lemon glow - montserrat

“You sound like one of my patients,” she retorted with a smile, “always puts off meals until the last minute, has done so for years and is now paying the price for it, you ought to take good care of your body, what shall us fangirls do when you decide to retire because your body can no longer take the abuse?” she added, though her tone was light, she had no intention to chastise him. It was inevitable that at times like this the healer side of her made an appearance. However she had said her piece and would not bring up the topic of his eating habits again, as it was truly none of her business. Surely what he had waiting at home was much more delicious than a bag of crisps but considering the current situation, it was the best alternative she could offer.

Montserrat took the drink from Lucy’s hand with a slight nod of her head in appreciation, taking a sip of the refreshing beverage and smiling in pure pleasure as she did. “Now, this is delicious, not quite how my mom makes it but very, very close,” she noted in appreciation. Looking over at Harlan she gave him a dimpled smile, “Don’t judge my choices in food,” she said sarcastically, “I’ll have you know I rarely take a break, it’s all healthy food and exercise during the week, everything in moderation as they say,” she continued, surely he knew about that. It was not difficult to imagine just how fit he probably was under the Quidditch robes, she considered, her eyes briefly traveling down his chest as she considered just how he might look without all the pesky clothing before she was brought back from distraction by his words.

“Joan? Yeah well it doesn’t take much for him to become a complete embarrassment,” she laughed, “as you saw just earlier. You’d think that with all the years of practice he would have learned how to hold his alcohol and yet, two glasses of wine and he’s acting like an idiot,” she joked. Joan and his weak drinking habits were often a topic of conversation at family dinner, every relative had somehow ran into that part of Joan wishing they had not but it always made for fun story telling. But Montserrat did not want to go into the details of Joan’s previous discrepancies, Harlan probably had even more scandalous stories of his own. There were things she hoped to never find out about her brother, no matter how hard that was proving to be.

“Hmm,” she wondered, reaching into her bag as she considered just what she might have to offer him. “Probably nothing you can take with alcohol,” she noted, finding a vial of a mild pain relief potion she often took for occasional headaches before returning it to her bag. “Sorry,” she said, putting down her bag as she considered how else she might be helpful. “I’ve got my hands,” she offered him a good look at them, “I took a few massage courses for the sake of my patients,” she clarified, in case he got the wrong idea. She did not have her gloves which often protected her from having too much contact with others but she would have to make do. Taking another generous sip from her drink she moved to stand up. “Let me help,” she added, leaning over to press fingers into his shoulders. The contact did not feel too bad initially, though she assumed the alcohol did help numb her feeling of it. Just as suddenly, the train jolted forward, sweeping her off balance and landing her in his lap.

Instead of making any sudden movement she simply giggled. “Well I suppose this works too,” she joked, shifting to back off of him, though not really entirely in a rush. “If you turn that way, I sit on this side and work from here, this compartment is awfully small isn’t it,” she added.

"Not judging," Harlan clarified, he held both hands up in defense with a grin. For him, food was fuel and if it wasn't serving a purpose, there really was no need for it. Indulgences, though, he had a very different opinion on— and those came in many different forms, so he couldn't judge.

They breezed over the topic of Joan again which didn't surprise Harlan given the man's behavior earlier that night. He had known the older Fábregas much more closely when they were younger when Harlan had been more likely to go along with that sort of thing. Now, though, he couldn't have felt farther from him. Perhaps— as he'd noticed as a pattern across a few areas of his life— he was too old for all of that now. What at one point had felt like the only way to live his life, the ultimate goal realized, now just exhausted him.

"Hm," He hummed, disappointment clear that she wasn't offering up any kind of potion knowing that he'd been drinking. So she was an honest healer, then. They weren't all that way.

