i'm on my way [honey]

30 april 2003

“Is Harlan going to start making you dinners any time soon?” Fergie asked as he walked from inside the fireplace to the kitchen counter. Withdrawing containers from a magicked bag, he went about setting down stacks of prepared meals on the bench. He wasn't about to say anything of the sort to Harlan Bellamy's face, of course, but it would be nice if the quidditch player could cook and save Fergie having to worry about his sister eating properly (sweets and alcohol weren't proper nourishment, much as he wished they were). Really, Honey was lucky she had inherited the Stroud metabolism and not the Flume one, as Fergie had, or she would have learnt this much sooner -- he supposed when middle age hit her it might slow down drastically. Better not to mention that.

He had separated the meals out into four stacks. "Roasts, pastas, stews, stirfrys," he pointed at each one in turn. "I did lasagne, and some bolognese so you'll just need to boil some spaghetti if you can manage that," he teased. In an effort to sneak some vegetables into her, he'd heard one of the mum's in the office describe how they grated carrot into the mince, so had decided to give it a try. If it worked, he'd progress to mashing some turnip into her potato -- but baby steps.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, looking at the time and at the glass in her hand. He had finished work, gone home to pick up the meals, then made his way straight here and his stomach was letting him know he hadn’t had anything since lunch. “I haven’t, so,” he picked a container at random and opened it, transferring it to a plate to warm with his wand. He brought it over to the kitchen table and sat, summoned himself a glass and the bottle of whisky Honey kept hidden on top of the pantry.

He poured himself a generous serve and sipped at it. “How was Easter ‘n that then?” he asked, putting down his drink and picking up his fork.


@Honey Bea Flume

Honey glanced toward the fireplace as it blazed green, watching long enough to confirm it was Fergie before she turned back to the large pile of invoices and receipts in front of her; she’d just started earnestly working on the books for Easter business. “You’ve only just now surpassed the quality of Mum’s cooking,” she said without looking up again, quill scratching as she did a sum over for the third time. “Imagine how long it’d take him to get up to snuff.”

She set the quill down (and replaced it with her drink) and looked at her brother again, pulling out enough food to last her at least a few weeks. Harlan could cook but he was busy and they didn’t see each other as much as Fergie probably thought they should and all that aside, she liked having a long-standing excuse to see Fergie despite their schedules and recurring arguments. She followed along as he pointed out what he’d made, rolling her eyes as he mentioned her supposed inability to boil spaghetti. “Watch out for news that Honeydukes has burned down.” She shrugged, nearly sure she wasn’t serious. “Have that on your conscience.”

He asked about tonight’s dinner as she was mid sip; Honey swallowed and set her glass down, feeling a bit called out. “I had lunch.” A ‘liquid dinner’ didn’t sound quite as catchy as a ‘liquid lunch’ but so be it; that’s where she had ended up. “I’m not hungry,” she finished, pushing aside some of her paperwork to clear a spot for him to eat.

While she was content to let him eat alone, Honey very well couldn’t let him drink alone (even though she was already drinking). She downed what was left in her glass -- she’d had some strawberry puree leftover and had been completely right that it’d go very well with vodka -- and picked up the bottle of whisky after Fergie was done with it. She shrugged as she poured herself a matching amount. “Same ol’.” She nodded and tapped her fingers on the pile of receipts taller than last year’s had been.

She sniffed at her drink; Fergie had picked one of the better bottles, she thought. “Dad popped in last minute to help.” Saturday evening; it had been a bit of a blur then, finishing everything up to get it out by morning, but he had at least let her stay in charge of everything, for the most part. She took a sip, waited a beat before adding with a laugh: “He’ll be so sad we’ve had any of his whisky.” Ambrosius wasn’t against sharing, but he usually preferred to be a part of drinking whatever alcohol he had provided. She shrugged again, figuring she’d tell him it was all Fergie’s idea, anyway.

“How about you?” She waited to ask until his mouth was full of food. “Work alright?” She still refused to believe he had much of a social life without her.

"Didn't realise you had such high standards," he teased, clearly not talking about food only. It did give him a little punch of pride to have his cooking compared (positively) to their mothers, though.

