It was almost time to go home. If Bethan hadn't looked at the clock, she wouldn't have had any idea, but now that she knew how late it was she was feeling anxious. Time moved differently in the pub – hours long conversations seemed to take minutes, and busy periods lasted only seconds. The blonde barmaid never really knew if her shift was going to feel brutally long or fly by in the blink of an eye, which was what made an otherwise straightforward, repetitive job a little more interesting. The trouble was, Beth was a social creature, and when the final few patrons on a Wednesday night were all the reclusive sort, sitting together at a table at the back of the dining room and nursing the drinks they'd been working on for an hour, things got boring. Boring was okay, but not ideal. Boring meant she had to take care of the repetitive work, like cleaning – but she couldn't switch on the wireless and serenade the bar stools until time was called and all of the patrons had been ushered out. That left her grudgingly charming glasses clean while she leaned on the bar and mentally willed someone interesting to walk through the door.

Her hair was pulled back into a lazy ponytail as she picked up each glass, zapped it mindlessly with a cleaning spell, and then set it aside. She didn't have to do them individually, but she always felt like she accomplished more that way – and when you needed to pass the time, it was a great way to stall. Before long she had a pile of clean glasses in front of her, all of which needed to be put away. Putting away glasses one by one didn't have the same appeal as cleaning them individually, however, so, after looking around to make sure nobody was gawking at her, she levitated the whole lot and attempted to charm them all back into their homes. Precision was never her forte, however – violence was. Her attempt was mostly successful, except for the two glasses which went sailing right into the counter, shattering on contact. “Oh, for the love of...” she exclaimed bitterly as she dropped to her knees and got to fixing them, unaware that she now had company. He would arrive to find the bar seemingly unmanned... but cussing at him.

Numbers. Numbers made sense to Roger Davies, and they always had. He understood them, took comfort in them, and had a slight OCD about numbers falling into easily sortable measures: even numbers, multiples of fives, etc. Because of this slight complex Roger often found he couldn't sleep as he would feel restless if he sleep occurred before a quantifiable amount of time shown on his clock. 10:53 in the evening just felt off, which is why at 10:58 Roger had left his flat in Kilburn and found himself wandering the streets of Hogsmeade in the direction of the Three Broomsticks. One might argue apparating half of the country for a nightcap is a bit excessive, but they clearly do not have a favorite bartender by the name of Bethan Ellis.

The door swung open, the creaking hinges sounding louder than usual. Besides a group of patrons huddled around a table near a shady corner in the back the Broomsticks seemed devoid of all life beyond the sound of bitter mutterings. Walking up to the bar the mutterings grew louder and Roger smirked to himself as he sank down at one of the stools.

"Bethan," He called, pretending he didn't know the phantom voice's source. "You might want to use extra soap when you wash the bar tonight; it seems to be a in a bit of a temper."

“I hate you,” the bar announced grumpily, in Bethan's voice, “I'm not sure who I'm talking to right now, but I hate you.” The glasses repaired, she took them in hand and stood up to her full, but not very impressive, height – it was a wonder she could be seen over the bar even when she wasn't sitting on the ground. Setting the two rogue glasses down on the bar, she sighed, throwing them a distrustful glance, as though the glassware itself had betrayed her trust by breaking. She'd have to clean them all over again. She rolled her eyes. It wasn't like she had anything better to do. Except, well... it seemed she had a patron to serve. She looked up, and when she saw who it was, her face bloomed with recognition, a toothy grin forming on her face.

“Ah, what do you know! It's famous Davies,” she teased brightly, shoving the glasses in front of her aside so she could prop her elbows up properly. “Where's your mates, then?” she asked, looking around, as though his gaggle of quidditch buddies might pop out of the woodwork at any moment. He didn't seem to have a single companion with him, though. “They abandoned you, huh? I'm not surprised. They probably got sick of the multiplication, like,” she snorted faintly. It was very clear that Beth had been starved for company. She hadn't had any entertaining regulars around to lovingly mock for at least twenty minutes now, and Roger was filling a void. 

