truth is anybody’s guess [dennis]

Yeah, she said. He’d second guessed himself straight away, but that Gryffindor-ish stubborn streak flared to affirm that it was the correct course of action. The right thing to do, even. Perhaps he just enjoyed the idea of the article making certain types of witches and wizards a bit uncomfortable; there was nothing wrong with a little discomfort… unless you were a biggot.

Dennis nodded silently when Edith guessed his drink, and watched as she got to her feet. He shouldn’t be surprised; they’d drank together before. When she disappeared, he ran a hand through his hair and tried to relax a bit; it wasn’t a big deal, he thought. Just a weird sort of work trip with someone who was sort of a friend. He didn’t get much time to overthink everything until his head spun, though; she wasn’t gone for long. “Oh, thanks,” Dennis said, reaching for the shot glass she’d gotten for him. He drank it quickly, copying her movements.

“Oh,” he said again – more blankly this time – feeling a bit self conscious. “Um, yeah,” Dennis sat up a bit straighter, wondering why he felt strangely exposed. She’d seen him shirtless before; this wasn’t weird. Right? It was probably just leftover antsiness from the long car trip, he thought. He hoped the drinks kicked in soon. The young man wiped some condensation from his glass on his trousers and then reached up to pull the collar of his shirt down. It was a bit awkward, but he leaned forward a little, glancing to the side so he wasn’t just staring intently at her while she looked.

Mudblood. Kind of weird to get a slur tattooed on your body, but Dennis had wanted it for a while. When he’d dropped out of school it’d felt like a good and appropriate time to get it, for some reason. He leaned back again, straightening the material absentmindedly. “The guy asked me what it meant and I said it was a band,” Dennis said, a bit amused as he reached for his drink. He took another deep sip – what time were they meeting this woman tomorrow?

There was a pause as Dennis considered her question and she had another drink as he decided, setting her glass down and a little to the side when he agreed. She mirrored his movements, sitting up straighter before leaning in a little; she pushed her glasses up so she could get a better look without her lenses, realizing a second later that she was probably too close for comfort (despite being much closer when she’d had a good look at his other tattoos).

She straightened up and rested her glasses on the bridge of her nose again, glancing from Dennis’s collarbone to his face with a small smile. “It’s a good band name--” she paused and shrugged quickly-- “Besides, y’know.” She meant it’d be good for anyone who wasn’t them, good for people with both feet firmly on the muggle side of things. She thought about it a little more and realized he must not have had Dean do this one, too; she smiled a little more and sat back fully, pulling her drink toward her again.

“I like it,” she said belatedly, talking about both the tattoo and going to a muggle to have it done. It made sense, she found herself thinking again. Him coming along with her made sense, his sitting in on the interview made sense, the still photos made sense, so on and so on.

She didn’t have much else to say, besides. She’d had hours of silence in the car to think about it, but the only thing she had managed to really think about was tomorrow’s interview; she didn’t really want to talk about that, either. Edith had another drink before she leaned forward enough to rest her crossed arms on the table. “What’s next, then?” She waited a beat before adding: “Tattoo, I mean.” Not the owl one, she assumed.

He wondered, as he felt her eyes on him, and resisted the urge to look at her, how drunk they were allowed to get tonight. How hungover would be inappropriate tomorrow? If their meeting was in the afternoon then he was ready for endless shots as soon as possible, but if it was a morning thing, then mabe that wasn’t a good idea.The alternative, though, meant feeling this sort of anxious self-awareness for the rest of the evening, and that wasn’t exactly appealing either. On and off, the anxiety felt doomy in a far-too-dramatic, mildly-apocalyptic sort of way. He felt relieved as they both leaned back again.

“Right, yeah,” he said, placing his glass back down on the table “Thanks.” There was silence for a little bit and he wondered what else to say. Thankfully, she spoke first. Dennis almost started his next sentence with oh, yet again, but managed to stop himself in time. Why did he feel some kind of awkward surprise every time she asked him a question? It appeared he’d somehow tricked himself into thinking that just because he didn’t feel quite so on the edge of falling apart all of the time these days, he was a totally socially functional human being. That was his first mistake, apparently.

