Abby's halo bobbed in the air as she walked down the pavement, wings fluttering in the breeze. She wore her white coat backward, over her arms, looking a bit like an asylum escapee. The giggling and the stumbling around did not help that image. But at least she wasn't alone! Roger the zombie stumbled alongside her in shredded clothes, his hair more a mess than usual and his face marred by a red gash, where a worm had been enchanted to crawl charmingly out of his cheek.

Oh, Halloween. After the two teenagers had spent the night drinking and clubbing, Abby had invited Roger on a walking tour of her neighborhood. They'd trekked along the Thames, past the parks, and peered in the windows of the shops on Church street, taking the bus places when they got tired. Somewhere along the way she'd tucked her high heels into her magical purse of holding and donned her gym shoes, following the logic that it would be more fun to lean on Roger because she was tipsy, not dying from blisters.

"And this is where all the fun stops," she announced as they rounded the block where she lived. Her house was at the end of the street, so they had a ways to go yet, especially if they were half-walking, half-stumbling (Roger could blame zombie syndrome but she knew better).

"Pick a house, any house!" Abby gestured widely at the rows of Victorian houses. "I bet I can tell you all about it until your ears bleed. Well, more than they are already with that red gooey makeup stuff."

The people in her neighborhood were the only people she knew who put up tasteful Halloween decorations. Acorn garlands hung from tree to tree, and at least one family had woven intricate webs around their garden trellises. It was definitely a calmer and more serene part of outer London, filled with families, couples, and one witch, a squib, and a crup.

The farther ye got from central London, the more of the lights ye could see. It were like Christmas come early. Under the haze of weak ale and the shadow of the city, Roger Lemon thought that life looked t'be a beautiful beautiful thing. Not t'mention the company weren't so bad either.

He liked being 'round Abby, she laughed easy and had none of them worried looks the squib got from some've his older mates. So when she asked if he wanted t'take a gander of her fancy neighbourhood, there was nothin' to think over. They lumbered into the area like any pair o'tipsy youths- Roger had zipped up his hoodie over the tattered clothes. There was a bloody chill in the air and he wanted t'look at least a li'l decent next to the more ornate of 'em.

His feet came to a shuffling stop as Abby introduced the homes. Soddin' hell. Sure looked a lot fancier than any place he'd ever think 'bout setting up camp. "Pick a house, any house!" she exclaimed energetically and he laughed drunkenly; the worm crawling out of his cheek danced to the rhythm of his shaking jaw.

"Aye, why the fuck not?" Roger dug his hands into his pockets, peering at the houses with unfocused eyes. They all looked the same to 'im in his state. "Lessee... how 'bout... that pretty li'l thing?" He pointed vaguely at the smallest structure in sight, squinting. "Wot was it they like t'say? Good stuff in small boxes?"

They said it 'bout people too. Small people, great things. Kinda like li'l Abby or tiny Raine or even his li'l Lemon sisters.

"Is that how it goes?" Abby laughed, not able to remember the phrase at the moment. She was glad that he was game, though. He never seemed to mind when she wanted to be silly, or talkative, or adventurous, all of which happened often.

"Miss Webb lives there," She tugged on his arm and paused in front of the teal house with the dark plum door. Patterned curtains had been drawn over the windows, masking the lights inside, and a butterfly wind chime announced the breeze.

"She's about eighty - you know, somewhere around the old age. And she has three cats - each named after a character in some muggle show called I Love Lucy. And she's got a dog. A pug named Bruiser." Abby appreciated the irony.

"She has grandchildren that visit sometimes. I dunno why there's not a Mister. She used to work at the Squires Garden Centre, but now she's retired."

"As for the really interesting stuff, I'm fairly certain she's got a love affair going on with Mr. Crotchety - I mean Mr. Cooper, ha, who lives right next door to us," she pointed over her head toward the end of the street. "He always mysteriously appears when she's walking the pug to talk about their flower gardens and trade tips."

Abby glanced at Roger with a grin, "Anyone else?"

Bloody hell, Abby could've run the Witch Weekly by her own wee self if she wanted to. Roger was well impressed by her intel. He weren't even sure who lived 'cross the way from his own flat in Camden Town.

"Ye really got yer neighbours down," he laughed once, then hiccuped. "Ain't nuffin like where I used t'live. Grew up on a farm, all we had were the soddin' cows and meat-eatin' slugs." The slugs weren't so bad once ye got used t'not tryin' to pick up the slimy bastirts.