"I imagine they'll wedge it in between the latest news on your boyfriends," he smirked. He was only now getting to the point where they could joke about Honey’s proclivity for ending up in the gossip column alongside her famous companions. It was still weird to see her name pop up at all, and weirder to see Harlan’s in connection with another woman (who was also linked to Charlie, Merlin), but Fergie was trying to let Honey decide if it was worth worrying about, and she didn’t seem worried about it.

He raised an eyebrow at her, but chose not to force it -- it wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy a tipple after work. Still, his brow rose again when she downed whatever it was she had been drinking and poured herself a measure of whisky. Fergie popped some lamb and potato (he’d picked a roast container) into his mouth and chewed. “Looks like you did alright,” he offered, nodding his head at the receipts. It was a far cry from the Easter when Fergie had been working here, in his stint between heading back to the Ministry.

The Scotsman let out an exasperated sort of chuckle; “Can’t help himself,“ he said. “Think he misses it, you know.” He set his knife down to have a sip of whisky, then pulled a face; “It’s not like we’re gonna finish the whole bottle.” He went for some roasted parsnip next; around it, he said “Good thing you took this place. Can you imagine?” He grinned. He couldn’t -- imagine it. Spending his days in a kitchen. Fergie liked to cook, but he was hopeless at baking. There was a reason his duties had always been limited to stocking shelves and manning the till.

He shrugged, mouth full of potato. “Same ol’,” he echoed her earlier assessment. “Been a bit quiet, actually.” He didn’t want to say too quiet, but how else had he justified skiving off to go watch movies? “Probably pick up soon, tourists start coming over on holiday and whatever. Last July we had a group of Russians--” he stopped suddenly. “What are you doing for your thirtieth?” he asked, his expression rather smug -- Honey was getting old.

“Yeah,” she replied, rolling her eyes as slowly and dramatically as possible. “Right.” It felt like ages since she’d had a mention -- never mind the bit about boyfriends Fergie was getting such a kick out of -- and it shouldn’t have bothered her as much as it did. She knew as soon as she let it get to her, she’d be mentioned for all the wrong reasons and she’d (mostly) made it this far.

“Oh, I know.” Honey had no plans to retire, not now, not ever-- the thought that she wouldn’t have anyone to properly give Honeydukes to had crossed her mind; she figured she still had plenty of time to figure that out. Her dad hadn’t inherited the shop from a blood relative, anyway. That aside, Honey could barely take a weekend off without going crazy; it was a miracle Mr Flume was able to stretch his retirement out between holidays, when he could find the excuse to pop in.

She shrugged. Fergie might not have plans to finish the bottle, but she didn’t think it could hurt anything to try. She took another sip, shrugged again. Honey could imagine her dad never retiring -- had just been thinking about it, more or less. She didn’t mind her dad’s occasional visits ‘to help’ but she thought she had done a fairly good job with things the five years she’d been in charge; she didn’t know if she could have coped working for her parents her entire life. Living with them surely wouldn’t have been sustainable, anyway.

“That’s not the worst thing,” she said; quiet days at work drove her crazy, of course, but she imagined that wasn’t for everyone. “Oh, good.” It’d pick up right when Honeydukes slowed down, which she had always appreciated. That meant Fergie could be around for the worst holidays, usually, even though having him help a little at Christmas and then roll straight into a full week in Spain with him was a little much -- and never mind this past Christmas, when they had been living together again. She was glad they were back to some semblance of normal, at least.

She had brought her glass up when he stopped, redirected their conversation. She lowered it just enough to say, “Nothing,” then took a prolonged sip. The usual plan -- joint party with Grace -- was probably still the plan, but she wouldn’t have minded if they skipped the part about her being thirty. She was fairly accomplished, yes, and was creating the semblance of settling with Harlan -- and she only phrased it like that because she didn’t know what ‘settling’ would have looked like for either of them, probably wouldn’t until it smacked them both in the face -- but still: thirty. She’d found a few grey hairs already, had felt it in her knees when she had to go up and down from the flat too many times in a day; she was clinging to the last two months of her twenties.

“What are you doing for yours?” Honey raised her eyebrows over her glass as she took another sip. “Yours is first, y’know.” She’d hated having their birthdays so close once but had come to find it almost endearing as they had gotten older. Almost. Now it was just an excuse to ignore her own for as long as she could.