“Uh, not sure,” he answered, the uh only a slight improvement from oh, as a starting sound. He decided to put a bit more effort into seeming less uncomfortable. “No plans at the moment, I guess,” he offered. There was a pause, then he made himself elaborate a bit. "Most of mine are... life stuff?" he shrugged, not wanting to seem to pretentious or get too deep about the meanings of things. He glanced up at her, though, to make sure she understood. "I guess nothing's really happened to me the past year. Except dropping out of school, I guess," he added, raising his eyebrows a touch. "Dunno if that's tattoo worthy."

Dennis sat up a little straighter. “What about you? Weren’t you considering it – last year, or whenever?” It felt like longer than a year, but shorter somehow too. He felt like last-summer’s-Dennis existed in a whole other dimension, though, and he wondered if Edith felt similar. Patching it all together was work. He resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the tabletop, not wanting to seem impatient, but even though it had only been a few sentences, Dennis felt like he'd just delivered a speech and needed some conversational feedback for reassurance or whatever.

Edith nodded before she had another swallow of her drink. He wasn’t sure about his tattoo plans and it wasn’t like she had any ideas to offer, so drinking was better than saying anything unhelpful. “Oh, right.” Life stuff. It was blurry—the memories—and she only remembered bits and pieces of the details of the big one. Colin’s birthday. Important shit. There wasn’t anything about the last year really worthy of remembering. She tried not to think about how they’d really only known each other the past year. How would any of what they’d talked about translate to a tattoo anyway?

She caught his eye and she held his gaze and he voiced exactly what she’d been thinking; the feeling of him being inside her head wasn’t unfamiliar. She smiled as he mentioned dropping out of school. “Maybe not.” Maybe not tattoo worthy, that is. What would that even look like?

He straightened up and Edith became conscious of how much she was slouching. She didn’t do anything about it, unless having another drink counted as anything. Her eyebrows went up as he turned the question around on her and she shrugged. “I was.” She nodded. “Still am, but—“ She shrugged again. “Dunno what.” Nothing felt significant enough. “I’m not decisive enough.” She’d had three jobs in 2002; it didn’t really inspire confidence in her ability to pick something as permanent as a tattoo. She had another drink.

She didn’t know what to say next; they’d covered the most basic things—plans for tomorrow—and anything more than that felt almost too invasive, despite the fact that he already knew a lot more about her than most people. “You want some more shots?” That seemed like a safe (if unwise) start. “I do,” she said, just in (the unlikely) case he needed some encouragement.

Edith finished what was left of her present drink and slid out of the booth, back in a couple minutes with four small glasses of whiskey this time. She set them on the table before she sat down again, pulling two toward her and only waiting a second before downing the first one.

Why did talking to her feel like walking on a tightrope? Was there really anything he could say or do that would ruin everything? Rationally, he didn’t really think so. They were just two acquaintances (friends? coworkers?) having a drink and a chat.

But it didn’t feel nearly as casual as that sentence implied.

He’d wanted to get a tattoo with Clem one day. The night they’d kissed for the first time, he’d shown off a little, bragging about getting his tattoos from a friend when he’d only been sixteen. But he hadn’t even asked Dean if he’d tattoo Dennis’ underage girlfriend – it wasn’t something he could ask, even if he thought there was a chance Dean would actually do it. He wondered quietly how he would have felt for the past year if they’d actually managed to get matching tattoos like he’d imagined, and he’d had a reminder of her physically sewn into his skin. Matching tattoos with his first love… Yeah, it seemed like the kind of dumb shit he’d have done.

“That’s fair,” Dennis replied with a nod and a bit of a shrug. He had ideas about what kind of tattoos he wanted – there was at least some consistency and preference there – but he wasn’t really precious about his skin, or his body. More willing to make mistakes, maybe.

Despite committing, moments ago, to trying harder, Dennis was suddenly coming up extremely blank when it came to new conversation starters. Maybe he’d been too hermitty the past six months, he thought. He didn’t really talk to any of his roommates, and aside from Dean he didn’t really have other friends he saw regularly. He was too reactive in conversation – that was, to say, he wasn’t very good at leading. Only responding. He played with his empty glass, pressure building internally.