She could use her hands. Harlan's eyebrows shot up, certain that he'd heard her wrong, but there she was, showing them off. He loosened up once her intention became clear— a massage. What she had meant was far more innocent than where his mind had gone, but still he knew it was a bad idea.  "Oh, I don't—" He was about to say as much when her hands were on his shoulders, and his eyes closed for a moment and he made a soft sound that resembled an exhale of breath. His protest seemed less important then.

The moment came and went as soon as Montserrat fell forward, a victim of the train changing direction abruptly. He stopped it the best that he could, steadying her with one hand on her side and other on her arm. His immediate instinct was to get himself as far away from that as possible, but their cabin provided little opportunity, and he certainly wasn't going to just push her away because he lacked control.

"You alright?" Her laugh answered for him, and he mirrored her grin, brow still furrowed. "Bloody train," He spoke mostly to himself as he shifted slightly to accommodate for the body now practically on top of him. He had half a mind to comply, an innocent massage, in theory, was just what he wanted, no needed— but he knew himself better than that. "That's, ehm," The hand that had been on her side fell distractedly to her leg, thumb hooking around the top of her thigh. That wasn't part of the plan.

"That is—probably not a good idea," He continued, suddenly taking his hands to himself after a brief moment of lingering on her skin. "It's just," Harlan continued. It's just I don't know what my own limits are, is what he meant to say, but didn't. "It's not a good idea, " He repeated, the muscles in his jaw tensing as he shifted once she sat beside him. He took a mouthful of his drink before, "Press has been all over me lately, and that," He gestured vaguely to what that was. "Wouldn't end well for me," He backtracked. It was simply an issue of optics. Nothing more.

“I am,” she responded almost immediately but she was certain that her reaction that made that clear already. Since childhood, Montserrat had learned to make light of situations for the sake of saving face as it was not possible for others to sense your embarrassment if you simply laughed it off. Or at least it was what she had led herself to believe. Her hands relaxed a little, the position they were in making it a little difficult for her to get the right angle to help him like she intended to but in their current predicament, it was suddenly the furthest thing from her mind. She looked down at him, his hands lingering just enough for her to realize that something had changed but before she could acknowledge it, not that she would know how to do so, he had pulled his hands away.

The most confusing bit was that though his words suggested he was not interested, her consensimency had revealed otherwise. It was in these rare moments that her cursed ability proved itself a gift, giving her insight into the minds of those whose desires might not have been so easily revealed. It revealed itself in a low hum underneath her skin, warm and pleasant, the sort of feeling one got when slightly intoxicated, a feeling of blissfulness. It made goosebumps form along her arms, ones he was thankfully not able to see due to the length of her shirt, and had she stayed in her position any longer it might have also manifested in the form of a blush across the apples of her cheeks. However, she could sense his hesitation in his initial reaction and that was enough to make her move to sit next to him. 

But why? It was something that she could not help but wonder. It had not been her intention to take advantage of him, but it had also not occurred to her that he would react in this manner should they find themselves in this very position. She was unsure if his hesitation stemmed from something as frivolous as the fact that she was his mate’s sister or that it was something deeply rooted within him, a change he had committed, a relationship, or even something as simple as a lack of attraction. Though Montserrat was naturally inquisitive, this was simply not a question that any self-respecting woman asked. Nodding in response, a little unconvinced by his words but not the sort to push it, she returned to her seat. There was no point in making a big deal out of something so small, though she could not help but secretly curse her luck, a very small part of her had really been curious about where things would have gone from there.

“No worries, I understand, I respect it,” she said, forcing as polite of a smile as she could manage. She respected whatever his reasons were, even if they were not exactly clear to her. Returning to her seat, and moving just a little closer to the window she began rummaging through her bag to retrieve the small vial she had presented earlier. “You can try this tomorrow morning after you’ve sobered up, it isn’t the best but it does the job until you can get something stronger, I’m sure the team physician has something to give you” she continued, attempting to put what had just occurred behind them. When laughing it off didn’t work, pretending it, whatever that was. didn’t happen often did the trick. “You really ought to consider getting massages though, there are some great places in London, you seem rather…tense,” she added. That much was true. “I’d suggest a vacation, but you’ve still got a few more months until Quidditch season is over, right?”