“No, I s’pose it’s not,” he agreed. But there were more important things to discuss now, like her birthday. Or his. Fergie narrowed his eyes at his sister. “I’m not turning thirty,” he argued, though he couldn’t deny that he appreciated her wanting to focus on his birthday, it being first and all. “C’mon, the big three-oh! You’ve gotta have a party,” he grinned, enjoying this the more he thought about it.

He shrugged, then, as he thought about what he was doing. He had a sip of his whisky. “Dunno, it’s always around the League finals isn’t it? People usually wanna go to the match.” He raised a knowing eyebrow at her, strongly hinting at the fact that her boyfriend would likely be playing in said final, if they carried on as they were. The only team that had performed better this season had been the Falcons, and as much as Fergie wanted Portree to win, he would definitely take a Griffins win over the alternative.

“Could have drinks after, if you’re not going to be too busy.” He wasn’t giving her an ultimatum, but he didn’t really want to schedule his party to clash with something Harlan’s team might put on -- almost undoubtedly would put on, if they made it to the finals -- something that she would be expected to attend. He would understand her needing to pick Harlan over him -- might be happy she had, even -- but he’d rather not have to make her choose. Honey hadn’t failed to present him with a cake for his birthday in ten years (and his parents had done the honours before that) -- he didn’t want to start now.

“I hope you support Portree if it’s us against him in the final,” he warned her, mostly in jest but definitely serious underneath the smile on his lips. “Guess we’ll see how they’d fare in a couple of weeks,” he said, referencing the upcoming game where Portree had the home advantage. “You’re not giving him any tips are you?”

“I’m not turning thirty,” she parroted back, rolling her eyes as she took another sip — each successive one got easier to stand — of her drink. “I’ll have a party if you have a party,” she said, setting her glass down and leaning forward, resting folded arms on the table in front of her. Fergie parties were fun — she’d bake the cake but have no other responsibilities — and her own were even better.

Honey returned his shrug. “Dunno why we couldn’t do both.” She’d certainly rolled a late night out into an early quidditch morning before, wouldn’t have any problem doing it again. Plus, she could think of at least a couple people who didn’t care enough about quidditch to go so surely they’d show up to a Fergie party. She should have been more concerned about the possibility of quidditch canceling out Harlan’s desire to go to a party with her but she let those thoughts get away from her.

She shrugged again, had another sip of her whisky. “You can’t plan your birthday over whether or not Harlan might be in the finals,” she added after a minute. She was conflicted, of course, hoping Portree won the league but feeling bad for not supporting her boyfriend’s team. Then again, he knew she went for Portree since day one and wouldn’t it be too serious to stop that just because of who she was dating?

Fergie practically read her mind. “Of course I will.” She rolled her eyes before looking back to her brother. “Portree’ll have it,” she said confidently but not sure she believed herself. They’d be at the match, her and Fergie, just like every other home advantage one.

“Mm, not the kind I’d want to tell you about.” Honey smirked, tipping her head back to finish the last few sips of whisky at a quicker pace. She contemplated her empty glass for a minute before glancing back up. “You have an early morning tomorrow?” She pulled the bottle close to pour herself a refill. “We haven’t been properly drunk in too long.”

“Alright, alright,” he smiled, pleased to have had his arm twisted. “I’ll have something, probably just at my place though. Seeing as I’m not turning thirty.” He smirked, drinking from his whisky again -- his glass now a lot nearer to empty than full.

“What if... “ he lowered his voice, “what if Portree lose?” He returned to normal volume; “I’m not gonna want to party if we lose the final. I’d be more likely drowning my sorrows,” he sighed; this was the closest Portree had come to the top in a couple of years. He was assuming she meant they go to the Quidditch match then party after. He knew the big game was on the Saturday right after his birthday this year, and Saturdays were the designated party day. Unless… “On the Friday?”

“I’m just trying to be nice.” He narrowed his eyes tellingly -- Honey had been slightly less nice to some of his girlfriends over the years. Plus, with her track record, he felt like her plus one’s needed all the encouragement they could get to stick around. “Anyway, he wouldn’t want to come, would he?” Fergie kind of hoped so -- Lysander from the office didn’t believe him that he was on first-name basis with one of the best (if not, honestly, the best) Beaters in the country.