When she spoke, he glanced back up at her. “Yeah,” he breathed, trying not to sound as relieved as he felt. “Yeah, sounds good,” he added, nodding this time. Dennis ran a hand back through his hair, giving her a bit of a smile as she got up again. God, he needed to pull it together. He stared into his empty glass after she left, doing some internal monologuing that fell somewhere between chastising and a pep talk.

Dennis reached for his glasses as she plonked them on the table, his fingers brushing hers lightly. He followed her, drinking one shot and then the next. He felt a little better straight away, even though he knew that it was just in his head. He placed his second empty shot glass onto the table neatly beside the other one.

So they'd talked about work, Luna, the stuff happening tomorrow. They'd talked about tattoos. He could bring up, like, the time they'd gotten really drunk and he'd spilled his guts in a playground (in more ways than one, ha), but even thinking about that made him want to die, so he opted for something else. Dennis straightened up again, leaning forward a bit so he could rest his forearms on the table.

"How's, uh, your ministry boyfriend?" He asked. He was going to say the name but it had been a long time, and he'd been pretty wasted when he'd heard it so he picked the safe route instead. "You guys still together...?"

Edith glanced at their hands as his fingers brushed hers, glanced back up once it was clear that he was just grabbing his drinks. Dennis had both his shots in quick succession but she needed a couple minutes before her next one, feeling a little fuzzy face already. (She shouldn’t have been surprised, considering how quickly she was putting back drinks, but alas.)

It was quiet for a minute but she didn’t mind; usually she’d try to fill an awkward silence but there was something about it being with Dennis that didn’t make it awkward, which made less sense the more she thought about it. She turned her still-full shot glass round slowly, watching it until Dennis said something, apparently not as keen on the silence as she was. “Oh.” She hadn’t been expecting that, nor did she have enough courtesy to remind him that his name was Elias.

“He’s, er, good.” He was busy all the time, working late, and they hadn’t seen too much of each other lately considering Edith was better suited to working late into the wee hours of the morning. But last weekend had been nice; they’d gone to a mate’s party and it’d been their first night out in a while and it’d been nice; she could feel her cheeks warming as she thought about it and was enormously grateful this pub had piss poor lighting.

She answered his next question, sounding almost as unsure of her answer. “Yeah. Still.” But still made it sound like it had an expiration date, like she was just biding her time until it went south. She knew she’d told Dennis some things that night in the Three Broomsticks but she hadn’t committed as much of that conversation to memory as she had previous ones, something about being more interested in remembering what he had said, rather than herself.

Her column had been leaning heavily away from any positive opinions about the Ministry lately (except for that one that just didn’t mention the Ministry at all) and Elias had always said he’d read it if she wanted him to, but she’d stopped giving him advance write ups before they were published. She started waiting until she could hand him the printed column (“So you don’t have to read my handwriting.”) but she hadn’t done even that in a while. He hadn’t pressed her and she could only hope that he didn’t assume she wasn’t being published anymore.

Edith hadn’t figured out how to tell him about the book, either. She hadn’t told anyone, really. She’d written more about herself, more about life after the war, dealing with The Prophet, the Ministry. There was a first draft of some attempt to imagine a future if they--Edith and Elias--carried on like they were, her constantly replaying that conversation about his ‘responsibility’ to his ‘community’ and the ‘magical line’ over and over and over, even if all evidence pointed to him not feeling like that anymore. It had stretched to two hundred words, if even that much.

And she’d been very good at compartmentalizing all of this when she wasn’t actively writing; she’d gotten better at ignoring that she was half the problem when it came to their communication issues, or whatever.

“Still,” she said again, trying (and failing) to sound a bit more pleased about it. She downed her second (third) shot and set the glass back on the table between them. She rolled her shoulders before she shrugged, almost feeling bad that she couldn’t properly express her fondness for her boyfriend. “He wanted to come with, here.” Before she knew she’d be travelling with someone. With Dennis. “But there was a work thing.” Another shrug.

“Was he?” Dennis asked, genuine surprise showing in his expression. How long had they been together now? Long enough that they understood each other better than it seemed like they had last September, maybe. Long enough that Edith’s boyfriend had a better grasp on what she was writing, and why. Because Edith wasn’t just a muggleborn, he thought; she and her boyfriend didn’t just have different parents. When it came to blood stuff, it was literally her job to care more, think more.

