made another promise that should have never left my lips [dennis]

Meeting @Dennis Creevey for lunch wasn’t really something she thought she would be doing. Then again, most things in Edith’s life had lately been falling into the ‘gone differently than planned’ category, so this fit in nicely, she supposed. It had been a weird few weeks, weirder than the few months they were piggybacking on; since she had seen Dennis last, Edith had gone to Nigeria for not-work, only to end up kind of working, met up with what she was still not calling a partial DA meeting, and put out a couple articles that were more or less the same thing she had been doing before putting her name on things, while hopefully-not-obviously-but-probably-incredibly-so not mentioning that interview. There were too many things for her to soberly try to avoid talking about with him, really.

She was leaning against a rather lengthy menu board in Chinatown, staring down at her shoes instead of out at the meandering crowd like she really should, trying to find that familiar face. Dennis was in London for a job interview, she thought. She vaguely remembered the reason from their last conversation, and she hadn’t asked again once he had actually owled her. She had mentioned drinks before, but it had turned into more of a ‘lunch’ suggestion (even though she was avoiding admitting that she was getting just a little bit paranoid being out a night; it was just the nature of her work, she supposed). In hindsight, she could have been a bit more specific than ‘meet me at the corner with all the lanterns around 12’, but it was still the most genuine -- and only one actually somewhat planned -- meeting of theirs to date. Most sober, too.

Edith tilted her chin up a touch to look at her watch, then up a bit more -- just enough to glare --  as someone passed by her a little too closely, then back down to her watch to actually make sense of what she was looking at. She had been a few minutes late, but Dennis was pushing twenty minutes. Not that she was anxious or anything, though she was, quite a bit, but lunch was a very small contributing factor. She blinked heavily before looking back out at the crowd again. Happy people enjoying their Saturdays -- and Dennis.

She pushed herself up and took a couple steps forward, waving as minimally as possible as she caught his eye. She offered a quick, “Hey,” and and even quicker, “I’m starving,” not bothering to ask if the restaurant a few feet behind them would be okay with him, assuming he’d be alright with the general cuisine of the neighborhood he agreed to meet her in. “This place is cheap.” She tilted her head toward the door before taking a step that direction, her hnds on the straps of her backpack. “How was the, er, job interview?”

Red lanterns. Sure.

Dennis had been wandering for almost ten minutes, looking for the corner she'd mentioned extremely vaguely in her note. It didn't help that they were meeting in a fairly busy part of the city that he hadn't been to before, or that they hadn't really agreed on a place to meet so much as an area. It also didn't help that he was on edge, that Luna had cancelled on him last minute and he'd had to find his way to Ottery St Catchpole to interview with her father instead. If "interview" was even the right word for the weird interaction he'd just had. His worn-through soles scuffed the uneven ground underfoot as he walked, one hand resting on the single backpack strap slung lazily over one shoulder. When he finally saw her, he felt a disproportionate sense of relief. "Hey," he echoed, half-smiling in response and nodding when she gestured to the place they were going. He didn't bother to check the menu; his thoughts were elsewhere.

At first, when he'd read the interview in the newspaper, he'd felt a numb sort of alarm. It was a strange sensation, like he didn't quite know what to think. Couldn't process. Then the alarm had escalated, and he'd found his hands curled involuntarily into fists, thoughts scattered along unnervingly familiar lines. Was he just being paranoid? The Daily Prophet was trashy, sure, but would they really publish a full interview casting a sympathetic light on a death eater? The guy had spent time in Azkaban, hadn't he? Dennis had been caught in a state of hyper-anxious blankness, where he had trouble understanding what he was feeling, or understanding which parts of what he was feeling were valid, rational, reasonable. From where he was standing it looked pretty fucked up - a red flag, stark against the monochrome newspaper in his hands - but he didn't know if he could trust his gut feelings. They'd led him astray before.

The obvious thing to do would have been to talk to Dean about it. In comparison to him, his older friend was rational and cool-headed - he'd know if Dennis' anxiety was overreacting; know what to do either way. But Dennis hadn't even told Dean about what had happened with Clem months ago - it felt wrong, somehow, to pop back up after months of silence for something like this. Needing something. Then again, maybe he was just scared that it was nothing at all, and that Dean would think he was being stupid. He didn't want to examine how true that probably was, and put thoughts of Dean aside, resolving to sending him a message when he could get around to it.