Roger pulled his head outta that image, refocusing his eyes on Abby and then on the houses they were slowly walkin' by now. A lotta boring boxes if ye asked his honest opinion but that were the way of the world, aye? Different strokes f'different folks and all ye had to do was turn the other fuckin' cheek. "Anyone else?" the blonde quin asked and he glanced at Mr.Cooper's fancy box. Then at the house next to it, the one that weren't the Reid's.

"Aye, how 'bout the poor fam that live next to ol' man Crotchety?" Roger grinned at Abby, winking. "Ye got any dirt on them too?"

Abby returned Roger's wink with playfully narrowed eyes. "Oh, them? You don't want to hear about them. Bor-ing," she waved her hand.

"The family across from us is moving," she pointed, not meaning to change the subject, but just easily distracted. "Bloke got a job out in the country. Maybe he'll meet your cows and slugs," she teased. Abby would have to grill Roger sometime about the farm. She had a rather romanticized view of what living on a farm meant; lots of pretty sunsets and trees to swing from and open roads to drive on.

She tilted her head at her house as they walked toward it. She now thought of it as hers, and the room that Aileen had once called ' the guest room' had been fully Abby-fied. Though she was seventeen, Abby was in no rush to leave. Part of her was still waiting for something, maybe had been since she'd turned eleven, something exciting and defining that would tell her this was it, her life was on track and she was an adult. The Ministry internship had helped give her a sense of that. But not completely.

As those thoughts ran through her head, Abby had fallen oddly quiet. She turned to Roger with a grin.

"Watch this."

Abby crept up to the front window of her house, put her face up to the glass, and tapped it once. Twice.

Yap yap yap yap! Her crup leapt up to the window, licking the glass, then bounding away and turning in a circle, and jumping up on the glass again. Abby stumbled back, laughing. She did a little dance in front of the window, making the dog more excited.

Then, of course, the famous neighbor of Strawberry Hill turned the light on his porch and opened his door, frowning at the commotion.

"Hi Mr. Crotchety!" Abby realized what she said and clapped a hand over her mouth, overcome by giggles.

The frown etched deeper on his face. "Do you realize what time it is?"

"Halloween! Candy time!"

He tapped his wrist, and seemed to notice Roger. The old man drew himself up in his bathrobe and pj's.

"He's totally cool!" Abby reassured Crotchety, flitting toward the boy and pulling the hood of his hoodie down to cover the worm in his cheek. The last thing either of them needed was Muggle news reporting a zombie infestation. She looked up at Roger and winked, rocking forward on her tiptoes as if she were about to give him a big smooch.

Crotchety cleared his throat, but remained in his doorway.

"You know," she glanced at the old man, "The lights are still on at Miss Webb's. You should go over there with a caramel apple, say hi and-"

The door slammed and the porch light went out.

Abby let go of Roger's hood, clearly enjoying herself. "Wanna keep wandering or go inside?"

A crup!

It weren't easy t'keep the grin off of his face when Abby started dancing for the dog like the luvly li'l lunatic she was. Roger's shoulders shook with laughter as he folded his arms across his chest, trying t'contain the sound. Merlin's bloody beard; nights don't get much weirder than this.

"Ye got moves, lass!" he exclaimed as the crup cheered on his owner. His eyes tried not t'crawl down to her hips as she did this, savin' whate'er gentlemanly graces he'd gotten kicked into him by his da. Mr. Crotchety saved him the effort, distracting them from the pet.

Roger was nothing but a set of laughing teeth with the hood pulled over him, too drunk t'worry 'bout his wormy face being spotted or the muggle man's grumpy nature. That's what ye get in these boxes, nuffin' but old people who didn't know how t'have fun. Well... almost nothing. His drunken graze slid over t'Abby as she asked 'bout whether he wanted t'come in.

It was pretty fuckin' cold outside.

"Aye," Roger nodded more enthusiastically than he meant to: "That'd be a fine idea. Freezin' off me.. ah, hands out 'ere." His lips twitched into a rueful smile. The ale kept him warm but even then, ye can't avoid the autumn.

As Abby led him away from the window to the front door, he peered over at the neighbour's porch curiously. "Does ol' Crotchety report to ye sister?" The older Reid might 'ave her spies 'round the place. Not that Roger was gonna do something improper or summat, but he didn't want no professor with a grudge 'gainst him.

Abby always laughed when Roger attempted to contain his swearing and crude phrases, and now was no exception. She was glad that he seemed just as entertained by her antics, though the after affects of ale probably helped.

"Nope," she shook her head and smiled as she fished in her jacket for the house key. "That would involve her actually speaking to the neighbors."

She slipped the key in and turned it. "See, I'm the angel around the neighborhood because I'm chatty," she wiggled her shoulders, making her wings flutter. "And she's just the batty lady who gets owls and weird men hanging around sometimes."