And Dennis knew better than that too. He knew that it was more than "a job", and he felt like he really understood why.

...But then again, maybe he’d been doing that thing again, without even realising it. Drawing parallels between them – seeing parts of himself reflected back when he talked to her. Maybe he was just desperate, he thought, or just really fucking lonely (he could feel the effects of the alcohol in the way that he thought around these feelings in particular). Whatever way he looked at it, it was extremely presumptuous of him to think that there was any part of her that he – a guy who'd only had what, two conversations with her? – understood better than her boyfriend did. Extremely presumptuous.

But the alcohol was loosening his tongue. “I couldn’t imagine doing this kind of thing with anyone except you,” he told her, frowning. It came out weightier than he’d wanted it to be, and for whatever reason, he felt especially aware of overstepping when they were talking about her relationship. It felt more heavy than the glad it was you, too he'd tacked onto the end of a sentence earlier. “Wait, I don’t mean that," he followed up quickly, shaking his head. “I mean…” He did, though. He’d said it exactly how he’d meant it. Dennis glanced down at the little glass between his fingers, one tiny droplet of alcohol gathered in one corner at the bottom. “I mean, it’s cool that you felt comfortable enough to have brought him,” he finished.

He wondered distantly if he was jealous and came to the conclusion that  he was. Of course he wanted someone he could talk to, too. Someone to share everything with. He didn't even consider that he was misinterpreting what she'd said, or that once he'd realised he was reading into everything she was saying with the intent of finding similarities, he'd started overcompensating by projecting other things instead. Like a perfect relationship. In most ways, he didn't feel drunk at all, but his thought patterns were shifting a little.

Was he? Edith nodded. He was. That is, he was until she’d learned that Dennis would be going, too, and she had asked Elias not to join. At that point it was a work trip--she wasn’t sure what it was when she thought she was going alone, to do work--and it would have been weird (if not weirder) being there with Elias instead of Dennis. Or both. She blinked, long and slow, pulling her other drink toward her.

She lifted her eyebrows, that eerie feeling he was reading her mind washing over her again. She’d just been thinking about how she preferred to be here with him instead of her boyfriend-- for the sake of the article. The interview. Nothing else.

Wait. The smile that had started to creep up on her features went away and she nudged her eyebrows up a bit more. She stayed silent instead of prompting him for more, though she was almost desperate to figure out what, exactly, he had meant, if not that. He finished his thought after another second and Edith nodded slightly, Cool, yeah. Very cool. She glanced down at her drink, turned her glass ninety degrees on the tabletop. “I didn’t say that.” She glanced up, replaying her words in her mind. No, she definitely hadn’t said she was comfortable bringing him, however cool Dennis might have thought that was.

She had taken Elias to Lunt a few times and he had watched enough United matches at the pub but that was pretty much the extent of her trying to shoehorn him into muggle environments. On top of all of that, this interview was with someone who had given up magic--broken her own wand--to live in one of those environments. He couldn’t understand how important it was to talk to her.

Dennis hadn’t prompted her for more explanation but she offered it anyway. (She should probably drink some water, if she was already getting to this point.) “Dunno.” She shrugged, leaning forward and resting her folded arms on the table. “It would have been more of a… ‘let’s go to France on The Quibbler’s expense’ kind of thing.” She shrugged again, though with less enthusiasm this time.

“Anyway.” She shifted to have another swallow of her drink, then leaned back with her hands in her lap, having another look at Dennis. “Do you think you could do it?” She changed the subject away from Elias, away from her word vomit about her relationship. “Live as a muggle again, I mean.” She didn’t take her eyes off of him.

Dennis glanced up at the same time that she did and met her eyes a little too quickly, as if he’d been waiting for her to look at him. (He hadn’t). (Mostly). “Oh,” was all he had to say in response to her words. Hadn’t she said that? Or something to that effect? He felt like he’d revealed a bit too much, tried to backpedal, and had it backfire. He was never very good an analysing the flow of conversation, though; maybe he was just interpreting it all wrong. This knowledge, unfortunately, didn’t seem to stop his stupid brain from overworking itself to try to figure out every angle.