The moment they were no longer touching Harlan selfishly felt an absence. His own skin that had just moments ago been hot with anticipation, was left cold in the open air of the train cabin. He shivered involuntarily. It was a feeling that he knew he wasn't warranted to have.

Montserrat was as polite as ever despite the palpable shift in the air. Harlan frowned. It wasn't his intention to make things uncomfortable, but it seemed he had done just that when he decided to remove the opportunity to fuck something up. She respected it. There was an acidic feeling left in the pit of Harlan's stomach at her words When had he become this person? He shook the question, focusing his attention back to the vial she presented.

"Right, doctor," He couldn't help himself, reaching forward to take the potion, his fingers brushing hers, the need for that feeling again— his skin on hers– leading the way. Harlan steadied himself into another drink and sat back in his chair more comfortably now that they had some distance between them. They had to have been on the train just shy of half of the journey by now, he calculated. He could survive the rest.

He seemed tense. Harlan let out a chuckle. She had no idea. "Right," He agreed, words sparse. The Griffins had made it farther this season than any he'd been with the team, and farther than they had in at least a decade, so the feeling was new to them all.

"I was thinking tonight we may need a trip somewhere, though," Harlan mused over his glass, shifting to face her, head rested against the back of his seat. "We all need some time away," Rob, in particular, before he killed someone "Before the next match. Any recommendations?" He asked casually, sinking what was left of his drink. A normal conversation. Nothing he needed to worry about. Nothing Skeeter could make a story of.

Until he caught her eye for just a moment too long, he almost believed it, too.

She could not help but smile a little at his tone, even in circumstances like these Montserrat did not ignore the fact that she had chosen to become a healer and though the conversation had not gone in the direction that she had secretly hoped that it would, such things would not dissuade her from her duty to protect others and make sure that they understood the dangers of taking potions under the influence. Surely she was not the first person to say it, it was evident from the tenseness that he worked his body probably a little too hard for his own good. Along with all the other things that came with being a Quidditch star, Montserrat was certain that he hardly had the time to truly relax.

The young healer hoped that he would take her advice and see someone at St. Mungo’s for his pain, and if luck was on her side maybe she would have the opportunity to see him again, under better and possibly more favorable circumstances. His fingers brushed against hers when he took the potion from her hands, igniting a cold chill that lingered along the length of her spine for a moment before she pulled her hand away. That was enough physical contact for today, she decided. The odd sense of discomfort that she had experienced when that man that had touched her with his unwelcomed advances at the party paled in comparison to the small glimpse of pleasure when Harlan brushed his fingers against hers and that in itself was proof that if she did not keep herself in check, she too, may start throwing herself at the handsome athlete.

But she could not, not after her small advance had been met with such resistance. Montserrat looked at him curiously, his question taking her aback. She was distracted after all, with thoughts of what might have happened if he had not pushed her away so easily just moments prior. “If I could take a vacation,” she started, the thought felt a little wistful considering the witch rarely had the time off to enjoy such pleasures. “Well I often travel to Spain, Tenerife is favorite, Marbella is a strong second,” she added, “and if you ever find yourself in Spain when I’m, visiting family I’d be happy to take you out on the town,” she suggested. Joan could have done the same but he did not understand the hidden gems of the city as she did. At this point, she also liked to think that he enjoyed spending time with her a little more than he did with Joan.

“But I assume that’s a little too close to home, you ought to go to an island, somewhere in the middle of nowhere where you can do as you please without all the flashing cameras and judgment,” she continued. “But at least you can get away," she reasoned, stretching out a little in the chair as she sat more comfortably, taking another sip from her drink just for something to do. "I'd kill for a proper vacation, might even consider moving onto an island myself once I've worked hard for a decade or three," she joked. "Do you think about that, Harlan? Joan thinks he's going to play forever but I doubt he'd got more than five years left before he settles down with whoever will have him". The future was something that Montserrat often thought about, and part of her was curious about what Harlan's future dream was, maybe it would reveal something about the reason he had stopped her earlier.