“Good.” He shovelled some mash into his mouth and chewed. “Aye, they will.” This was their year, he could feel it.

“Oh--” he grimaced. “Really, Honey? I’m having my dinner,” he gestured at the (almost empty, now) plate in front of him to emphasise the point. He didn’t want to think about -- that -- while he was eating. Or drinking. Or breathing. His light eyes went from her face, to her glass, to his, to the bottle, back to her face. He smiled lopsidedly and nudged his glass closer to her. “Go on, then. We’ve got two parties to plan.”

“Seeing as I’m not turning thirty,” she repeated, rolling her eyes. She looked back to him a second later. “Fine. Your place, then.” Honey was turning thirty but even if she wasn’t Honeydukes (or the flat upstairs) had never been an ideal place for parties -- Hogsmeade wasn’t, for that matter -- so she didn’t make the same declaration for whatever party she might have.

Portree losing-- a possibility but they shouldn’t have to entertain the thought; not yet, anyway. “You shut your mouth, Ferguson,” she said in her best impression of their mother before rolling into her best impression of their father with her next swig of whisky. “Friday should work for me,” she offered, as if Fergie was going to seriously plan around her schedule. “School’s out that week.” It was probably unnecessary to say, considering Fergie’s job picked up during the summer months so he was probably keenly aware of the schedule. Still, once the train had left Hogsmeade Station, Honey’d get to take a bit of a breather (and if it was like most post-holiday dazes she’d just sleep late but continue working regardless).

Honey narrowed her eyes in turn, well aware of the point he was trying to make (because it wouldn’t have been the first time); it wasn’t her fault that Harlan was easier to be nice to than any of his girlfriends had been. She let him have that one though, if only out of the sheer kindness of her heart. “Sure he would,” she said, not really thinking about it. Friday -- the day before the final -- might not work for Harlan (because she was being supportive and assuming it would be a Griffins/Portree final) but that might not be the end of the world. They’d had a weird couple of weeks; this week was the fault of Harlan, who had gone to Bali; last week had been Honey’s doing, falling asleep at an inopportune time after they’d gone longer than usual seeing each other.

“I can convince him,” she said after another swallow of her drink, nodding along with her thought.

She shrugged as she smirked, pouring herself a refill, never mind Fergie’s delicate constitution. She looked back to him, seemingly weighing the options of sticking around and having a drink with her, though he gave in after a few more seconds. He pushed his glass toward her and she followed through with another pour, just a little heavy handed. That finished, she set the bottle down and pulled her own glass toward her. “Cake, then? I’ll make yours if you ask Dad to make mine.”

“Aye,” he grinned, perhaps too merrily but Honey would get over it. “Save the big shindig for when I do,” he smirked, rubbing it in as much as he could -- well, not really, he was going easy on her all things considered. If he really wanted to wind her up he’d make a point of mentioning those little wrinkles starting to show at the corners of her eyes.

Fergie glared at her, unimpressed at the use of his full name (which wasn’t even his real full name but it was still awful -- why on earth had that become the ‘family’ name?). “I’m just saying,” he argued, hands up defensively (fork still in one, knife in the other). He went back to his dinner, finishing the last few mouthfuls of potato, around “The Friday, then.”

He pushed his plate forward on the table, away, his eyes flicking up to meet Honey’s again. “Really?” He’d hoped Honey would bring Harlan, of course, but hadn’t wanted to get ahead of himself. In fact, he ought not to look too thrilled about it or Honey might rethink matters. He shrugged his shoulder; “If he can make it, sure he’ll be busy an’ all.” Honey either read his mind or simply knew him the way a big sister should, because she offered (promised? Threatened?) to convince her boyfriend to attend her brother’s birthday party. Fergie simply nodded, for fear of her offering him any sort of details on how she planned to do so.

He watched the amber liquid flow into his glass, not bothering to tell her when to stop because they’d already given into the idea of having a big night. Fergie looked at her across the table, clutching at his heart dramatically. “You don’t want me to make yours?” he joked, a wide grin on his lips. His hand moved from his heart to his glass, lifting it to his lips for a sip.  “Yeah okay, I’ll ask him. Are you inviting them, then?”