He didn’t ask her to elaborate, and for a moment he didn’t think she was going to. Dennis was fine with that – he shifted the glass he was playing with from one hand to the other, thinking up a new topic to lead them away from whatever conversational slip-up he’d made. When she started talking, though, he didn’t really want to. He knew he had no right to any of it; they weren’t properly friends at the moment, and somewhere deep inside him he knew that his interpretation of anything she said about her boyfriend would be tinged with something that was uncomfortably not very friend-like. Was it a... crush? That felt far too juvenile.

He leaned forward too, echoing her movement. Anyway, she said, but he interjected quietly. “No, I think I get it now,” he said. He was wary about making assumptions; he knew he couldn't really trust himself to do it right. But for a moment, when their eyes met just now – right before she changed the subject, something that he was anticipating with certainty – he felt like he understood her. Properly understood.

He leaned back as she did, not even realising he was doing it. “These days? Probably not,” he said. He counted a few things off on one hand, but she didn’t take her eyes off of him and he felt like the moment and dynamic was charged, somehow. “Dropped out of school when I was ten or so. Haven’t ever had a proper job. Not in contact with anyone...” Including his parents, “I think I’d end up back on the streets honestly,” he said. Then he frowned, and felt compelled to explain the last part.

Had they talked about that at all before? They’d talked about so many things, and the drunker he got, the more he assumed she knew about him. “It was just for a bit,” he said vaguely. “But nah, I dunno. Could I go without magic? Probably, yeah." Dennis said it confidently, but he wasn't totally certain of that part. "But it’d be hard to change worlds again. Hard to survive.” He kept his eyes on her, feeling that if he looked away now it'd break whatever moment they were having. "What about you?"

Dennis thought he got it, and Edith met his eye, willing him to really understand what she was saying without her having to say it. It felt like they were at that stage in their evening--late afternoon--now. Just knowing.

She nodded as they changed the subject. “Yeah,” she agreed. She didn’t think she could do it, live without the convenience of magic, even if the magic of television made up for it a little. It was more than that though, the toeing of the line between their two existences, and Dennis put it into words before Edith could go over the details of it in her mind. No school since ten, no job, no contact-- their paths diverged there, a little, and Edith mirrored his frown, though she didn’t take her eyes off of him.

Edith had her parents to fall back on, and she’d done so many times. There was still plenty she hadn’t told them, but they were there. They’d been over this before, her and Dennis, and she didn’t poke at it again.

It was just for a bit, he said, and Edith had to go back a few seconds to suss what he was talking about. Was he talking about the hostel--the one she’d confronted him in, what seemed like ages ago but was only last year--or… ? They could come back around to it.

“Yeah,” she agreed again, glancing down at her hands before meeting his eye again. She could survive without magic-- as soon as she’d thought about ‘surviving’, Dennis mentioned it, too. He meant it in a different way, didn’t he? He didn’t give her too long to think about it before he turned the question back to her. “I dunno. Maybe.”

She’d thought about it plenty of times, the logistics of it all. She’d written about how impossible it’d be, no schooling, no experience. But if she forged some papers, failed her way up, it could work. She’d have to start over, socially; looking at Dennis, she realized how much she didn’t want to have to do that. “Maybe not.” She blinked. “Think we’re kind of stuck. Not purgatory, mind, but…” She shrugged. “I’m so curious what she’s got to say tomorrow.” That’d influence her opinion about it all, her thinking if she could do it or not.

“Don’t think I’d come back to live in France, anyway.” She frowned again. “Spent long enough here during the war.” Not here, in this bar, but in bars like it, in towns like the one they were in. At least she wasn’t alone this time.

Magic was supportive and sustaining. It was easier to navigate the world with it than without it, but that didn’t mean that it and everything it came with were good, necessarily. It was hard for him, personally, not to wish that he and his brother had never found themselves in the wizarding world.

Yeah. I dunno. Maybe.

Dennis’ eyes lingered on her as she spoke like he needed to commit her answer to memory. He felt some of that same tension he had a moment ago, before he’d made that stupid comment about her boyfriend and broken it. I couldn’t imagine doing this kind of thing with anyone except you — Dennis had meant that part. He could feel the alcohol shifting the way he was thinking, and his thoughts kept circling back to that one thing — his… crush or whatever. He hated that word; it made him feel painfully thirteen again, but what else was it? Feelings was far too much.

