Holes to Heaven

Elsie walked out of the joke shop at a quarter to six and simply couldn't bring herself to return to her desk. She doubted she could do any more good there anyway. With a high profile case in her right hand and a possible pro bono in her left, she could hardly think of doing anything other than eating a very large piece of chocolate cake and drinking just enough liquor to drown out the buzzing in her head. She didn't do it often, and found such behaviour highly justified considering the day she'd had. So what if it was hardly six o'clock on a Tuesday night? Nothing could make her feel guilty now.

The Buttered Pig Tavern happened to be the first place she passed, and she didn't hesitate a moment before walking in.

Of all the pubs in Diagon Alley, she was the fondest of the Buttered Pig. It was exquisitely warm and irresistibly cosy; with its walls of deep red and its creaky oak floors, it was hard to be even the least bit uptight. Both ends boasted wide, airy inglenooks centred around large, ornate fireplaces which hosted lively, unquenchable flames. Surrounding both inviting hearths were plush, overstuffed wingchairs complete with plump footrests that were always in great demand.

Elsie felt as if she had dropped a rather large whale off her shoulders. The kindly, flickering firelight made her feel safe, as if the dim light could cloak all her worries in its dancing shadows.

She hoisted herself onto a barstool and leaned forward to get the attention of the bartender. He approached her, wiping his hands on a grubby old towel.

"What can I get for yeh there, missy?" he asked, his jovial expression and pumpkin-coloured hair almost making him part of the atmosphere.

"How's your Irish Jig?" Elsie asked offhandedly. She probably shouldn't be hitting the hard stuff this early, but she wasn't really concerned about it now.

"I dunno," said the bartender, looking thoughtful, "I haven't practiced it in ages, but I could give it a go, if you'd like."

Elsie stifled a laugh. "No, I mean the drink. Or don't you serve them?"

"Oh!" exclaimed the bartender, going pink in the cheeks. "You mean an Irish Jig! We have the best in the country. Quite green."

Elsie watched him assemble the drink, admiring the precision with which he poured. He turned up moments later with her drink, and he was right - it was quite green. A thin sort of condensation twisted upwards from the goblet in delicate tendrils before disappearing into the air.

She took her first sip tentatively, a sour expression crossing her face as the liquor burned down her throat. She'd never been a bagpipe before, but the sip she had taken from her Irish Jig gave her the general idea of what it must be like. Fortunately, the sensation began to feel less unpleasant with each sip.

She was only a gulp away from ordering a second when she spotted a familiar pair of identical scarlet heads pushing their way through the crowd, taking only a moment to reach the bar. She noticed they had changed out of their business attire into more casual Muggle clothing, which was a pity, because they were impossible to tell apart without nametags.

She noticed one of them holding a pretty black girl by the hand, and Elsie felt a little more comfortable in the company of the second female. She raised a hand casually to get their attention, which wasn't hard, as they were only a couple of stools down.

"Well, fancy that," said the twin without the partner. "Our prim little prosecutor is on the piss! Risky behaviour, I'd say."

"Oh, bollocks," Elsie thought she heard the girl mutter.

"Yeah," said the other twin, looking just as amused as his brother, "what's a good girl like you doing in a pub like this?"

"Getting a pint, gentlemen, what's it look like?" Elsie responded casually. With three brothers of her own, she was comfortable with this sort of light banter.

"Fair enough," replied the first, taking a seat beside her. "I suppose you've earned your drink just like the rest of us."

Elsie snorted with derision, tipping the rest of her drink into her mouth. She had to admit that she was a bit disappointed that she'd been found; it meant she couldn't get quite as hammered as she would have liked. But she had to admit, she was glad for the company.

"Angelina, this is a prosecutor we met with today, you know, over the little incident with the pastilles? Miss Bobbit, this is Angelina, Fred's girlfriend," said the twin next to her, who she thankfully now knew was George. Luckily for her, he was wearing a green jumper; 'G' for green and George - she could remember that. Not to mention that he was the single one.

"It's Elsie," she insisted, reaching over George to shake Angelina's hand. "And let's not talk about that just now. I'm off duty."

They all gave an understanding chuckle. "Don't worry...it's not the most welcome subject with us either," admitted Fred.

There was a slightly awkward silence while they waited for the bartender to make his way back to them. Elsie grinned crookedly, thinking it was kind of like running into a teacher outside of school, or even running into her boss outside of work. After the obvious stuff had been mentioned, and the only thing they had in common ruled out, there wasn't much else to discuss.

But the bartender finally did make it back to them, and just in the nick of time; if Elsie was going to loosen up enough to dissipate the slight awkwardness, she would need another drink.

"A Russian Dragon for me," said Angelina, to Fred's obvious delight.

"I've said it before, Angie," chuckled Fred, grinning, "but you're my kind of girl."

He then directed his attentions momentarily toward the bartender. "A Black Magic Carpet for me."

"And you, sir?" the bartender asked George.

"I think I'll go with a nice Hairy Veela, if you will."