Absently, Harlan pulled the small lever at the side of his seat for service. He probably didn't need another drink, but he wanted one. If he was going to keep his hands to himself (and he needed to), busying himself was crucial. Lucy's plump reddened cheeks popped into view through the frosted window of their cabin and she gave a nod before presumably heading back to make another round for the two of them. She knew the Quidditch player well enough to not have to ask.

Usually, though, it was just him and a book— sans a twenty-something brunette with an accent.

"I quite like Spain," He stood up to collect their drinks, looking back over his shoulder to glance at Montse with a nod. He'd almost forgotten it was the origin of the Fábregas family. Of course it was— Spain was the perfect embodiment of the siblings— exotic, and warm, familiar. "Whereabouts is your family again?" He asked as he placed her drink on the half-table against the wall, aware of not pressuring her into another. He was sure Joan had mentioned it before, their origin.

Harlan grinned. He was taken by the idea of a remote island, away from everything, and everyone. His mind drifted all too easily, though, to her on an island, as she mentioned. "Indonesia, perhaps," The man mused as he leaned back against his seat, mirroring her movements without knowing. "Bali," He thought aloud.

Did he ever think about that? Harlan paused and took a moment to think. He rested the plastic cup against the top of his knee, blue-grey eyes studying the ceiling. "More so now than ever," He smiled, though it didn't quite meet his gaze as it flashed back down to her. "I think I'd like to teach—" He confessed. That wasn't something he'd really admitted to anyone before, it felt good. "I can't imagine the league will keep me around for too much longer..." Harlan mused over his drink. He was over the average age of most players, but he hadn't shown any signs of slowing down yet.

Realistically, The Griffins wouldn't be giving him up anytime soon, but the idea of his best used by date weighed heavily on him. "—I almost retired before this season," Harlan wasn't sure why he felt comfortable telling her that. Only a few people in his life knew, the ones he held closest. Maybe it was because of the privacy of their compartment, or maybe it was because he wasn't sure if he'd see her again— either way, it felt nice to have her ask the question.

"Shit," Harlan shook his head, eyes widening briefly as he heard himself seemingly for the first. "The woe-is-me Quidditch captain story is a bit clichéd, isn't it?" He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, feeling more fluid in his movement from the alcohol. "What about you? A healer for life?" It suited her, but she seemed young. No one had it all figured out then. He still didn't. Without thinking, he brushed a hand over the top of her leg as he sat back in his chair. There was a part of him, now especially, that wanted to pretend, to relive when he was just starting his career. It was selfish, of course, but he couldn't stop it.

“Sarrià-Sant Gervasi,” she said without hesitation, the Catalan flowing from her tongue almost effortlessly as she spoke. It would have felt wrong to pronounce it any other way, even if she was certain that Harlan had not understood what she had said. Montserrat had always been proud of her heritage and though she spoke English with difficulties and a very noticeable accent, the thought of trading her French and Catalan fluency only to sound more English had not once crossed her mind. Montserrat noticed as Lucy returned with drinks that he had ordered but she was still working on her first sangria. A part of her wondered if she should remind him that he ought to be careful not to drink too much but the last thing she assumed he needed was someone else telling him what to do. If it became an issue, the witch would not be above inviting him to stay over at hers until he sobered up. In the most friendly, platonic way possible of course.