He liked her. He felt close, when they were drinking like this, and it framed the way he thought about things — like her Very Serious Boyfriend, or what she might do if she’d been a muggle the whole time. He was such an idiot, really, but at least he was drunk enough now not to beat himself up about it too much. Thank fuck they’d ended up in a bar, he thought, though realistically, would they have gone anywhere else? He didn’t know about her, but he’d been anxious for a drink.

“Purgatory’s not bad,” Dennis said, bringing himself back to the conversation after having fully spiralled in his mind over the past twenty seconds or so. “As a label.” He was aiming for mildly amused at the concept, but had no idea if he was hitting it. There were certainly times when he felt like he was waiting for something, some judgement to be passed to allow him to fully assimilate, right? Was that how purgatory worked, though? Maybe it was just eternal suffering. Not hell-level, mind, just a mild kind of suffering that went on and on… His thoughts trailed on and he found himself actually amused, at himself, because he was thinking such stupid shit.

Dennis nodded. The war. Cumbria was beautiful, but personally he’d rather not set foot up north ever again, so he got it. “Where, then?” he asked. It was the natural next question. “Somewhere English speaking, for me,” he added. He wasn’t so good with languages.

Edith blinked, nodded. “A label, yeah.” Purgatory wasn’t bad as a label--she wanted to use it later, in her column maybe--but only that. “If it really were purgatory, I dunno which side is hell.” Magic or muggle; it was a tough call, though considering the context of their trip and the interview tomorrow, she was leaning more that direction. At least she had never been a fugitive on the muggle side (that one arrest she had on her record was for actually doing something, not simply existing) but it didn’t sit comfortably with her that her current thoughts were leaning towards wanting to live as a muggle. There were things about her life currently--more than just the convenience of magic--that wouldn’t work as a muggle. People, mostly.

She had another swallow of her drink, not noticing how quickly she had gone through it. Should probably get two next round.

This felt familiar, though. Moving countries. Had they already discussed this? Not today, but-- she thought she would have remembered. It must not have been that night, then; she thought she remembered everything from then, seared the whole conversation (and then some) into her brain, never mind what she had put down on paper.

She considered the question for a minute--mostly trying to remember what they’d said the last time--before she answered with a little nod. “New Zealand.” They drove on the right (left) side, had the hobbits, all of that-- no, they had definitely had this conversation before, but that was a risk one took when one could only talk while drunk, forgetting things.

But never mind all of that-- she would never get Elias to agree to move to New Zealand (or give up magic-- ha). He had watched Two Towers with her but she figured that was mostly out of politeness. She didn’t want to sit and think about those sorts of possibilities, though, the future for her relationship because she was drunk and she knew she wouldn’t focus on any of the positives (like how she felt safe, finally). She knew herself that well, at least.

She finished her drink instead, took a look at Dennis’s practically empty glass. “I’m gonna…” she jabbed a thumb over her shoulder to point at the bar. “Another round.”

[[ out ]]

He exhaled a small breath from his nose, a weak snort. Both sides were hell, he thought, but only because they’d been situated in the middle from the start. Dennis wondered what it would be like to be a muggleborn kid starting school now, with the legacy of everything that had happened so present. There were kids there, still, who'd been at school that year, right? One more cohort of them if his maths was right. He wondered how they taught history now, and if it was different. He wondered a lot of things.

“New Zealand,” Dennis repeated, a slight frown forming around the same time her thoughts turned toward risks and forgetting things. Had he asked her that before? Or maybe she’d asked him? Hobbits, he remembered. Lord of the Rings. That must have been last year, he thought. He felt a strange twist of regret thinking about it; he still hadn’t seen that movie. Return of the King would be out in six months or so, right? Would it be stupid to bring that up? It was so far away, he thought, and Dennis was far too flaky and self-destructive to be thinking that far into the future.

He followed her gaze, glancing down at his glass as she did. He stopped playing with it then, retracting his hands from the table and resting them on his knees instead. She wanted more drinks, and he was definitely not one to protest. He thought again of the flask he'd brought. “Cool, thanks,” he said, smiling a little. He watched her turn, his gaze lingering a little too long before he made himself look elsewhere.

/end