Elsie looked quizzically at George. "All right, what the bloody hell is in a Hairy Veela?"

George raised an eyebrow with a roguish sort of look on his face, looking delighted that she'd asked.

"Well," he started, as if trying to build suspense, "you start with a bit of Black Sheik lager. Then a spoonful of Flagrant's Firesauce and half a pint of spiced rum, topped off with a shot of peach-infused vodka. They bring it to you boiling with a shot of this black stuff - they call it Tar Wine - which you take into your mouth, swish it around until you can't stand it anymore, and spit it into your drink. Once it cools off, you have yourself a Hairy Veela."

Elsie gaped at George for a moment. "That's gross, George."

Angelina gave him a pointed look. "I second that," she agreed.

"Keep going, Bobbit," encouraged Fred as the bartender appeared with their drinks. "This one needs a tongue-lashing," he said, waving his thumb towards George and waggling his eyebrows at Angelina.

"For God's sake, Fred, does everything out of your mouth have some sort of double entendre? Grow up."

"I think you like it, Angelina," Fred insisted, doing a bit more eyebrow waggling.

"Would you two cut it out?" George scolded them, taking the shot glass full of thick black liquid and tipping it back into his throat.

"Randy bastard," muttered Angelina, crossing her arms over her chest.

Fred gave a grin that was slightly sullied by the hefty swill he had taken of his drink. "You love it."

"Oh, shut it," grumbled Angelina. But she was smiling.

Elsie looked over at George, whose face had turned such a red that it gave his hair a run for its money. His cheeks were bulging as his eyes streamed with the effort, until finally he couldn't take it anymore. Pulling his glass towards him, he spit the black substance, now quite frothy, into his drink, his smile revealing blackened teeth.

"Forty-seven seconds," he proclaimed, grinning madly. "I've beat Bill's record."

"Oh, you scoundrel!" squealed Fred, as if a besotted girl overwhelmed by George's enormous skill.

Elsie laughed good-naturedly with Angelina, at the deflated expression on George's now-burgundy face more than anything else.

After the laughter died away, they were all silent for a moment to drink. Elsie knew the exact point at which she was to switch over to Butterbeer. That was the best thing about Irish Jigs; when one begins to feel as if there are Irishmen tap-dancing inside her stomach, she knows enough is enough.

However, Fred and George's outlandish beverages (with a few heavy-duty shots in between refills) did not seem to be so kind. Angelina seemed to be holding her liquor like a pro, but after their second pint both men were slurring their words, not to mention the excessive amount of unnecessary giggling.

"You wankers, you haven't even started into your third round yet," groaned Angelina, obviously realising how the rest of the night was destined to go.

"Plus the two Short Joys and a Kick in the Bollocks each," George added proudly, accidentally poking himself in the eye and grinning stupidly.

"My God, Weasley, you're completely smashed."

"Bugger that, Bobbit! Where's your sense of fun?"

Elsie raised an eyebrow at him. "It's been scared into hiding."

George just shared a grin with Fred, and both of them finished off their second round. George's teeth were so black now that they almost blended in with the rest of his mouth, and Fred was beginning to sprout black, carpet-like fuzz all over his arms and face. Angelina covered her eyes with her hand for a moment, shaking her head.

"I think it's time for bed, boys," she said, as if speaking to a child or senior citizen.

"But," said Fred, looking as if he were struggling to verbalize his thoughts, "we're jus' getting' starded!"

"Oh, don't be susha drag, Lanjanina!" said George, gladly accepting his second Kick in the Bollocks even while stumbling over his words.

"George, you piss-head," Angelina protested. "I'm the one that has to drag your drunk arses home."

Fred just waggled a finger at her, "You got to learn how to rrrrrrrelax."

"Oh, like you?" muttered Angelina, her voice dripping with disdain.

Elsie caught to bartender's eye. "Can we get a couple of coffees over here?"

The bartender shook his head. "Don't got coffee. You want tea?"

"No, thank you," Elsie replied, looking back at Fred and George, who were in quite a sorry state indeed.

"Heyyy, Elshie! How'd you like a Kick in the Bollocks? They're...mmmmmmm..." George's eyelids drooped and his head dropped onto her shoulder.

"I don't have any bollocks, thank you, and even if I did, I doubt I'd like them to be kicked," she said, failing to hide her amusement as she tried to get him to hold his own head up. "Angelina is quite right. Neither of you belong in public."

"Oh, bugger off," Fred muttered, gulping down a cloudy magenta shot that happened to be within his reach.

Elsie glared at him. "Yes. Definitely time to head home. I don't suppose they can Apparate."

Angelina laughed a little. "Maybe we should let them try it."

Elsie suppressed an amused grin. "There'd be pieces all over London."

Angelina nodded. "The sad thing is, I don't think they'd learn their lesson even then."

She put her arm around Fred's waist and helped him down. Once his feet were on the floor, Angelina looked as if she were about to collapse under his weight.

"You got him?" asked Elsie sliding down off her own stool.