“It’s this great district in Barcelona,” she continued, “It’s a little like London, I’d say, has all this amazing architecture and these great little pubs that everyone crams into on the weekends to talk about Quidditch and work and politics,” she continued, “the nightlife is amazing, people actually dance in clubs not just sit around staring at each other,” she joked. Montserrat had not had the time to experience the London nightlife but from what she gathered, it simply could not compare to the magic of Barcelona and that was enough to keep her away from them. “My father used to own a small practice in the middle of the city, right next to this place with yummy um—” she had suddenly forgotten the word, “gelats” she attempted, speaking with her hands as if somehow the right could somehow be grasped from thin air, “ice cream, yes,” she continued with a laugh. “Anyway I won’t bore you with all the details,” she said, forcing her excitement to tone down before she began to overwhelm him with accounts of her childhood.

“Indonesia? I’ve never been but it looks quite nice in pictures,” she offered. Occasionally in some of the travel papers, moving images of the peaceful breeze dancing along the waves on a secluded spot on the island were used for promotional purposes. Along with an ostentatious headline of how the ultimate dream trip could be achieved with just a low payment of some ridiculous price, Montserrat had often dreamed about traveling there or somewhere similar. Of course with Harlan, she doubted that money was an issue as time was. “I heard the weather is gorgeous year-round and if you go soon, you can probably avoid the crowds,” she added, something she had learned in one magazine or another.

“Teach?” she replied her voice rising just slightly in disbelief before she settled back, suddenly hoping that her surprise would not be taken in the wrong way. “That’s wonderful, with your record I’m sure any young player would be lucky to have you as their instructor,” she continued for good measure. Those words had not been said for the sake of saying them, from what she had read she knew that Harlan was an asset to the Griffins, not something that could be said about every member on every team, especially when it came to Quidditch, where stats were everything. “They’d be silly to let you go, if not teaching, working as a mentor, being there for moral support, it all counts I’d say,” she said, giving him a dimpled smile. “Experience is everything, you know,” though she was certain he was well aware of that.

“And what brought you back? From the thought of retiring I mean, it could not have been an easy decision, even if it was only a possibility,” she asked, her tone gentler as she considered that the topic might be of sensitive nature. A more appropriate question might have been Why? want to stop in the first place but she could not imagine that someone like Harlan would simply want to stop a career he had held on to for so long just for the sake of it. Montserrat had always been more interested in the stories about what kept others going rather than what had ever possessed them to stop. Life was a personal journey, no matter how good one was at one’s job, well it wasn’t the only thing that mattered.

She laughed a little at his comment. “It isn’t, I cannot imagine how difficult it is to always been in the spotlight, you have your reasons for doing what you do but I assume it isn’t always a walk in the park,” she continued. It was an assumption, after all, but from the look of things, Harlan did not seem as happy as he had seen earlier in the night. “I may not want to be a healer for eternity but I do know that helping others is my calling. Right now, the maternity ward is my home but maybe in a few years I’d like to have my own clinic,” she continued, “way down the line well maybe something with animals, I’ve always dreamt of living on a farm and living off the land sort of thing, or maybe just to raise cute little baby lambs” she laughed at the thought. “But who knows, I’ve just only graduated,” she confessed.

The cabin felt warm as Montse recalled the place she was from. Harlan may as well have been there himself. He could feel the sun, hear the music, taste the food. It couldn't have been anything like London, he decided. He knew Spain enough to figure that most people there seemed to enjoy things. Truly enjoy them. They took their time with meals and slept during the day— in general, they shamelessly valued things that most people he knew would consider to be hedonistic.

It was nice to get a different perspective, if even just for an hour on a train.

Harlan was brought back to the present as the conversation shifted to his direction. He didn't particularly enjoy talking about himself but with her, it didn't bother him quite at much. Perhaps it was because he wasn't sure when (or if) he'd even see her again, but he felt uninhabited.

"How very encouraging," Harlan gleaned, his best efforts to hide any hint of sarcasm failing at the last minute. Really, though, he meant it, and he hoped that she picked up on that. If it were anyone else, he would almost certainly not believe any fabrications of him being a good mentor, but with Montserrat, he believed it. There was something about her that made it hard to imagine she could say anything but the truth.