“What are you drinking tonight?” she asked him – the kitchen was closed, but she'd be pouring for another hour or so. “Whatever it is, I'm warning you now I've got no limes tonight, so you're just going to have to live with that.”

"They haven't yet bought a stepping stool for you yet?" Roger replied coolly, his grin betraying the otherwise dead-pan question, looking over Bethan as she leaned on the bar and then settled onto a stool with a sigh. "My mates... eh, early practice so most of them are asleep or doing... whatever it is they do. As usual, I can't sleep." A sort of defeated smile came to his lips as he shook his head. "So I am here. I haven't seen you in... oh, what is it now? Four days? Highly unacceptable." Indeed, Roger's last visit had been a very rambunctious one with half of the Prides celebrating a win against the Ballycastle Bats.

Pausing for a moment, he sighed and glanced over the display of alcohol. What did he want? Obviously something comforting, but not too heavy. Roger ran his fingers through hair with contemplation, turning matters over in his mind. "Hm, the usual, I suppose." 'The usual' consisted of bourbon or rum, neat, with a spoonful of honey and a dash of cream and nutmeg. Sure, it was a bit of a posh drink, but Roger wouldn't complain if it didn't turn out perfectly.

"Bit of a roaring crowd tonight!" He quipped, glancing back at the small group huddled in the back.

“No booster seat, either,” Bethan retorted with a smirk, choosing to take this particular jab about her height with a grain of salt. There were days when one little comment like his might have sent her over the edge, snarling and snarking with teeth bared, but it really wasn't her biggest concern anymore. “I don't need a step stool anyway, like. If you want your booze, you'll just have to come look for me, all the way down here,” she reminded him, her eyebrows doing a little jump toward her hairline. As long as she was the one slinging the shots, she had the power. She could be two feet tall and they'd still have to show her respect if they wanted their drinks without a little extra saliva for flavor. 

”As usual, I can't sleep. So I am here. I haven't seen you in... oh, what is it now? Four days? Highly unacceptable.”

“Wish I could go to bed right now,” Beth answered him honestly as she held her head up with her hands, grinning at him all the while. “How about you serve the drinks and I'll go back to your flat for a kip? Nobody will notice – least of all me, 'cause I'll be sleeping,” she laughed, straightening up. It probably wasn't the best thing to be saying to a patron while on the job, but if she hadn't been fired for that whole 'stashing a corpse behind the bar while fighting smoke demons' thing then she doubted she was going to be let go for making a comment to a mate while the place was empty. Plus, she'd definitely said worse.

 Once he'd put in his order she went about making his drink, only dragging her feet a little bit. She'd been working all day, since the lunch shift, and the whole 'working' thing was getting old. Unfortunately for Beth, barmaid code technically prevented her from sitting down on the job. Technically. At 11:00 on a slow moving Wednesday, she was inclined to think of it more like a guideline. She just had to finish mixing up his pretentious cocktail first.

”Bit of a roaring crowd tonight!”

“That's a riot coming from you,” she smirked, her back to him, thinking of the rowdy mess the pub had been the last time the Portree side had taken up residence in the dining room. “How's the side looking? Early morning practice helping you any? My side's playing Puddlemere on Saturday, but unless everyone's sleeping but the seekers I'll likely miss more than half of it,” she rambled as she grudgingly wandered around the bar, retrieving the fixings of the drink from where they were scattered, seldom used. “I don't reckon your free that day? I'm only allowed to switch the match on if someone asks for it. I could use a... a whatsit... an accomplice.”

The urge to tease Bethan subsided as Roger looked over her face; she looked a bit on the tired side and despite the good-natured retort a friendly fired return didn't seem appropriate at the moment.