"Yes, but would you mind helping George? He's going to hurt himself. "

No sooner had the words left Angelina's mouth than George wobbled a bit on his stool. Elsie saw exactly what was about to happen, but couldn't act quickly enough to prevent it. George came crashing down right on top of her, sending them both to the ground in a mass of flailing limbs, splattering one of the magenta shots all over himself and Elsie.

"DAMMIT, WEASLEY!!!" shouted Elsie, pushing him roughly off her and kicking him in the arse as soon as she had scrambled to her feet. He had the nerve to giggle.

Elsie pulled her wand from a pocket inside of her lapel. "Scourgify!" she muttered, cleaning up the scene. After righting the stool, she offered her hand to Weasley.

After a minute of struggling, he finally stumbled to his feet.

Fred seemed to find the entire exchange delightfully funny, and couldn't seem to suppress his snorts of laughter.

"Whoopsy-daisy," said George, his hand completely missing his bum when he went to rub it where she had kicked him.

They somehow made it outside, where Elsie pushed George onto a nearby bench and consulted Angelina on how to get everyone home safely.

"Fred is staying at my flat; let me get him home and then I can come back to walk George home."

Elsie glanced back at George, who appeared to be flirting with one of the potted plants at his feet. "No need. He lives above the shop, doesn't he? I think I can manage to walk him back."

Angelina gave a grateful smile. "Oh, would you? That would be really great. Just go into the front entrance of the shop - the password is Peeves. You should see the stairs no problem, and the flat is right at the top of them."

Elsie nodded and went to heave George off the bench. "Let's go, Giggles."

George didn't seem to be paying attention; instead he seemed intent on singing. What he was singing, Elsie couldn't guess, but whatever it was sounded like was supposed to be sung with a drink in hand.

"Weasley, you tosser, would you at least try to walk?" Elsie groaned, after nearly being pulled down when he stumbled over a cobblestone.

George's vacant grin returned, and his head lolled to the side, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

"Mmmmm. You sshmell like apples."

"Jesus, Weasley!" she cried, shaking him off and flushing pink. She tried to ignore the little leap her stomach gave at the feel of his warm breath on her skin. But for that, she really had only herself to blame. If she had been better at taking time out of her day to get laid once in a while, perhaps she wouldn't get so excited when drunken almost-strangers hit on her.

After what seemed like an eternity, the joke shop made an appearance. Elsie hauled George to the door and said, "Peeves."

The knob wiggled a bit, but stayed firmly locked.

"Just my luck," groaned Elsie. "Do you have a key?"

But George was distracted, and didn't answer. She began to search his pockets, which earned her more giggles.

"Ooooh," he sighed, looking as if he were ready to pass out or vomit - or both. "Eager, are we?"

"You wish," Elsie said, laughing in spite of herself.

Not finding a key, she took out her wand. "Alohomora!"

The handle didn't budge.

"Well, shit," sighed Elsie. "Could you snap out of it for two seconds to help me open the door?"

But George was too fascinated by the doorknocker to give her a straight answer, and mumbled something about instant oatmeal.

Elsie started naming everything she could think of that might relate to the Weasleys, and even some things that didn't.

"Quidditch. No? Um...jokes. Hogwarts? PEEVES? Galleons? Weasley? Gryffindor? Hairy Veela? Purple? Dragon? Feather? "

Somewhere amidst her stream of guesses, the door clicked open.

"Oh, thank God," she sighed in relief. "Just a tip, George - next time you're getting drunk, make sure Angelina knows that you've changed your password."

George gave what he must have thought was a seductive look; to Elsie it looked as if he just bitten down on a pus-flavoured jellybean. "Want tea?"

"Not on the first date, George," she told him, though she knew he wasn't sober enough to appreciate the sarcasm. "Come on now, lie down on the couch."

"Ooooh!" said Weasley with a high-pitched squeal. "What'r you gon' do to me? Jusht...be gentle!"

Elsie gaped at him. "Weasley, you are the single most ridiculous drunken man I have ever encountered."

But either he had passed out or fallen asleep, because thankfully, he was no longer conscious.

"Sweet dreams, Weasley," she said, with a long, exhausted sigh. "I really hope you remember every bit of this, and feel really stupid in the morning."

But she surprised herself; she was reluctant to leave him. She took a moment to look at him; really look at him, without the usual obligation she had to think strictly professional thoughts.

He was nice to look at, she supposed. The cut of his jaw and smooth planes of his face gave him the look of a loveable rogue; a day's growth of reddish stubble only reinforced it. His hair wasn't bad either; it was kind of curly, and very red. His green jumper might have been on the bulky side, but it caught him in all the right places. He must find time for physical activity, she thought, letting her fingers sneak under the hem of the jumper to explore the firm, warm skin of his stomach. Her face felt hot as she did this; it wasn't like her to take advantage of a man in an alcohol-induced coma. But the urge had hit her so quickly she hadn't even thought to counter it. She pulled her hand away then and started back down the stairs. Why did she do this to herself? She made a mental note to start going out on more dates. It would never do for her to try and get lucky with a client.