And then he decided to wait. Luna Lovegood wasn't the first person Dennis would have picked to talk politics or current affairs with but he already had plans to see her this weekend - a McGonagall-approved job interview of sorts - and at least he felt like she'd say what she thought. In the few days in between, Dennis didn't bring it up with other students and no one brought it up with him; if people were talking about it, he didn't see it. More reason to think he was overreacting, he thought. Of course, Luna had cancelled on him this morning and given him an address to meet her father somewhere in Devon, so he hadn't gotten to talk about it with her anyway. Didn't matter, though; Edith worked at the Prophet. She was better for it anyway.

"Huh?" Dennis blinked at the back of Edith's head as they were led to a table with two chairs on each side in a cramped corner of the restaurant. "Oh, uh... pretty..." he gave an awkward shrug, "weird." When she'd said interview, his thoughts had turned to death eaters and newspaper clippings rather than the strange blonde man who hadn't asked him a single job-related question the whole morning. "Yeah it was s'posed to be with Luna - Lovegood - but she cancelled on me this morning, so I met with her Dad instead..." He trailed off, wondering how much he'd have to explain. Luna Lovegood sort of said it all, didn't it?

He dumped his backpack on the spare seat beside him, his skateboard poking out the top haphazardly. He settled in his seat, reaching instinctively for the laminated menu, despite the fact that he didn't have the focus to really read it. How should he bring that other stuff up, he wondered? Compared to the past few times he and Edith had been in each others' presence, the Gryffindor's social anxiety was at an all time low. The fact probably would have surprised him if he'd noticed. Instead, Dennis was impatient to bring up other things. He tapped his fingers against the menu as he scanned it, not taking in any of the words. "Read the paper this month," he told her, flicking his eyes up to his companion. "It was interesting?"

“Your interview,” she clarified quickly, only now considering that there hadn’t been an actual reason for skipping out of Scotland, that maybe he had just wanted to hang out, or whatever; she didn’t get her hopes up for too long, though, as he answered her question. “Luna Lovegood?” Edith’s eyebrows shot up, though Dennis didn’t see her surprise as he followed behind her. She was aware of her, at least; DA, the general publishing world that Edith was apparently now a part of. Sitting and finally facing Dennis, she scrunched her brow a bit. “Your job interview was with The Quibbler?”

She had jumped over the idea of him writing -- though the idea of Edith writing was just as absurd, if not more so -- and landed on a very blurry memory of talking about photojournalism or something like that, that night a couple months ago. Her mind slipped to the side then, considering that that night had really only been two months ago; so much had happened since that it was seeming like a lifetime ago.

Her gaze dropped from Dennis’s face to her menu, which she had turned over to find the drinks without realizing what she was doing. One drink with lunch was probably okay, she reasoned, turning the menu back over but bringing her attentions up -- was it too presumptuous to suggest they split a couple dishes? -- and dropping her gaze almost immediately as he mentioned the paper. She knew which one he was referring to without him needing to explain himself.

“Interesting,” she repeated, nodding her head slowly before chancing a glance up. “I--” she started, though she didn’t know where she was going with the thought. “Yeah.” She had been over and over and over it again, that damn interview. She knew she ought to be more upset about Purcell’s release from Azkaban -- and for a time she had been -- but her current state of mind suggested she was more upset at the paper for having the nerve to interview him at all, let alone publish anything he had to say. Shouldn’t they want to not give this man a platform? Printing his words only gave them merit.

Jesus, and the praise that had gone along with the questions. His ‘awe-inspiring career’, his ‘valiant survival of Azkaban’, how those nine months of a You-Know-Who-led Ministry were some of the most stable and that they nearly unified the country during that time. God, she didn’t know where to start -- Dennis had read it, knew all of this; it wasn’t like Edith had any insider knowledge. She wasn’t about to be invited round for tea and a polite conversation about the current political climate.

And worse still, Edith felt like she was caught up in it all -- never mind the actual mentions of her by name in the interview -- and that she was being used to move along the air of ‘political upheaval and uncertainty’, as the Death Eater had so kindly put it.

“It’s a fucking mess, more like.” Edith rubbed her forehead, her thoughts still lingering on the words of the interview. Her adrenaline had shot up in the past thirty seconds, and she shifted; her other hand was resting on her thigh, as close to her wand without actually being in contact with it. “The student radicals were free to come up with a simple, romantic narrative.” She laughed, leaning forward but not taking too much care to drop her voice. “Now our narrative isn’t going to plan, which apparently my columns have pointed out.” She was close to apologizing for being so worked up about it all, especially considering Dennis had said one word about it, but she figured he knew what he was getting into.