“Wish I could go to bed right now. How about you serve the drinks and I'll go back to your flat for a kip? Nobody will notice – least of all me, 'cause I'll be sleeping,”

“Ah, I see how it is. You’re just using me for my bed.” He said, a playful pout forming on his lips.Roger took immense pride in his bed, and if asked he would half-truthfully describe it as a wonder of the modern world. After months of exhaustive  research, which included lounging on many different mattresses, he picked a bed with enough pillow stuffing to make a cloud jealous, and yet supported his body in all the right places. On top of that he picked out a four-inch memory foam mattress topper, followed by a three inch gel and micro-fiber bed topper. Not to let the base of his bed get all of the glory, the high thread-count cotton sheets colored a deep green ridiculously light, fluffy goose-down comforter tied the whole bed together. To say Roger slept in luxury was an understatement, and  he proudly described his bed as though he were describing his first born child. “I’m not sure if I would be willing to make such a trade." He paused for a moment, considering Bethan. "Why don’t you sit down?” Patting the stool next to him, Roger scooted over slightly despite the fact her tiny frame would not need any more space.

“How's the side looking? Early morning practice helping you any? My side's playing Puddlemere on Saturday, but unless everyone's sleeping but the seekers I'll likely miss more than half of it .I don't reckon your free that day? I'm only allowed to switch the match on if someone asks for it. I could use a... a whatsit... an accomplice.”

Roger watched the path taken to gather up the items for his drink, and shrugged slightly.

“You know my thoughts on early morning practice; I don’t see how flying around at seven in the morning is supposed to help us any more than flying around at three in the afternoon, but I am also not a captain, and our stats are pretty good, so…” Trailing off with another shrug, the physical gesture summed up his feelings. “Let me see… Puddlemere. I don’t think I have anything going on that day, and it would be nice to catch Oliver’s game. I think I can be bothered o get out of bed and join you." He winked.

“Fine, then,” Beth shrugged as Roger decided his bed was too good for her exhausted, minimum wage arse. She was clearly teasing, though, and not truly cross over being denied access to his wonderland of mattress toppers and high quality sheets. The smirk on her lips spoke volumes. “I've got my own bed, isn't it? I'll be there soon enough. I think I'll sleep in a bit, too. I'm not working lunch tomorrow, which is a miracle, if you ask me,” she explained, which seemed to put a touch of giddiness in her step as she set about preparing his drink and rambling on about the upcoming match. She had so much to look forward to all of the sudden – first sticking that lazy bum of hers on a stool, and then curling up in her bed until noon! The first step was getting this drink served.

”You know my thoughts on early morning practice; I don’t see how flying around at seven in the morning is supposed to help us any more than flying around at three in the afternoon, but I am also not a captain, and our stats are pretty good, so…”

“That's what I said about school!” Beth exclaimed, rehashing an old grudge that would probably never die. “I used to be so sick of professors expecting my best work at eight o'clock in the morning! Do they even know how much effort it took to get to class that early? And then I'd get slapped with some ridiculous uniform infraction! Who the hell can find matching shoes at eight o'clock in the morning? Nobody!” she exclaimed, setting his drink down on the counter and slipping around to the patron side of the bar. With a sigh of profound relief she allowed herself to sink down onto the stool next to his. Her knees made a quiet (but definitely audible) popping sound as she sat. She was nineteen years old and already falling apart. It didn't seem to bother her, though.

”Let me see… Puddlemere. I don’t think I have anything going on that day, and it would be nice to catch Oliver’s game. I think I can be bothered to get out of bed and join you.” 

“I'm not working until two in the afternoon, so I reckon you'll have enough time to loaf around in your sheets,” she laughed, resting her head atop her folded arms for a moment. “How's it work, like? You ever get tickets to these things, or do you always have to listen on the wireless like the rest of us?” she asked him curiously. “I haven't been to a match since they invented the cauldron, feels like.”

“I've got my own bed, isn't it? I'll be there soon enough. I think I'll sleep in a bit, too. I'm not working lunch tomorrow, which is a miracle, if you ask me,”

"I'm sorry but between myself and the kneazles there just isn't enough room!" Roger feigned an apologetic tone. "Brynn told me how you hog the bed anyway. I'm sure you understand..." The effort needed to keep a straight face with such a heavy diplomatic tone proved to be too much, and a small snort of amusement escaped from him. He leant on his elbows, watching Bethan prepare the drink, pour liquids, shaking a bit of cinnamon as she eagerly talked about sleeping in and the relaxed posture she was in. This is why, even when he wasn't staying in Portree, the trip to the Three Broomsticks late at night was so worth it. Bethan treated him like an actual person and not someone wrapped up in the public eye. "So how is that sister of yours anyway?" Roger asked in a would-be casual voice. After all, their brief meeting had left him wanting more.

