary thud. “Or even if there is, not knowing how to go about it. Or if I should. Or…” Trailing off, he shrugged. When it came down to it, there was a lot of uncertainty and Jeremy really hated that.
“At least I can take comfort in knowing that the Cannons will never win again. I learned that today at the museum and everything.”
Baz gave a crooked grin, and there was laughter rolling beneath his words as he said, “Fuck you.” He drained the rest of his own glass, then wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Like I said, this is their year.” He put a hand to his heart as he continued, “I swear on my j—well, no, I don’t swear on my job. But it’s clearly not our year, so it has to be somebody’s, right?”
Jeremy’s head tilted to the side as he considered the words. “That’s a little grim and also seems legit so fair play, Snell. If they win I’ll suck it up and not even complain about how their chosen shade of orange burns my retinas.” With a laugh, he reached over and grabbed another piece of rock candy. “If up is down and left is right, then maybe the Cannons can win the whatever after all. Why the hell not.”
“What’s that, Jez?” Baz leaned forward, propping both elbows on the table, and flashed Jeremy a devious grin. “You say you want a Cannons jumper? And a scarf? And you want to paint your boudoir Cannons-orange? Why, I think I can arrange all that for you.”
Jeremy wrinkled his nose. “Baz. Baz. Do you really want to hurt me? What have I ever done to deserve such a thing?” And then he threw a piece of rock candy at him.
Baz’s instincts kicked in a second too late: he swatted at the rock candy, but it still managed to hit him directly in the jaw. His laughter was half-muffled as he scrubbed a hand against the underside of his chin. Then he gestured to Jeremy theatrically, accusatory and over-the-top. “That was a dirty trick, Dearborn.”
He stared at Jeremy for a beat as his hand slowly crept toward the open bag of rock candy. Then he quickly lobbed a piece toward Jeremy’s chest.
Jeremy was too busy laughing to block the piece that hit his chest, and he watched it as it hit and bounced into his lap. He picked it up a moment later and and popped it into his mouth with a shrug. “Five second rule.”
“At least it didn’t hit the floor,” Baz said, making a face. His exaggerated expression caught the attention of their server, a woman who looked like she may have been half-hag, and raised his glass to signal that they wanted another round. Gesturing to their surroundings, the side of his mouth jerked up into a smile as he continued, “The drinks are good but this place looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since we were first years.”
“I think you’re being generous here, mate,” was Jeremy’s laughing reply. Baz wasn’t wrong though; the drinks definitely made up for it.