Abby walked inside, then held a hand up to stop Roger in the doorway. "Hello, house!" Her voice echoed in the foyer. "It's me! And I brought a friend! No, I'm not under duress! So let him in without giving him dragonpox, ok?"

An invisible weight lifted away from the door, and she gestured him inside. "It's like you're a vampire instead of a zombie," she teased. Actually, the Abby-activated alarm had been in place ever since the Runespoor-in-the-house incident.

The crup jumped on Roger's legs and bounced around the teenager, looking for attention.

"Don't worry. Aileen's at some stuffy party so she's not here to annoy us. As long as you don't sit on the couches," she gestured at the pristine white fabric, "Then she'll have nothing to lecture me about."

She led him through the living room and into the more casual kitchen area, where she picked out two mugs and set them on the counter.

"Do you want any cider?"

Chatty li'l Angel. Roger's rottin' zombie teeth flashed as he thought've this. Maybe that's wot all 'em angels were doing up high anyways. Gossiping 'bout wot a fucking mess it was down 'ere.

He had waited patiently at the doorstep when Abby held up a hand. It weren't unexpected, he'd been to some pretty bloody weird houses with entrance rituals. Didn't like the idea of doing jumping jacks for a buildin' but the Reid residence didn't seem none so bad 'bout letting him in.

"Why thank ye, House..." Roger stepped past the threshold with an unsurprising lack of grace, hiccuping when the door closed behind him. He grinned at the vampire bit. "Aye but vamps 'ave to deal with blood, lass. I get t'play with human flesh." The squib winked jokingly before bending over t'greet the impish li'l crup that had come up.

He had a way with animals, like most all Lemons did, and scratched intuitively at the creatures snout while it followed them into the kitchen. Roger didn't much care for 'ow a home looked like but he could see it were a nice sort've place. Abby was a lucky squib, in 'er own way; she prolly deserved it. She were a lot nicer than a lot've quins.

"Cider, aye, that's fine. Nice of ye t'offer," he leaned forward 'gainst the counter, looking over at the blonde girl. "Ye 'ave a pretty home here. I've only ever been in a coupla proper homes. We keep a simple set-up back on me farm."

Abby snorted out a laugh at Roger's comment about human flesh, unable to figure out if he'd meant to sound silly and flirty or if it was just Roger being silly and drunk.

"Well, thanks," she smiled as she poured the cider into a pot and started heating it on the stove. "Sorry I don't have any braaaaains available. Just cider."

Abby sat on the counter, kicking her shoes off and then telling the crup no when it bounded after her sneakers.

“Oh, you have to tell me about the animals and stuff on the farm! Did you do any cow tipping? I heard about that,” Abby looked far too excited about that prospect.

“You grew up with two little sisters, right?” She kept going before he had the chance to answer her last question.  “I would say that little sisters are the best, but you know I'm lying,” she stuck her index fingers up by her halo to make them look like horns.

When the cider was ready, she slid one full mug over to him and opened up the cabinets, on a search for cinnamon sticks.

The scent of cider was warm and homey- it had only a tinge of the alcoholic taint that had coloured the rest of their evening.  Made him almost miss his fam. Roger turned around and rested sideways 'gainst the counter t'face Abby, watching the lass as she pulled herself up. His lips twitched into a grin at 'er battering questions.

"Ye city folk 'ave funny ideas..." he tried t'picture tipping o'er a cow. Would need 'least two blokes if they didn't spook the bloody cows. "We don't keep 'erds, anyhow. Got us some ponies, newts, a coupla Blast-Ended Skrewts. Nearly took off me fucking head, those things." The squib scratched his chin gingerly at the memory but laughed at makeshift horns on Abby's halo. She weren't no devil though, not with that laugh.

A mug was slid towards him but he didn't touch it, just leaned closer and let the heat warm his face. It were like Christmas time, he thought. Be'er times. Roger glanced o'er his shoulder.

"They're four'n six years younger, me sisters. I 'aven't been 'round them much..." he shrugged, turning back to his mug. Sometimes he missed Angie and Gertie. "Nice li'l ones, love 'em to bits, but I used t'mix with kids me age, ye know."

“You can keep the blast-ended-skrewts. I’ll take the ponies,” she grinned, giving up on her search for cinnamon sticks and instead resorting to sprinkling cinnamon on top of the cider. Abby left the jar on the counter in case he wanted some.

She could see him cursing at and hopping around the skrewts, actually. This didn’t diminish her romanticized view of farms.

Abby sat next to him, listening to him talk about his younger sisters. She could understand feeling a bit distant because of age differences… Merlin knew Aileen passed as her parental figure quite easily.

