Disclaimer: Story based on characters and plot owned by J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

A/N: Story written in response to a challenge on potterficforum; the characters assigned were Hannah Abbot and Lee Jordan.

River Run

by Perspicacity

Floo flames sigh as a dark-skinned man limps out into cold shadow. He is heavy-set, with stocky shoulders, full cheeks, and a modest paunch. He runs a hand through thinning, black hair peppered with white at the temples and scratches at an unshaved face creased with a habitual scowl. He pats the ashes off his linen cloak and slides it from his shoulders. Beneath is muggle attire, clean, but shabby.

He folds his cloak over twice, balling it under his arm, and glances about the pub. War was hard on the Leaky Cauldron, but peace was harder--forgotten, with the new passway from muggle to magical, she’s an awkward asterisk in a history rapidly becoming hagiography. Her furniture, once proud, if simple, is battered and sad. The air carries the stale taint of spilled butterbeer and dampened spirits. Old Tom’s mark has faded with his passing, as has the character and magic the place once held.

“Last call was twenty minutes ago,” a female voice mutters from the floor near the bar. The pale woman is bent over, scrubbing muggle-style at something sticking to the wooden slats. She scrapes at the stain, giving her visitor a view of wide, rocking hips. Her robes, coarse brown cloth, do little to flatter her plump figure, though her ample breasts jiggle visibly beneath their folds. The corners of the man’s thick lips curl upward as she stands, annoyed, and turns toward her visitor. Her freckled cheeks flush and her light brown hair, bobbed at the shoulder and streaked with grey, sticks to a neck slick with perspiration.

She drops the stained, terrycloth towel as her grey eyes catch those of her visitor. “River? Is it you?”

“Aye, but no one’s called me that in years.” He flashes her a genuine smile, teeth gleaming in the darkness. Lockhart whites. It fades like a glamour, his face not used to holding the expression.

“How long’s it been, Lee? Six years?” she asks, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She grabs the edge of the bar with the other and sits back heavily onto a stool. It rocks a couple times before she gets situated, its base untrue.

“Seven.” He takes his wand from the breast pocket of his tweed jacket and looks at her warily. “You’re not going to fire-call Harry again, are you?”

“Tosh, no! Things ain’t what they were--Potter can keep his friends for all the good it does him. Most just want a piece of the old glory,” she says bitterly. She juts out her lower jaw and blows, fluttering her bangs. “I’ve had enough of those times, don’t need a reminder.”

“So how’ve you been, Hannah? You’re looking well….”

“Liar,” she snorts, then sighs. “Honestly? I’ve been better. You?”

“The same. Been in the muggle world, you know.” He maunders to a chair near the bar and flops into it. He uses his hands to raise his right leg, the lame one, and the heel of his square-toed boot clops onto the table.

“I just wiped that down, you prat,” she says with an affected smile, grabbing the towel from the floor and tossing it at him. He snatches it before it hits him and places it under his boot. “What brought you here? Thought you had a lady friend out there,” she says, gesturing toward the entrance, now boarded up, that used to open to the muggle world.

“I did, but it didn’t last.” He pauses. “They never do, not when I have to keep secrets like I do.” He looks down at his wand, twirling it slowly in his fingers. “I’m not sure I belong anywhere, really. Hell, I don’t even know if I could come back here if I wanted. I haven’t done magic in so long, I’ve probably forgotten it all.”

Hannah shrugs. “Not much to it, really. It’d come to you soon enough.” She flicks her wand and a bottle of brown liquor and a pair of tumblers float toward her.

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure if it’s possible--think they’d still press charges?”

Hannah shrugs and pours a couple of measures into each. She downs half of hers in a large gulp and hands Lee a glass. He takes it from her, his fingertip brushing hers, and he raises an eyebrow. She slides into the seat next to him.

“Think your husband would be willing to call off the dogs and let me be?”

She looks at his ruined leg, atrophied beneath his woolen trouser. They share unspoken memories of the violent end to Lee’s time in the magical world and the memento that Harry Potter had left his one-time friend.

She shrugs. “Nev doesn’t come around here much anymore, now that the kids are grown. You could stay a year and I doubt he’d notice.” Her voice has an edge to it--sadness of wasted youth.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, though his eyes brighten. Hannah allows herself a sly smile, one that reminds Lee of the pretty girl he fell for so many years before, the loyal friend who abetted his planting nifflers in a teacher’s office, the lover he lost in the aftermath of Victory Day, when Neville Longbottom found his courage and proposed to the woman his Gran had picked for him.

“Nev’s always cared more about plants than people. Touched, he is. And, well…” As she talks, Lee fixes her with a mischievous smirk, his lips curling in the way that used to drive her mad. Her eyes widen. She leans closer, her breath warm on his face. “I think he’s partial to the other side--would rather plant his root in manure, if you catch my meaning.”

Lee nods slightly, leaning closer to the woman. “You think I could get a room for the night? Start fresh?”

She puts her hand on the back of his neck. “I think we could arrange that.”