Maybe they'll leave you alone, but not me

She was in a rare good mood.

She’d had another letter from her little cousin, full of hopes and good tidings from school, with zero mentions of any horrible mum shenanigans. She’d spotted an impassioned letter to the editor in the Prophet demanding that the government recognize the rising tide of anti-muggle rhetoric, validating what she’d been saying for a year. And she’d beat a record on her early morning flight.

But really, it was this finger-licking bag of mini meat pies she’d bought at a steal. Mother of Merlin, they were good.

It was one of those odd nights in Hogsmeade where everyone seemed happy. Folks had gotten a buzz from their Butterbeers, or smuggled in Firewhiskey, and were running rampant through the village. The villagers and shopkeeps would mind if it weren’t for the sales the impulsive teens brought with them, so it was something like a less messed-up Pleasure Island from Pinnochio.

She kept strolling, fishing out another meat pie as the din of noise began to subside. She always liked to spend some time at the Shrieking Shack, peering into the darkness in an attempt to discern its secrets.

But before she could get there, something caught her eye. She stopped in her tracks and backed up, finding herself standing next to one of the windows of the Hog’s Head. There, right next to the window, was Matthew Lestrange. He hadn’t noticed her. Honestly, he looked lost as he stared into his drink.

And wouldn’t ya know it, he looked lonely.

She slapped her hand heavily against the window, startling more than just a few patrons as she pressed her face against the pane. “Hey!”

Nobody went to the Hog's Head.

Matt went to the Hog's Head.

On more than one occasion this term he'd found himself staring into the bottom of a very illegally served firewhisky. This had been his second of the day and still the grizzled barman had not asked him how old he was. The dreamer in him would have loved to think that it was because he looked older than he was. But, the stingy pub's reputation preceded itself and he was not the only student paying the place a visit so that dream was quickly snuffed out.

He sighed, heavily and took his final sip before he turned just as Jack Dyllan banged on the window. Not exactly the face he expected to see but a face he knew he could tolerate for extended periods of time. He felt the tips of his mouth naturally curl into the beginnings of a smile and gestured to the chair opposite him at the table he was at. Solitude was rare at the castle but he was feeling, or rather the firewhisky was feeling, that maybe he could do with some company.

There were few Slytherins that gave him much attention anymore, even fewer Gryffindors. Jack was one of a kind, in several ways, but the way that mattered to Matt most was that she didn't immediately stick her nose up at him. That usually came after she beat him at something or he was maybe just a little too much of a jerk. Of course he had found some companionship within the Ravenclaws who were smart enough to get to know him. And he knew a true Hufflepuff wouldn't deny him a chance to show his true colours - whatever those were these days.

As she sat down in front of him he knew that eventually, he would regret this interruption to his solitude, but for now - the firewhisky wanted company.

"How goes the day comrade?" he asked her.

The slow turn rather than a flinch told her everything she needed to know–ahhh, so he was getting his buzz on. Her smirk melted into something more of a devilish grin and she slinked inside.

Another double take and she noticed the empty glass on his table. She was more of a smoker than a drinker but the good mood and the manic energy was whispering catch up, catch up so she veered towards the bar first. A shot was downed first to keep her warm on the long ten steps to Matt’s table, and before she grabbed a Firewhiskey of her own. It was reckless to spend the little she owned on booze, especially after the meat pie splurge, but Jack wasn’t exactly known for being prudent. If it didn’t have to do with Quidditch, responsibility was a four-letter word.

She slipped into the chair across from him and unceremoniously dropped the bag of mini meat pies in front of him.

“I bring before you the most delicious bite you’ve ever had.”

"You buy your own drinks and you bring me food?" he gasped at her as the pies hit the table. "You're the perfect date Jack Dyllan. If I didn't know you I'd wonder why you're single"

One of the things he enjoyed about his relationship with Jack was he was never quite sure where that relationship stood. There was a fun spontaneity that came with every interaction the pair of them shared. Would there be an explosive shouting match, will wands be drawn, or would they share a pie and a pint and prattle on about the potions exam? But, even now he could tell she came in good faith and so he should, at the very least, provide some banter.

"You hurry with that one and that gives me an excuse to go buy myself another alongside your next" he gestured to the mug in front of them.

Jack heaved a sigh. “Right? I’ve been told folks don’t like ‘homicidal energy’ on the first date so it’s gonna be a long lonely life.” A wolfish grin flashed before she took another sip.

Never one to consider manners, she reached for a pie and tore into it, eyes rolling in a barely exaggerated display of her admiration.

“Careful,” she said with mouth still full, before swallowing the bite down. “That almost sounds like a chug challenge.”

The silence was affirmation enough, a twitch in his eye, a narrowing in hers. The mugs were immediately raised and she chugged as fast as she could, but he’d been nursing his drink well before she arrived.

She finished in a respectable seventh, wincing as she wiped the drink from her lips, and croaked out, “Winner buys. Go on.”

