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To be quite honest, he didn't know quite how to feel when he received the formal, owl-delivered parchment. Ever since his near-fatal attack at his parents' home, he had been quite the withdrawn person, only speaking to his parents, sisters, and Rachel and collegues, when he went to work. They say that a near death experience changes everything, but in Smeth's honest opinion, that was a load of crockery - he just felt like being a bit anti-social. It was odd, but his former self - and how he disliked saying former, for he did like to think of himself as a consistant being - would have been most upset at himself for not keeping up with old friends. The popular Smeth of his Hogwarts glory were gone, leaving behind a quieter, more disenchanted self.

The war had never really affected him, he had always believed - affected him directly. For certain a lot of his friends had died or been hurt, but to come after his own family members? A small part of him realized that maybe he should have seen it coming, as the Smethwycks were a large part of the wizarding community, but he had not wanted to see it. Dumbledore's letter today told him that he could do something, be part of something big, or something to that effect. He came because he was curious.

A balmy breeze brushed past him, lifting his cloak lazily before settling down again as he pushed opened the door of the Hog's Head. Green eyes widened only slightly in surprise when he saw how many people were there, how many people he seemed to recognize, and he nodded his head and waved in response to the greetings people addressed his direction. After weaving his way to the back of the tavern - he had thought briefly of sitting in the front, for old Ravenclaw habits die hard - and listening to what his old headmaster had to say, he passed on alcohol and harder drinks, opting instead of butterbeer.

No one had seemed to object to what the man had to say, nor were there really any questions, it seemed. As of this moment, people were mingling and chatting. Smeth remained where he was, toying with a napkin. He had questions, but didn't dare - or care enough - to voice them aloud. This was a war, people were dying, did he really want to be part of this? To be a part something big - wasn't that what the comic book heroes and science fiction adventurers were about? To cast away danger and be bold and courageous even in the face of imminent danger?

How sad that this was the real world then, and fact, not fiction.

Dark thoughts were automatically casted to the back of his mind when someone sat down to him, and by habit, a friendly smile was on his face. "Hullo," he greeted, pushing his empty butterbeer bottle to the side.