"Yeah," he answered simply, watching her for cues on how he should respond. The Quibbler was mostly rubbish, he knew, but he didn't really care. Last time he'd actually hung out with Luna - more than a year ago now, actually, her letter had come out of the blue - it had been... well, odd, yes. But also good. Calming, sort of. She hadn't asked him any intrusive questions, or tried to prompt him to speak when he didn't have anything to say. She'd just sort of floated by in her own little world and he'd let her. Edith was looking at the menu now, and he wasn't sure if he should defend the job - Luna, by extension - or not. "I'll probably be taking photos of non-existent creatures and stuff," he added, scratching his head. "I'm ninety percent sure Luna just made the job up for me."

Interesting. She echoed his word, but the pace between that and her next sentence was long enough that Dennis had stopped pretending to read the menu and was now watching her again, probably a little more intently that he'd meant to. His forearms rested on the table, and he tried not to fiddle with the corner of the menu as she spoke again. "Yeah," he said again, quieter this time, immediately feeling a sense of both relief and alarm in equal measure. "You didn't know it was happening," he said. Not a question. Dennis didn't know how newspapers worked. The Prophet wasn't that dense; he assumed there weren't that many writers.

The waiter appearing at their table made him jump and he tried to hide it by leaning back into his chair instead of forward on the table. "Uh..." He really wasn't hungry right at this moment. His eyes dropped to the menu, but, again, he wasn't really reading it. "Just a wine," he said, trying to relax. "White. Whatever one... Yeah still deciding, thanks" he added, motioning to the food menu in front of him. Dennis shook his head as the man retreated, mostly at himself. The young man wore a troubled expression when he locked eyes with his friend once more.

"No one's talking about it," Dennis said quietly. He didn't clarify that if people were talking about it, they definitely weren't talking to him. Dennis wasn't exactly everyone's best friend. "...Half convinced I was going crazy." Did other students not read the news? Or not care? Probably, like him, they didn't know how important this all was. Whether it meant anything. The fact that most of the Hogwarts student population hadn't been school-aged in nineteen-ninety-seven might have had an effect; he didn't know.

Dennis rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. He didn't want to elaborate on the going crazy thing. He hoped he didn't need to. "I don't... I dunno, kinda makes me want to move countries or something. Kinda fucked."

“Nope.” Edith didn’t know it was happening. “Not like they interviewed him in my office, or anything.” She shrugged and readjusted her grip on the menu, though she was no closer to deciding what to order than when they had first walked in. Looking up at Dennis instead, Edith tried to gauge where the conversation was headed, if she needed to be more or less upset, anything really.

Edith jumped when he did, glancing up briefly at the waiter before settling her gaze on Dennis again as he ordered just a wine. Cue enough for her, Edith followed suit and order the biggest beer they had, complete with hands held about a foot apart to show how much beer she really wanted. “And spring rolls,” she added as an afterthought, after the waiter had walked away and after Dennis had said they didn’t want anything.

“No one?” Edith’s eyebrows went up. How was no one talking about it? “You’re not,” she said quickly, unsure why she felt the need to defend his sanity at all. Maybe the other students didn’t see how big a deal all of this was; they were just kids, after all; then again, weren’t they all just kids? Having to deal with this once, and now a second time? If that’s what was happening, even. It felt like it was; she felt like she had more to lose this time around.

She wondered if this was the time to tell him she had been talking about it, to former members of the DA, that it had felt so close to a DA meeting that she was wondering why she hadn’t just used the coin to plan it all. Did she just not want to worry him? He was already worried. This was a shared sort of worry, wasn’t it? One of the common grounds they had explored that night. Honestly, she was surprised Dean hadn’t told him; that seemed like his sort of thing.

Edith nodded, deciding to not interrupt him for now. “Yeah.” She looked down, eyes settling on her menu but not really focusing. She didn’t want to move countries. She had done that last time and leaving again… that was basically like giving up. Still, that was probably better than continuing to work for the paper that glamorized murderers alongside her own column, citing freedom of speech as an excuse.

She mirrored Dennis’s move from seconds ago, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, not wanting to dwell on another career change. “Somewhere they speak English, at least. Canada? What side of the road do they drive on there? I can’t unlearn doing it right.” She smiled, halfway maybe, catching his eye again.