“That's what I said about school! I used to be so sick of professors expecting my best work at eight o'clock in the morning! Do they even know how much effort it took to get to class that early? And then I'd get slapped with some ridiculous uniform infraction! Who the hell can find matching shoes at eight o'clock in the morning? Nobody!”

Roger winced at the popping of Bethan's knees; he knew about joints popping far more than he cared to admit and the side that secretly felt like an older brother to Bethan shone through.

"Careful, you. You don't want to fall apart before you hit twenty, now." He said, giving her knee a slight knock with his own. Removing the drink from the bar with a nod of drinks, Roger took a sip and smiled at the complex and comforting burn. Perfect as always. A soft laugh followed her rant, and he placed the glass back on the bar top, tracing the rim of the glass with his index finger.

"You're preaching to the choir there, Beth. I personally feel as though it should be illegal to rise before noon, but like I said, I am not a captain, nor the Minister and sadly not Supreme-Ruler-of-the-World, so I have no say in this matter." Looking down to his glass, Roger applied more force to the rim of the glass and hoped to find the proper vibration frequency to make a noise. "Give me some more time and when I am as famous as Viktor Krum I'll use my influence to push wake-up times to well beyond noon."

"“I'm not working until two in the afternoon, so I reckon you'll have enough time to loaf around in your sheets,”

With the realization the glass density was too thick to produce a sound, Roger returned his attention back to Bethan.
 
"Well, that is good news, then! I am just about able to crawl out of bed around that hour, so I will be sure to come by sometime before the end of the match. " Of course Roger was joking, knowing full-well the Prides had an early morning practice session scheduled.

“How's it work, like? You ever get tickets to these things, or do you always have to listen on the wireless like the rest of us. I haven't been to a match since they invented the cauldron, feels like.”

Taking another sip of his drink, Roger paused, then placed the glass back down. He felt unusually restless tonight.

"I usually listen at home on the wireless. I understand it is exciting and all, but when you do this every day for... Merlin, fifteen years professionally," the realization caused an uncomfortable pang in the pit of his stomach. "You tend to not have the desire to go as much. There is a certain allotment of tickets set aside for each player, and personal passes for us to use during our own games for family and friends. Of course you need to put in for them ahead of time, especially when it gets to the end of season." Roger paused, then grinned. "Why, you wanting to go to a game?"

When Roger made that remark about Brynn claiming she hogged the bed, Bethan wasn't immediately certain whether he was kidding or not. Leave it to Brynn to get some one on one time with the world's most eligible bachelor and spend the whole thing talking about her baby sister's sleeping habits. She took a few seconds to further contemplate whether or not he was pulling her leg, but by the end of her think time she still hadn't decided. “I do hog the bed, you know,” she informed him shamelessly, almost proud of that fact. It was true! Brynn would know, too. How many times during her childhood had she insisted on sleeping in bed with her big sister, just for the novelty of it? That girl had taken more kicks to the spleen than your average professional wrestler and she'd never once kicked her out. If she wanted to whine about Beth's childhood bed hogging habits, she'd certainly earned the privilege.

”So how is that sister of yours anyway?”

“Annoying,” Bethan responded just about instantly, without the slightest bit of hesitation. She made an agitated face and lifted her head off of her arms. “She keeps coming by the house, right, and asking me if I'm okay? And I told her – I told her 'Brynn, I'm not dead!' and she's like, like 'I didn't ask if you were dead! I asked if you were okay!' and I don't know what to say to her!” she ranted, her arms waving animatedly as she recounted the story, with totally inaccurate voice impressions and all. “It's almost like she's not happy unless someone else is miserable. I don't get it.” Beth shook her head. She loved her sister to death, but she was a right nag when she wanted to be – and Beth never did well when nagging was involved.