There had barely been a moment to acknowledge what had happened before Jack slammed her mug down on the table. A chug challenge? What an incredibly childish and impulsive challenge, so very typical of the great Jack Dyllan who sat in front of him. But he had a reputation to uphold, the last name Lestrange came with a certain number of expectations.

"Rematch."

He picked up both of their mugs and waltzed over to the counter. He tossed his money onto the bar and the barman gave him an incredulous look. His smile faded and he tossed another galleon on the bar top at which point he refilled the cups in front of him. "I thank you my good fellow. Don't think I haven't noticed your blind eye this term. There's more where that came from as long as this little 'situation' keeps going" he said as he winked at the man and turned around before he good see the reaction.

Now, they faced a slight logistical problem because they had to somehow still walk back to the castle and into their respective common rooms without anyone finding out how sloshed they were about to become. He was already 2 firewhisky's deep and he was about to chug a third. Now Matt was mostly looking forward to having one of those delicious pies as a participation trophy.

He sat back down and placed the mug in front of her and held it up for cheers, "We go on cheers." he told her.

Thank god he was buying, she was over budget. And by over budget she meant that she no longer had any coins on her–because she didn’t budget. She really needed to get on that. You couldn’t be bad with money and poor. It was a bad combination.

She finished off the pie while she waited, head empty, no thoughts. It was better to just sit in a moment than really consider it. Why ruin the moment by remembering the fight that had kicked off the year between them? Why ruminate on Matt asking why she had dyed her hair and how so over-the-top her reaction had been? Why reflect on that almost-peaceful moment on the grounds where Matt had made some mention of having no one to talk to, her cheeky response that he kept fighting them in detention?

It was better to just eat a pie and wait for a drink.

He placed the drink in front of her and she nudged the bag of pies his way as a way of thanks before curling her fingers around the mug handle.

“Right-o,” she said, quirking a brow and lifting the mug towards him. “Cheers!”

As teenagers often do, Matt had severely underestimated how good a third firewhisky would take. If it had been his first, perhaps things would have gone a little differently - but it was his third.

As they both lifted their mugs to their mouths he realized that, despite his presumptions about what activities Jack got up to, she was going to win this. Matt had not anticipated the natural reaction his body would have to a third firewhisky in the span of half an hour. A seasoned veteran to the spirit would have had no problem but no, for he was merely seventeen and doomed with an underdeveloped brain. His throat seemed to close as the liquid hit his mouth and he managed to force down about 2 medium gulps before he hiccupped and had to bow out.

"Ack!" he coughed.

He let the mug hit the table harder than he had anticipated and watched as Jack drank as quick as she could to catch up with him. Perhaps this was the evening that Jack Dyllan and Matt Lestrange got drunk and climbed the Whomping Willow.

"That would have maybe gone better two firewhisky's ago" he grunted as he reached for a pie to wash it down. He took a bite and had to admit, they were pretty damn good - then again maybe that was also the firewhisky. He stared down blankly into his mug, beaten again but not really that upset.

"I'm more of a smoker anyway." he grumbled with a half smile.

Jack’s discipline did not extend far outside the scope of Quidditch, but it meant that she was just below average on the usual teen intake for alcohol. She liked her early morning rides and a hangover was not exactly conducive to training. She also didn’t have the luxury of being the first invite to many parties, but on the rare occasion contraband was smuggled into the Gryffindor common room, she’d imbibe. Especially after a game win. And especially, especially after a loss.

So it was with mild surprise that she won, but the second she heard Matt bow out her stubborn nature kicked in and, with eyes burning, she gulped down three more giant swallows of the burning booze.

She set the mug down with a clatter, her face way too smug for someone who won basically because the other person was already halfway to sloshed. “Give it up, Lestrange, I will forever reign. Master of fist fights and Firewhiskey, I’m a Bacchus-Athena.”

Damn, look at her remembering the greek gods. Could she be a good student if she tried?

The smoking admission surprised her. To be fair, the drinking alone did too, but it also fit his somewhat morose tragic thing he had going for him. She couldn’t imagine him actually relaxing. She supposed the same could be said for her though.

“You get Baker’s stuff? It’s good, right?”

The realize hit him very suddenly that he had given away another vital piece of his backstory to her for free. That was not within his nature and -hic- needed to be justified -hic- to restore the balance between them. Then again, perhaps this was the natural progression between individuals of a lonely nature - we are more open to company from anyone. And sharing didn't -hic- feel quite -hic- so bad as he had initially -hic- thought.

He took another bite of pie considering the words she said wisely. He didn't know about Baker's stuff. He had a hookup with one of the Hufflepuff beaters, Midgens or something, he couldn't remember. He just knew that they provided quality goods at incredibly prices. He took another bite of pie and then held the remains of the pie in his hand as he pointed at her and spoke through a mouthful of food.

"I have my own sources." a bit of the pie escaping his mouth.

He swallowed and chuckled, "I don't break my bank for a good trip but I like to dabble when I have the common room to myself - usually during Quidditch." he paused, "That's usually why I'm never there actually. I don't think I've ever actually seen you play in all these years I've been here."