Shifting in his seat, the wizard ran a hand through his freshly washed hair, still somewhat damp post-match. "Hmm," He hummed. What had brought him back? It was a question he asked himself often but he still hadn't come to a conclusion. "Haven't a fucking clue," Blue-grey eyes shifted from the window, back to her as he chewed through a smile. "Just a feeling," He shrugged.

He wasn't about to admit, even to her, that the new players on his team were solely responsible for the reignition of that fire.

The conversation flowed back to her, and her future farm. "Cute," Harlan grinned, peering at her from over the top of his drink before remembering that it was her he was talking to. He hadn't yet gauged how she would react to his particular flavor of humor.  He was about to say as such when she mentioned graduating. He paused, nearly choking on the sip of his drink. "

Really?" His surprise was evident. "From secondary school?" He hoped. Anything else and he would have to get his own cabin.

“Seriously,” she retorted, unsure if she believed his words or better yet if he believed hers. The young healer was naturally a nice person but would not have gone out of her way to stroke his ego if she felt her words were untrue. Honesty had always been the best policy, she figured, and when it came to Harlan it almost seemed as if he did not think of himself as great of a player as Montserrat knew him to be. But she also supposed that that sort of modesty went a long way when one tried to make a name for themselves, especially in a field like Quidditch. “I’m sure everyone else would tell you the same,” she added for reassurance.

“Well I’m glad that you didn’t retire because well I would’ve never had a chance to see you play and who knows what awful things would have happened at that party,” she said with a small laugh, “We wouldn’t have been able to meet or chat like this and though it’s all very insignificant in the end, I’m grateful for it,” she smiled. Although by this point she had already assumed they would not meet again for some time, there was really no reason for the two of them to cross paths unless he somehow found himself at the maternity ward at St. Mungo’s. She doubted that Joan would want to take her to any more parties unless their mother insisted but Montserrat had not enjoyed Joan’s company in the least so she would not be as eager even if her mother suggested it.

“Baby lambs are the cutest,” she agreed with him, though the thought of doing something like owning a farm had never felt very concrete in her head and as such it was not a dream that she often shared with people she had just met. There had always been a sense of responsibility that she felt when she divulged her future aspirations, not having an exact plan for the future made her feel rather unprepared so the idea of having her own clinic had always seemed like the right thing to say. Her father had often made it a point to state the importance of owning a business and Montserrat had simply gone along with it because it sounded better than whatever whimsical ideas she had come up with.

His reaction to her response brought her back to the conversation, an amused expression on her face as she considered whether he sounded surprised because she looked much older than what she truly was or simply because she was a little younger than he was. Montserrat was not exactly sure about how old Harlan was, though she was sure that if she was very interested in finding out she would find it within the pages of any of the interviews he had been part of in the last few years. Age had always been a thing people longed to know, after all.

“From Beauxbatons of course,” she said with the most serious expression she could muster before she smiled, bringing a hand up to her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Yes, from secondary school,” she confessed shortly after. “I went to Dilly’s, graduated officially last summer but at St. Mungo’s I’m still considered extremely unexperienced,” she added. “I’ll be twenty-three in August,” she added, just in case her response did not give him the answer he sought. “And I’m guessing you and Joan are around the same age?” she asked, assuming that if he wasn’t in his late twenties he was at most in his early thirties like her brother.

Her kindness struck him and stayed with him, uncomfortably. Harlan couldn't imagine why she was being so complimentative— apart from his sparing her the unwanted groping at the event, he couldn't say that he had been as gracious. As she carried on with niceties, the Quidditch captain became more uncomfortable, shifting in his seat under her gaze. There was something about Montserrat that was jarring, in both a good and bad way.

Harlan wanted to say thank you but couldn't bring himself to. It felt far too indulgent. "If not me, someone would have," He commented quietly into his drink, quick to downplay what he'd done. Someone sure, but most certainly not her brother. He imagined by now that Joan was knee-deep in something, not thinking about them in the slightest.