She was so caught up in her ranting that she wasn't paying much attention to her tired, popping knees. His little knock to her knee was taken with good humor, but there was something about physical provocation that made Bethan want to smack something. Unable to help herself, she swung back and kicked him in the shin, grinning like a loon all the while. She was a professional at non-flirtatious, non-verbal anti-flirting. Frankly, she was so very oblivious to romantic gestures that she didn't even realize when she was the one initiating them. For someone who took pride in making friends wherever she went, she wasn't great at picking up on certain social cues.

“I don't want to be ruler of the world,” Beth remarked in response to his tirade about standardized wake-up calls, setting her head back down atop her folded arms, “I'd rather have a nap... a nap and a dog,” she yawned, blinking tiredly. She never got this exhausted this early when she stayed on her feet – sitting down was going to be her downfall. She was still conscious enough to talk quidditch, though – at least a little bit. She listened to his explanation about how tickets worked, looking up at him with her sleepy puppydog eyes. If he switched gears and started telling a story, she'd be out like a snuffed candle.

”Why, you wanting to go to a game?”

“Well, yeah, I wouldn't mind it, like.” she admitted with a tiny shrug, brushing a strand of hair off of her face with a few clumsy fingers. “It sucks working weekends, you know? It sucks because I can't do anything. And I'm not complaining, because it's a good job and I like the money and that. I got real lucky even getting it... but I don't even remember what a proper quidditch pitch looks like, or anywhere.” Roger probably didn't have the first idea what she was talking about, with his snooty professional quidditch career in the Hebrides. She was pretty sure you could be a janitor based in the Hebrides and still lead a charmed life. “What is fun, Rodge?” she asked pitifully, burying her face in her crossed arms.

"So, Brynn was right. This is exactly why I am not going to let take my bed." He nodded sagely, as though the elder sister's word settled the matter. Roger picked up his glass to take another drink, and seemingly chose the perfect moment as Bethan's spirited recounting of her sister involved hand waving, which would have blocked Roger's access to his drink.

Roger cocked his head to the side, and watched Bethan curiously. Actually, she sounded genuinely strained. Maybe the ordeal a few weeks prior hadn't bothered her as much as everyone felt it should have; still, he found it difficult for the corners of his lips to not twitch at the hilariously false and inaccurate interpretation of Brynn's voice.

The kick to the shin caused Roger to jump slightly, more alarmed at the retaliation than the actual impact.

"Ah! Bloody hell, Beth. C'mon now!" His blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "I thought you were supposed to be too tired to do anything, so where did that come from?" Considering her as she laid her down on her arms, Roger smiled indulgently, as though he were surveying a younger sibling. "You can't fall asleep on me, now, I haven't finished my drink." Raising the glass to illustrate his point, Roger peered down and made a calculated measure. "I'd say I have about.. hmm, two more drinks. Three if I sip all dainty like."

“It sucks working weekends, you know? It sucks because I can't do anything. And I'm not complaining, because it's a good job and I like the money and that. I got real lucky even getting it... but I don't even remember what a proper quidditch pitch looks like, or anywhere.”

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Roger said with a sigh, looking back to his glass once more. He really did understand what it felt like to not be able to do anything. His career was so glamorized and desired by so many people, but they only saw the shiny surface. What they didn't see was the hours upon hours of early morning practice, the physical training, diet restrictions, the supposed-tos and should-dos lectured by the stuffy PR people sitting in an office somewhere. The travel was nice... if you enjoyed showing up to some city only to pile into a hotel for a few hours, then hurry off to practice, back to hotel (if there is time) for a bit of rest, then a game, and then either home or back to the hotel. Not to mention cameras. Cameras everywhere, reporters wanting to recap every moment of the game, every shot missed, every move made. Of course, the pay was more than enough to cover for the otherwise inconvenience, but Roger rarely ever voice these feelings; luck was on his side, and despite the repetitive days and early mornings he did love his job.

Mimicking Bethan's movement, he placed his head down on the desk, welcoming the cool wood against the side of his face.
"What is fun, Rodge?"