The waiter came back with their drinks and a promise for impending spring rolls and Edith smiled the rest of the way, though she was back to normal after taking a healthy sip of her beer. Her two minutes of effort to not think about her job, the paper in general, were a waste, and she circled back around. “Dunno if my column can really do anything next to those sorts of interviews, not that it really had much of a point before but now it just seems like--” she paused and shrugged --”less.”

"Right..." Dennis replied. "I mean, they probably are," he amended quickly, rationality coming easily now that he had a frame of reference. "Just haven't heard anything." He shrugged. The young man dropped his gaze once more when she said that he wasn't going crazy, more comforted by her assertion than he'd express. He couldn't really describe the feeling; it was like he'd been trying so hard to convince his own brain that this wasn't a Big Deal that he almost felt vindicated that it actually was. A part of him felt good to be on a team, with clear lines drawn between friends and foes. Solidarity, that was called. Naturally, he was skeptical of that feeling.

He didn't stay leaning back casually in his chair for very long; in moments he'd shifted forward again, elbows on the table, one hand a fist with the other loosely enclosing it. "Canada," he repeated, pointing lazily in her direction without unclasping his hands, as if she'd just struck gold with her idea. "Mm." He nodded slowly, indulging the idea. The only time Dennis had been outside of the UK was when he'd attended that beachy summer school a couple of summers ago, and he'd only been there because he'd failed a couple of OWLs and McGonagall had helped him get a scholarship. It wasn't the same.

Speaking of summer though... "It's summer soon in New Zealand, innit?" he offered. Dennis didn't want to bring up his lack of a driving license again. She was here - she clearly didn't think of him as some stupid school-kid not worth her time - but he wanted it to stay that way, thank-you-very-much. It'd be stupid of him to remind her of all the ways he wasn't yet a proper adult. Dennis gave the waiter a low-effort two-second smile as he appeared with their drinks before looking back at Edith again. It struck him for the first time today that he'd never really spoken to her like this before; she'd basically been drunk or hungover all of the other times. She was still sharp - sharper, probably - but less sarcastic, sober. He wondered how he looked to her now, if he was more awkward, quieter. The thought didn't help him feel more comfortable.

"Sorry," he offered awkwardly, because he didn't know what the right response was. Sorry that a death eater mentioned you by name. Sorry you feel powerless. Again. There was a pause. "Should come work for the quibbler," he suggested flatly, raising his eyebrows a little as he reached for his drink. The sarcasm was clear, but lacked any sort of bite. He brought the glass to his lips, then hesitated. "Not that I'd tell you to quit your job or anything." He sipped his drink, but couldn't help but half smile against the lip of the glass anyway at that thought. One of his cheeks dimpled a little.

“Probably.” Edith nodded, though she wasn’t completely convinced. Sure, she had been stupid about this sort of thing when she was in school, having bigger problems all the time. She didn’t see the bigger picture when she had joined the DA, really only wanting to not let Umbridge waste her NEWT years. But then there was everything Harry told them, everything he said in The Quibbler. But The Prophet had been corrupt then, hadn’t it? Things were supposed to be better now, different.

Christ, it was the same now. All of it.

She leaned forward, deciding to dwell on unrealistic future plans rather than the realistic sort. “Canada,” she repeated with a nod. “Yeah.” It’d be easy enough, she supposed. New Zealand didn’t sound much better, especially if it was about to be summer. That really wasn’t a plus. A warm Christmas sounded pretty awful. Although-- “Can do one of those Lord of the Rings tours, see all the hobbit houses.” Elias wouldn’t see the appeal, of course, though she wasn’t really sure why she was trying to figure out how he’d feel about any of these hypotheticals. She didn’t bother mentioning it now.

Edith’s shoulders relaxed the tiniest bit as Dennis apologized. “Yeah.” She wasn’t sure which part he was apologizing for, but she appreciated it all the same. He knew as well as her that she didn’t have any sort of plan for the column, for anything really; he had said as much before. She took another drink and shrugged at his suggestion. “Ha ha.” She couldn’t see herself working for The Quibbler, though she supposed she could have said the same about the newspaper a year ago.

She laughed again, genuinely. “Wouldn’t you?” He might not have said it quite so plainly the very first time they had talked, when she still worked for the Ministry, when she had convinced herself she had been trying to help. She supposed that’s what she was doing now, too: convincing herself that she was just trying to help. She reached for her glass again, draining it about halfway. Propping her elbow up on the table, Edith rested her cheek on her fist, smiling a little as she looked at him. “Would you? Quit, I mean. If you were me.” They had established that they were pretty similar, hadn’t they? He hadn’t really questioned her decisions, anyway. He knew. 