Honey had been about to have a swallow of whisky but had to pull her glass away from her lips at the last second, laughing at Fergie’s mock offense. “No, of course I do.” She laughed again and took her sip, not bothering to move the glass too far because she was just going to have another in a second. “It’s just that other people have to eat it, too.” She nodded matter-of-factly, only able to keep her expression neutral for half a beat. She had another swallow, remembering too late that this was the Good Whisky and she wasn’t savoring it properly.

She nodded as Fergie agreed to ask their dad about her cake, grimacing when he asked that next bit. “I wasn’t planning on it. Were you?” It’d be like Fergie to invite their parents to a house party, but Honey having parents at her party; she wasn’t turning twelve. And she’d just barely gotten back on Mum’s good side.

“I thought we’d go to them, like we did last year.” And the year before, and the one before that, too. The Flumes had really doubled down on spending all holidays together as a family after the war, which was understandable but-- Honey wanted to have fun, at both parties, which would have been harder to do while constantly watching over her shoulder for her mother. It’d be bad enough if Fergie invited certain people, especially if she followed through on getting Harlan to attend-- Honey suddenly remembered the note she had left laying near the sink, the one from ‘certain people’ about their questionable lunch plans (and a couple other questionable exchanges).

She glanced at Fergie’s empty plate and decided to head him off before he could start on doing the dishes and find the note for himself. Setting her glass down, she picked up the plate as casually as possible and stood, distracting him from her rare attempt at cleaning with a question: “What kind of cake would you want?” Her cleaning didn’t go much farther than leaving the plate in the sink; with her back still to her brother, she slipped the note up the sleeve of her jumper.

Her initial plan had been to just hold onto the note for the rest of the night but considering the drinking, she’d probably forget it was there, get careless-- the best course of action would be to send it back to Charlie, get it out of the flat for at least eight hours. She turned around and motioned toward the door that led down to the shop. “I’ve got a Swiss roll downstairs,” she said. “New flavors.”

Fergie finished his sip, then rolled his eyes at his sister. “Fine, I can do some sausage rolls or something,” he offered instead -- savoury was more his speed. Sweet-making -- especially the kind Honeydukes did -- was not his forte. He could make a loaf and that was about the limit of his ability.

“Well, no, but I’m not turning thirty,” he countered, happy for another excuse to bring up her age. She suggested another trip to Spain and he raised a knowing eyebrow in response. He knew why she didn’t want their parents at her party -- to be honest, neither did he. He loved them -- so did Honey -- but it wasn’t cool to have your parents at your birthday once you were over the age of like, ten. Besides, neither of them would be able to let their hair down with their mother on patrol.

Fergie had another drink of his whisky and both brows raised this time as Honey picked up his plate. He supposed it was only fair, he’d cleaned the rest of the dishes—

He was distracted from her sudden bout of domesticity by talk of cake. “Erm,” he frowned, thinking, “I dunno, I’ll have a think. Carrot, maybe,” he said, off the top of his head -- it was his favourite, but he had it almost every year so he wondered if he ought not to have something a bit different but—

A Swiss roll. He perked up, then got to his feet (he didn’t need much convincing about cake or cake-like items). “Alright, what flavour is it?” he asked, before she waved him off -- she’d go get it, he could make himself comfortable. Fergie narrowed his eyes at her, but she’d gone before he could say anything. He sighed and looked around the room; he supposed he could get comfortable now that the lounge was tidy. He picked up the bottle of whisky and set it down on the coffee table, then sat on the sofa and adjusted a once-plump cushion behind his back. He topped his drink up and had another sip.

Carrot, of course. Back still to him, Honey rolled her eyes at Fergie’s (never changing) choice of cake; how he could have grown up here with the same parents she had and not want some sort of chocolate cake (or any cake without vegetables) was beyond her. She could get him to pick something more palatable — though if she was the one making a carrot cake then it’d still taste great if you were into that sort of thing — later.