What is fun? A question rarely on the mind, but a business pursued constantly. Its definition is hard to pin down because it is essentially subjective. What is fun for one person might be torturous for another. Yet the ability to conceive of fun is hardwired into all humans. Drawing in a long, relaxing breath, Roger smiled.

"I'll let you know when I figure that out. Until then..." He raised his head up from the bar, grabbed his glass and took another drink.

”"I'd say I have about.. hmm, two more drinks. Three if I sip all dainty like.”

“And then I have to get up and make you another, isn't it?” Beth asked pitifully, making a face as she pushed her folded arms toward her to better prop up her head. “That's how the gig works. I've been doing it long enough to know.” It would probably be good to get up and do something useful again, since there was a very real possibility that, given any more time to sit around, she'd fall asleep right where she sat. It wasn't the most comfortable seat in the world, with her legs dangling from the bar stool like a small child's, but it was better than nothing. She lifted her head slightly and jerked it to the side, cracking her neck, before returning her chin to its spot atop her folded arms. Even after last call it would probably be over an hour until she got home, with all of the tidying there was left to do. She preferred not to think about it.

She looked into his face, resting next to hers atop the bar. She had never been afraid of making direct, borderline uncomfortable eye contact. She gazed into his face in that old, brazen way, as though daring him to look away first. She really was enjoying the company. Misery loved company. People were always so quick to write off her frustrations, like she was too young or too stupid to have any. There really seemed to be some people out there who believed that teenagers were incapable of feeling real disappointment or ennui because of... hormones? Or the promise of a long, wide open future? Or lack of experience? His few little words – his 'I know what you mean' – were enough for her. She knew things weren't going to be quick to change, but sometimes an affirmation was all a person needed to get back to pushing through.

”I'll let you know when I figure that out. Until then...”

Beth snorted with amusement as she watched Roger take a drink. “Lots of people say the same thing, you know – they say alcohol's the answer and that,” she informed him, “And they're perfectly lovely people. I mean, I like them. They keep me company at work. But that's the thing – they're here as often as I am. I find it hard to believe the key to escaping the pub is to drink more,” she laughed. As thrilling as it might be to become a functional alcoholic, Beth really had something else in mind.

“Do you have fun playing quidditch anymore?” she asked suddenly, just as the thought popped into her head. “Since it's a job and that? Is it still fun or is it work? Cause it's never work when you're a kid,” she mused, trying not to notice (or draw attention to) his drained glass.

Shaking his head at the pitiful tones in Bethan's voice, Roger's facial features mimicked her expression, though he did not raise his head from the bar.

"You happen to be in luck, as I am not looking to get pissed tonight; just needed a drink to ease me into sleep." Indeed,  despite his high tolerance from years of drinking more than what he probably should, the alcohol in his system felt right: warm and filling, but not too much to have any influence on him. He winced again at the cracking of her neck, but made no mention of it; For reasons unknown, Roger never could stand the sound of joints popping.

To anyone wandering in the Three Broomsticks, the staring contest might have looked odd: Bethan's playful yet determined gaze and  while Roger stared back with a relaxed, amused sort of look. Roger was fully aware of the effect his gaze had on people, and never hesitated to use it to his advantage. Most of the time it won him lovers and diffused arguments. This time, he simply reveled in scrutinizing her, examining her subconscious body language his stare pulled out of her; it told him more than any words could. He could see the tired written on her face, the heavy weight of frustration she felt despite her young age. He could see it in the sweep of her lashes, the slight downturn of her lips. When he said he 'knew what she meant', he really did mean it. Roger had learned long ago to stop voicing the nagging weight he felt from his success and how easily others wrote off his feelings because of a Quidditch player's salary.

Their staring contest lasted only a few more moments before Roger lifted his head, deciding another sip of his drink was in order.