"Second one comes out in a few months," Dennis said, raising his eyebrows. A part of him had always wanted to take Clem to the movies; it was a shame that he'd never gotten around to doing it. Keeping up with cinema stuff hadn't really interested him last term, but during the summer he'd gone to the movies a couple of times by himself and made sure to get there in time to watch all the trailers. It was like a window into another world, he thought. When he was a kid, he and Colin had liked that stuff. Fantasy, Science-fiction, Horror. So maybe it reminded him of his childhood.

Dennis smiled, a touch of wryness in the shape of his lips. His gaze dropped again. Would he quit if he were her? He wanted to say yes, of course. After establishing that the article in the prophet was Not Normal, and that it really had been an entire interview dedicated to exploring the ideas of a literal Death Eater, what would he have done? "If you can't get a job right away you'll be fine, right?" he asked, eyes focused on the liquid remaining in his glass. Despite the immense relief that had washed over him a moment ago, the entire topic was still a fairly stressful one, and a part of him wanted to finish his drink now. And order another - maybe a few. Probably best not to go back to school drunk, he thought distantly. 'Specially not the first time.

He didn't know if he'd quit her job. He didn't know if he'd be able to give up a steady stream of income so easily, even for his principles. Principles mattered, but food and rent mattered more. Then again, if those needs weren't so urgent... If he had a significant other who was supportive (a part of him wondered if Edith had talked to him about it), then what? He gave a lazy shrug, looking back up to meet her eyes. "I mean, your boss approved it, right? That's..." he shrugged again, grimacing at the thought of working for someone who didn't see the problem there.

Their spring rolls arrived just then, and Dennis remembered he was supposed to have decided on some food already. These days when he ate out, a lot of the time he'd make sure to memorise the meal he wanted, one finger right on its place on the menu for when he was asked. The preparation helped. Now, his eyes skimmed the words, falling on the rice section. When asked if they were ready to order, he pointed to a random dish in that section. "Oh, uh, just one of these thanks," he said, distracted.

“Oh, I know.” Edith raised her eyebrows to match his; she’d be at the midnight showing, if she could help it. She’d done the same last year, anyway. Elias had gone to Germany for Christmas and she hadn’t gone with him (and vice versa). Of course, she had to start her court-mandated community service the following day with just a few hours of sleep; maybe she wouldn’t repeat that part this year. Maybe Dennis would want to go with her. Maybe she shouldn’t push her luck.

Would she be fine if she couldn’t get another job right away? Edith honestly didn’t know. Financially, sure. Elias was good at that, helpful but not overbearing -- she hadn’t paid rent (ever) or bought groceries (more than four times) -- and then there was the small matter of the bonus that had accompanied that article, the raise that had followed her move to the political section. She hadn’t mentioned any of that to anyone; it had felt kind of wrong in the first place, benefitting like that; no one she interviewed had been compensated, after all. But then that interview and her editor being involved like she had been… it felt worse, now. She needed to eat, she had told that one lovely woman who had stopped by her office telling her to quit.

Maybe she could do both, though. Eat, quit. They weren’t mutually exclusive. Edith nodded slowly, finally answering Dennis’s question. She thought she had made up her mind then, even with his non-answer. She could come up with some reason why his opinion mattered as much as it did, something like ‘Elias would be supportive no matter what but he’s biased so it’s not as helpful’ but she didn’t want to waste time figuring all of that out.

Dennis asked about the interview again and Edith looked away, glancing back at him after a few seconds. “My boss--” The arrival of the spring rolls cut her off and Edith swallowed, reconsidering how best to phrase the next bit. She wasn’t ready to order, having neglected the menu except for when she needed something to look at that wasn’t Dennis, but she nodded and ordered whatever he did, too. The waiter left again; Edith finished half of whatever beer she had left.

“My boss approved that interview because she’s the one who interviewed him.” She had been over and over it so many times. She had picked up details about both the interviewer and the interviewee, true or not -- though being a rumored Death Eater is almost as bad, wasn’t it? -- and none of them really gave her any real desire to continue writing altogether. Of course a dumb, Gryffindoresque, nagging feeling told her she couldn’t quit altogether. She finished her thought aloud with a shrug. “Dunno if moving to The Quibbler would fix anything.” Could make it worse, she figured. She straightened up and leaned back against her chair, looking a little defeated. Her name was already out there, so what other options were there, really?