Beauxbatons. His heart nearly stopped. Harlan coughed into his hand at the very moment she saved him. Secondary school, it was. He wasn't sure why her age was so important, but it had become so as the night went on. He could only assume it was because of the press. He worked under the assumption that his every move was one step away from splashing the pages of some gossip publication, and being spotted with an eighteen-year-old would have been the final nail in his proverbial coffin.

"Merlin— fuck," Harlan let out an exasperated sigh as if to say as much. He had no right to feel relieved, but he was. "Well congratulations then," He tipped his cup to her before taking a much-needed drink. "Thirty-three," He stated plainly, though to hear it aloud felt strange when juxtaposed to her own age.

"Twenty-two seems like a lifetime ago," He couldn't help himself from reminiscing, grinning, though he couldn't for the life of him place what (or who, more likely) he was doing at that time. He settled against his seat and accidentally hit her knee against his own in the movement. "Sorry—" He wasn't, really.

"Coming to any more matches this season?" Harlan ventured, changing the subject, as casually as he could muster. That was assuming the Griffins made it any farther. He was all too aware that their train would be coming to its end shortly and he, selfishly, wanted to know if he would run into her again—without saying that much. He willed himself to remember to owl Joan a few tickets when he got home.

“I suppose that’s true,” she retorted after all Montserrat felt most at ease when she focused on the good in others rather than the terrible things they probably got onto when nobody was looking. However, a very small part of her also wanted to believe that some turned a blind eye to those sorts of things or better yet might have not noticed her hesitation since she had not put up much of a fight in the first place. Even her own brother had been much too preoccupied with socializing to think about her and he had been the one to bring her to the event in the first place. “Probably not Joan, though, he’s not the confrontational type,” she continued. At least that sounded a bit nicer than he doesn’t care about anyone but himself.

“Thank you,” she smiled, hoping that in confessing her age he would not feel the need to start talking down to her because she was considerably younger. Not that Montserrat lacked experience in life, she could admit that there were probably many things she could learn from someone like Harlan, some of those things probably would not make for polite conversation but a girl could dream. “Thirty-three, well you certainly don’t look it,” she said in return, though in truth, Harlan did not seem like many thirty-year-olds she had met in the past. Joan was an exception to the rule because he was reckless but Harlan seemed more jovial, possibly even more full of life and adventure. At least that was what she had been led to believe.

“It isn’t, really, anyway I hear life is way more exciting in your thirties, you feel like you’re on the right path, there’s more self-understanding and most importantly you get out of that nasty habit of dating completely awful people,” she said lightly. Who knew if any of that was the truth but if any of the magazines she read in her downtime at work were to be believed, these were a few of the many highlights of reaching your thirties. Though relationships were not at the forefront of her goals, her last breakup had been particularly painful and confusing after all, she wondered for a moment if she would settle in her thirties or still be spending most of her time working. At least she was until his knee bumped against hers, the contact causing goosebumps to form along her arms. “No worries,” she said quietly. She shuffled a little in her seat to give him more space, worrying that another casual bump might incite a rather inappropriate reaction from her.

“Only if you’d like me there,” she teased lightly, keeping her tone as casual as she could to avoid coming on to him too strongly. “I kid, I kid,” she said after a moment, “I’d like to, at least if my schedule at work lets up. But I probably won’t be sitting anywhere you can see me,” she laughed. If Montserrat had that kind of money, she most likely wouldn’t be spending it on box seats at Quidditch matches. “But if you eventually find yourself at St. Mungo’s, come and find me. I’ll treat you to coffee for your kindness, promise,” she said, hoping that he might take her up on her offer and she would have the opportunity to see him again.

How in the hell was she twenty-two? Harlan tried to remember what he was like at that age but ended up skirting around anything specific as it pertained to his memory. One thing he was sure of was that he was not nearly as wise. Probably still wasn't.