“Lots of people say the same thing, you know – they say alcohol's the answer and that. And they're perfectly lovely people. I mean, I like them. They keep me company at work. But that's the thing – they're here as often as I am. I find it hard to believe the key to escaping the pub is to drink more,”

"Alcohol is never the answer," Roger said with a smirk, well aware of how much a hypocrite he sounded. "However, a good trip to the pub with a mate has been known to cure more than a few woes in my life." Raising the glass to his lips, he paused, then added, "not to mention created some, too." He finally drained the glass.

“Do you have fun playing quidditch anymore?”

"Yes," Roger said automatically, though he didn't trust his own voice. His expression closed, just as it always did when asked something personal, but stared at the glass intensely. "No." Looking back to her, he smiled softly. "Yes. You learn to find ways to fall in love with the game again. The more you... know what you want, the easier it is to find happiness in those activities, however routine or mundane they become." His words were careful and measured; it felt weird to give such a personal piece of advice to someone he only saw in a bar. Funny how the late night could make people feel so candid. "You'll figure that out, happiness. I'm not worried about you."

It seemed that Bethan had won the staring contest that she forgot she had been having, but she wasn't paying enough attention to get properly excited about it. The annoying piece of hair that didn't quite fit in her ponytail had fallen in her face again, but this time she was too comfortable laying atop her folded arms to push it aside, so she settled for blowing at it. It accomplished exactly nothing, but watching it rise upward and then float back down seemed to captivate her for the time being, so she attempted it a few more times before giving up, letting her hair rest on her cheek. That was how she occupied herself as he went about preaching the benefits of an occasional drink with friends. It wasn't exactly advice she couldn't have figured out for herself. In fact, it was kind of her current life philosophy.

“You know, when I'm not at work, I'm usually just at another pub,” she admitted with a smirk-like grin and a faint snort at her own expense. When put like that, it really sounded like she had no life to speak of... which was kind of true. “It's not that I love drinking so much, like. I mean, it's great, but well... it's more that there's this stray dog who lives out back, and I like feeding the dog,” she admitted with a sleepy grin, thinking of her scrappy pal from the alley behind the Sword and Chant. Merlin, she wanted a dog so bad. She really did think she'd have one by now, back when life after Hogwarts was just a distant fantasy. She thought she'd have moved out of her parents house, too, and she would have never guessed she'd be working in a pub. How had this totally unexpected fate become normal? She clenched her jaw as she began questioning him about whether or not his old passion was still enough for him.

” You learn to find ways to fall in love with the game again. The more you... know what you want, the easier it is to find happiness in those activities, however routine or mundane they become. You'll figure that out, happiness. I'm not worried about you.”

Beth paused for a long moment, seeming to contemplate this deep bit of advice – uncharacteristic for a girl who found so much joy in running her mouth. She blinked a few times, and loosened her jaw. “What are we even talking about?” she asked, as though she'd been on another planet this entire time. She laughed, and the sound of that laughter seemed to echo in the near empty pub. “I know what we were talking about. That's not what I meant, exactly. I just mean... I don't know what I mean.” She shot Roger a little grin, as though they'd just shared some sort of a secret, and she let that grin linger as she continued to speak. “It's just hard to imagine doing the same thing everyday forever, no matter what it is. I can never picture myself being old. I've tried before, but it just doesn't work.” Her smile seemed to grow larger at that. “Don't get me wrong. I love old people. I just don't feel like I could ever be one.”

“What are we even talking about?”"

Bethan's laugh pulled Roger out from the deep contemplation their conversation had taken then and brought his inner mood back to a lighter area. There was no sign of the seriousness of his convictions on his face, but rather the neutral expression always worn and an lazy ease in his smile.

"It's just hard to imagine doing the same thing everyday forever, no matter what it is. I can never picture myself being old. I've tried before, but it just doesn't work.”

"I can agree with that," Roger shuddered. "I've never been one for routine, which is ironic when you consider my whole life is more or less carefully scripted out. However, I get to travel and meet a lot of interesting people, so I can deal with the otherwise mundane routine." His right index finger traced the rim of the empty glass, hopeful to produce a note from the friction though he knew it was pointless.
 
. “Don't get me wrong. I love old people. I just don't feel like I could ever be one.”

Roger laughed softly.