Thankfully he went for the swiss roll distraction (and thankfully she hadn’t been lying about having one downstairs). She moved toward the door but stopped as he got to his feet, ever chivalrous and wanting to help her fetch it. She waved her hand, motioning to make himself at home. “It’s dark chocolate, coffee, lemon zest.” She shrugged, not missing that it was a weird combination. “Might be better as a truffle.” It was still good even if it wasn’t perfect, though it not being perfect meant that she’d only be asking for Fergie’s opinion on it. She stepped around him and out the door before he could say anything (or offer to help, again).

Honey didn’t pull the note from her sleeve until she was safely in the kitchen. Thank Merlin it was parchment; she only had quills downstairs. She wrote a quick reply, agreeing to his plans (and smirked at also calling him a dick) and sent it on with one of the slower owls in case he decided to send a reply. That taken care of, Honey headed out of the kitchen, only remembering the Swiss roll when she had a foot on the stairs leading back up to her flat. She made another trip to the kitchen, picked up the cake, and headed upstairs for the last time.

Fergie had settled into the sofa while she was gone and she offered him a smile as she showed him the cake, perfectly rolled, no cracks, before taking it into the kitchen and serving them up a couple slices. She sent the plates and cutlery over at a lazy speed, freeing up her hand to carry her glass over to meet the cake and her brother on the couch. She finished her glass and poured herself a refill before picking up her plate. “Maybe it’s just.. not enough lemon,” she thought, mostly to herself, still trying to figure out the flavors -- though figuring it out while getting steadily more drunk was probably the wrong plan of attack.

“How’ve you been?” She asked between bites. “Minus work,” she added, realizing she’d only asked him about that before though it’d been long enough since seeing him that she should have asked after him, too.

Dark chocolate, coffee, and lemon zest. He tried to imagine how those flavours might taste -- together -- then decided to trust his sister’s palate. She’d done alright so far, hadn’t she? Honey had kept all the classics in the shop but added plenty of her own ideas, injecting a little bit of life into the store beyond appeasing Hogwarts students once a month. Hogsmeade weekends would always be the big earner, but Honey’s hard work had increased their sales at other times, too.

She was gone for a few minutes, but not long enough for him to wonder if he should go see if she’d tripped on the stairs. Fergie had zoned out in the meantime. He was quickly brought back to life by her reappearance -- and by the Swiss roll. He sat up a little to peer at the cake and smiled. “Looks good,” he told her, having another sip of whisky and setting the glass on the coffee table.

He caught one of the plates as they floated over, plucking a cake fork from mid-air and wasting no time in tucking in. He chewed, popped another bit in his mouth and chewed some more. Finally, he swallowed. “Coffee’s a wee bit overpowering but I do like it, I didn’t think the lemon would go but it does.” He had another piece. “Maybe a bit more lemon, aye.”

Fergie leaned forward to pick up his whisky, having a good gulp to wash down the cake. “No bad,” he said. “Nothing interesting, you know me.” He smiled wryly at her, then shrugged. He’d always had the less sensational life, of the two of them -- and having seen how well it was working out for Honey, he wasn’t about to try and one up her.

He shovelled the rest of the Swiss roll into his mouth, bit-by-bit -- despite having just finished dinner -- and topped up his whisky, then hers. “So, party time,” he grinned.

[out]

Honey scoffed. “‘Course it looks good.” She rolled her eyes; it was good natured annoyance.

“A wee bit.” She considered this for a minute, having another bite. Maybe she could just sell it in the mornings -- that would mean opening in the mornings, however, and she wasn’t keen. “Aye,” she agreed after another bite, smiling. Fergie remained her best -- and most honest, she thought -- taste tester. It couldn’t have been too bad, anyway; he was working through his slice quickly and if she wasn’t also working through hers nearly as quick, she might have pointed it out.

She returned his shrug, his little smile. His life was less interesting -- more boring -- than hers, as if he’d continued with the village lifestyle even after moving to London. But she was glad that there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, nothing she needed to worry about; it was nice that they could have a night not worrying about personal problems. She had another sip of her whisky, holding her glass out for a top up -- never mind she had just poured herself a refill -- as Fergie motioned with the bottle. She’d have to get a replacement before their dad visited again, at this rate.

“Party time,” she said with a grin before finishing her slice of swiss roll and sending both their plates back to the kitchen. “At your flat, the usual?” It’d all be the usual, if his choice of carrot cake was anything to go off of.

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