“Really?” Abby eyebrows shot up. It escaped her notice that he used the past tense. To Abby, Roger had just sprung up out of the earth (or the floorboards of a pub) and become her friend. Sure, he probably knew blokes who liked to drink and swear, and they both knew Jacoba, but she hadn’t really thought that he might know Hogwarts kids like she did. Worlds colliding! This was a good thing!

“Anyone I know? You’ve not met Sasha. Yet,” she assumed. She talked about him so frequently he would have mentioned it.

“Let’s see,” Abby rambled on. “Neely? Raine? Naomi? I met a whole bunch of people on that Egypt trip.”

Somehow, she couldn’t imagine Roger spending time with the girls she had listed. Though she was friends with all three, she hadn’t gotten around to mentioning them by name before, and had just told him stories about surfing with the girls and rooming with the girls and causing mischief with the girls.

It were all too easy t'picture Abby with a pony. She'd bloody squeal if she got a gander've the Shetland ponies they kept back in Oxfordshire. Cute, smelly li'l basterds.

Roger finally held his cider up and kept the mug close t'his chest. Nice'n toasty. He moved to lean'gainst his back as she joined him on the same side've the counter, chatterin' away about the magic folk she'd gone met durin' her time in Egypt. Fuckin' hell. Every now and again, it always hit him that the world were a lot bigger than London or Glasgow o'the country.

Bigger than his li'l corner of life. Desserts and pyramids and wha'ever. As if he didn't already feel like a speck've nothing on somebody else's sto-- he frowned, belatedly. Wot?

"Did ye say Raine?" The name had flown by like all the others Abby threw 'round but Roger caught it before she could change to subject again, the way she did. "Raine Almasy, aye?" His eyes were bright now, fightin' past the drunken glaze of their night. He set down the mug wi'out sipping.

Picturin' Abby with Raine was a harder feat than with the soddin' ponies.

"Red 'air, freckles, smiles like it 'urts?"

Abby glanced at Roger in surprise when he set the mug down and focused on her intently (as intent as his drunken state would allow). She noticed, but continued chattering, assuming that he was happy about the shared connection.

"Yeah!" Abby’s expression brightened.

Though if Raine smiled like that, she hadn't seen it yet.

"She's cool, isn't she? I roomed with her during the trip. We got lost in the market in Cairo, too. We had to run away from a cranky shopkeeper but we found our way back to the hotel eventually," she giggled.

Abby glanced down at her outfit. "And tonight at Hogwarts she's going as a devil. So appropriate!"

Her plan, if she’d been able to go, was to make Sasha dress up as some emo fallen angel so that all of three of them could match.

She glanced at him curiously, wondering how well he knew Raine.

Roomin' with Abby? Roger blinked, confusedly, realizing that his imagination 'ad some pretty pathetic limits. They were like oil'n water, the two quins. Raine didn't much tolerate chattiness, much less the bloody tornado the squib next t'him could be once she got going.

But he tried not t'let on his surprise and just blinked, lips twitching into a hesitant smile as he listened. Devil, that he could imagine easy. Proper one too he bet- a good galleon to the bloke who'd dare find her horns under that mess've curls.

"Sounds like me Raine," even if she weren't really his no more or even at'll before. Roger felt his ears blush and he finally looked away from Abby t'pick up his drink. Half've the cider went down in one gulp; warm and comforting. "Right devil," he set down the mug with a less nervy expression. "Even when she were li'l, ye know. Prolly tried to take me head off more times than the fuckin' Skrewts."

Was he ramblin'? Sod it, he was ramblin'. Ale getting to his 'ead at last maybe. He glanced down at his zombie hands distractedly and tried t'spit out somethin' different.

"So 'ow did ye two get along?" Old trick, the obvious sort: tryin' t'move the talkin' back to Abby.

His Raine. That blush. The way he smiled and downed the cider. Raine had been to the farm! That little tidbit stuck in Abby’s mind as a slow, excited grin spread across her face, warring with the conflicted emotions in her head.

From the little she’d heard just now, Roger talked about her like she’d been a bit more than an old friend. Why had Raine not mentioned this! Why had Abby not mentioned Roger to her yet? How frustrating, that lost time.

“Sounds like her!” Abby nodded when he mentioned the skrewts, and was unable to resist answering his question.

“We get along well. I talk a lot, she listens a lot. She’s the responsible one, I’m the one who gets us in trouble, mostly,” she shrugged. Nothing too surprising. “She came to my birthday earlier this month. The big one seven!”

Abby took a sip of cider, studying Roger over the rim of the mug. Once she was onto something, Merlin help anyone who tried to divert her.

“Soooo,” she raised her eyebrows. “How did you meet?”