"So is that why you put up with me?" Some days, he felt as spritely as an eighteen year old, while other days, like now, the weight of adulthood rest heavily on his shoulders. "Well, that is the beauty of being a third-dimensional being: we can't see time, we can only experience it in a line -- a forward moving line, even though time is simultaneous. At this moment everything that has happened or will happen is currently happening; the choices you make and the actions of others influences the outcome, and with every action the alternative outcome disappears." Realizing he was going off in a tangent, Roger paused, and then shook his head. "I guess what I am saying is, you're going to get older, but you won't even realize it; age is a state of mind, really." He rolled his eyes. "Merlin, I sound like an old coot."

Roger felt herself smiling at the oddity of the moment, of everything. For some reason, Bethan's company made him feel comfortably open, and it was ridiculous considering they only saw each other in bars, many times while he was drunk with his mates and/or some random girl, where he was being the Roger Davies everyone expected. It was an unlikely reality: sitting here on a bar stool and sharing thoughts and feelings reporters would pay top dollar to jot down, and on a primal level enjoying the freedom these chats provided.

"I should probably get going," He said, a note of finality in his voice. "I know you're tired and still have work to do."

While meeting new and interesting people was a major perk of Bethan's current job, it didn't prevent an image of the interior of the pub from being burned into her retinas. An image of the Broomsticks was often the last thing that flashed through her mind before she fell asleep. She wasn't one for travel, though, and never had been. It wasn't a fear of new places that turned her off as much as it was an attachment to the old ones. She liked her bed, she liked her support system, and she liked being able to apparate from one haunt to the next without faltering and winding up wandering around some sketchy side street. She hated packing, she hated not having access to every over-worn, familiar item of clothing in her wardrobe, and she hated feeling like an outsider. Wherever she went she liked to belong. That made it a lot harder to balance her thirst for variety with her need for familiarity. She wanted the world to come to her. When you considered that, it wasn't so odd that, out of all of the pubs in the magical UK, she'd chosen to apply to the one in the shadow of a school where she'd spent seven years of her life.

”So is that why you put up with me?”

“You're not all that old, really,” she informed him, “though they say don't trust anyone over thirty, whatever that's supposed to mean,” she added with a shrug of her hunched shoulders. In Beth's experienced, it seemed like almost everyone was over thirty – more people were than weren't, anyway, especially in this old fashioned place. The Three Broomsticks was a Mecca for more than just Bethan – it was like a warm hug for anybody who wasn't interested in change. It had always been there and, as far as anybody could tell, always would remain. As long as there was the Broomsticks, there would be patrons at the bar rambling on and on about who knows what – and Roger was continuing that tradition as he went on and on about... something.

“Well, thanks for that,” Beth responded when he concluded his lecture, her voice injected with a perky touch of what was clearly sarcasm. “Fascinating. I'll be sure to pass it on to all my closest friends. Maybe one of them will have half an inkling what you just said and explain it to me,” she snorted tiredly, giggling faintly as she pressed her eyes into her folded arms for a moment. With a deep sigh she lifted her head and sat up completely, throwing a glance over her shoulder at the table that had been occupied by the only other patrons in the place. They seemed to have deserted the pub at some point during her sojourn at the bar. If they'd called out a 'goodnight' then she certainly hadn't heard it. Bethan stretched, reaching her arms high in the air for a moment as she yawned. She'd have to clear the table at some point. Or, if Roger's ramblings had any merit, she already had.

”I should probably get going. I know you're tired and still have work to do.”

“I see how it is,” she grumbled, making a teasing face at him as she slowly and lazily pushed off of the stool and onto her feet. She finally brushed that stubborn strand of hair off of her face and back behind her ear, where it would likely linger for only a few seconds before popping out again. Feeling refreshed but not any more awake, Beth trudged her way back behind the bar and reached for his empty glass, bringing it toward her but not doing anything with it just yet. “Oh, by the way, were you planning on paying me tonight? I forget about that bit sometimes,” she grinned sheepishly. “Or is it going on a tab?” she asked, her head tilting toward the till, where they kept tabs for their regular or otherwise notable customers.