"I'll send Joan some tickets—" It was the safer option. "—with the clear instruction that few belong to you," He clarified with a grin, leaning into the open space between them to fill the gap. There was a part of him that wanted to be closer, but he'd done well to control himself and he couldn't stop now.

On-time, the train came to a halt and pushed him back against his own side of the cabin, where he needed to be."Hopefully no trips to St. Mungos any time soon," He cleared his throat, finishing what was left of his drink, opting not to divulge that he did want to see her again, even if that meant injury that his team mediwizards couldn't tend to.

Harlan watched as passengers started to disembark, their figures blurred beyond the stained glass of their compartment window, but he didn't make any sudden movements. Avoid the crowd— just another on the list of excuses he was making for himself that night to justify his actions.

"Are you nearby?" He stood up, moving their empty glasses to a centralized location if only for Lucy's sake. It was an easy apparate to most parts of the city if she felt up t oit. His was just up the road so he didn't need to worry about the perils of magical transport, but he wanted to be sure that she got home safely.

"Well that's very kind of you," she replied almost immediately, unable to contain the naturally bright smile that came along with the thought of possibly seeing him again, even if it was as a spectator. Though a part of Montserrat was almost certain that he would do as he said, there was still the more realistic side that reminded her that it was probably simply curtesy and did not mean any of the things she probably believed it meant. Either way, it had been a brief but very nice encounter. She could not help but lean forward just a little as he had, wondering silly things like how things might have ended had he not pushed her off his lap or if she had been a little pushier with her advances. But even she knew that such actions were not reflective of who she truly was.

As the train came to a stop, she stood up, careful to keep her balance as she did in order to prevent any more mishaps. “Right,” she responded, her smile falling a little as she interpreted his statement to mean that maybe he did not really want to see her again after all, but then again asking to see someone when they next visited the hospital probably did not seem like the right thing to say to begin with. “So stay away from St. Mungo’s and make sure that you take good care of yourself,” she continued, the tone she often took with her patients naturally taking over as she spoke.

Montserrat waited like he did, in no rush to get out of the compartment in order not to cause him any embarrassment should the wrong pair of eyes fall upon them. Gathering the things she waited for another moment before reaching for the door, his voice causing her to turn back again. “Quite close, actually,” she offered and considered turning that into an invitation but found it much easier to save herself a little abashment by choosing not to.

 â€œI’ll simply walk from here, a little fresh air is the perfect solution for clearing ones’ head,” she added but was unsure of what she exactly needed to clear from her head. “What about you? Make sure you get home safely, all sorts of weirdos wandering the street around at night, might run after some rowdy fans after such a great victory,” she offered him a smile, finally opening the cabin to step outside as she walked down the row of compartments nearing the exit, assuming that he would at least follow her out of the door.

Montserrat grinned, and he couldn't from help something similar pulling at either side of his mouth. She was kind— genuinely so. Him, not so much.

It seemed they were both stalling from leaving, for a variety of reasons. Harlan tried not to dwell too long on the one that felt wrong— that he didn't really want the night to end. He guessed it would be the last time he'd see her. Her brother had only just brought her around, and they'd known each other for a decade.

Catching her eye as he collected the glasses, half standing, he paused. If it had been a few years ago (hell, a few months ago) he'd have made his move already, somewhere between the stadium and town. There would be no need to ask if she wanted to come back to his now. He shook the thought and glanced outside the cabin where he saw the last of passengers were trickling by.

"Suppose we should get to it then," Leave, that is. He cleared his throat and let her lead, holding the sliding door open above her head, successfully resisting the urge to touch his free hand to the small of her back. She lived close. He practically rolled his eyes. The universe was testing him. "Well—" He glanced down the empty corridor behind them as they exited the train. "—can't just let you walk alone," His voice was hesitant at first, but resolute in the end. He was perfectly capable of making sure a stranger got home safely. It was innocent.

[fin]