still take you home | cordelia

The Coral Room | Friday 9th April 2004

Charlie ducked into the entrance of the bar and was immediately asked if he had a reservation. “Er, yeah.” He glanced around the moodily-lit room to see if he could just spot her, but gave up after a few seconds and offered Cordelia’s (full) name whilst peering over the little stand to try and read it for himself. The waitress checked her list and smiled thinly at him, ”Ah yes, this way.”

Charlie followed her along the clearway between the bar and the lower tables, hoping that the journalist hadn’t gone for sitting at the bar; he was pleased to find himself deposited at a table for two in the corner. Cordelia didn’t stand to meet him, so Charlie smirked at her in greeting — letting his eyes roam over what he could see with her still sat down (not much). “Evening,” he drawled, shirking out of his jacket—revealing a plain black t-shirt, to go with his plain black jeans and plain black boots—and slung it over the back of his chair; he’d apparated to an alley a couple of streets over and walked the rest of the way, and it was close in here compared to the cool air outside.

Charlie pulled his chair out and his attention was caught by the bottle of wine on the table, the corner of his lips tugging up in appreciation as he read the label. As he sat, he spotted the fruity looking cocktail she had already started on. “You been waiting long?” he asked, nodding at her drink and reaching forward to pick up the wine bottle; it was already open, so he poured them each a glass (ladies first).


@Cordelia Leighton

Cordelia made the reservation for eight o'clock. She arrived at 8:15, and her drinks arrived at 8:25. A bottle of Malbec and a virgin daiquiri, which was basically fruit juice in a fancy cup. Charlie Baker was not going to get her for being unprepared this time.

She smoothed down her blouse as the bottle arrived, glancing over to where Michael was sitting. He caught her eye, gave her a lopsided little smile and a half raised glass of something dark. Cordelia grinned and raised her fancy fruit juice up too. Ridiculous long distance toast completed, Michael ducked his head down to whatever he was working on. He had brought a book and what Cordelia suspected were things for the Quidditch bracket. As long as he could keep himself occupied.

Michael trusted Cordelia, had just nodded when she mentioned that she was meant to talk to Charlie Baker again. Cordelia knew she had earned it, telling Michael almost immediately about the last interview and subsequent propositioning, but it was still important that he trust her. Cordelia didn't trust herself, often.

It was her idea that Michael come along. "As, you know, backup," she had said, because she trusted Charlie Baker even less than she trusted herself.

At 8:32, by Cordelia's delicate little watch face, Charlie Baker strode into view, devilishly underdressed for the venue. Cordelia's lip twitched upwards into the smallest smirk. Her own evening wear had turned a couple heads, appreciatively. Charlie's all black get up was decidedly not the energy of the Coral Room. A point for Cordelia, on top of the point from arriving on time.

Not that she was keeping score.

"Hello, Charlie," Cordelia said, raising her fancy fruit juice to him in greeting. "Not so long." A lie, but Charlie would only be able to see through one layer. She wanted him to think that she was drinking already. Underestimate her again -- it was so fun to pull the rug out from under him.

Her purse tonight was small, tucked between the side of her leg and the edge of the chair. It was a muggle establishment, so she had to be discrete. A transcription quill and notebook were hidden in her purse, charmed so small as to be undetectable. "I was hoping our conversation tonight could be a little more casual," Cordelia began, taking the wine glass into her hand, "in structure, if not substance." She looked over the rim of her glass at him, raised it slightly. "Less of an interview. More of a conversation."

Charlie nodded and set the bottle down on the small table between them, then picked up his glass and scrutinized it: it was a proper sized one, designed for red wine — and delicate, not the cheap, thick glasses one got in the pub (where they were more likely to get knocked off the table, the bar, so on). He had a sip without bothering to sniff the contents (he wasn’t that fussy, other than having a preference for the type of wine he was drinking).

Cordelia was straight into it. Charlie smirked softly and relaxed back into the comfortable chair, crossing his ankle over his knee (there would be time to get closer later — once she’d started on the wine with him, no doubt); he kept the malbec in hand. “Oh?” he replied with feigned surprise and a slight rise of his brow; he hadn’t really thought this was going to be an interview, or she would have insisted on a day-time meeting, picked somewhere less atmospheric — his dark eyes dropped to her chest in vain, he supposed she could have given him a little more to go off there instead of that high collar.

“When you say ‘casual’...” Charlie smirked, forcing his gaze back up to meet hers and trailing off — he didn’t think he really needed to be explicit, and didn’t think Cordelia wanted him to be, judging by their last encounter, but better to lay it all out early; “Only, I’ve had girls who say they want casual and that’s not actually what they mean at all.”

Charlie sipped the wine without checking the bottle label or the aroma – Cordelia supposed that she could have ordered a cheaper bottle. But, Charlie was paying, Cordelia had made that extremely clear to the server when she got settled. The other young woman didn't quite understand, but didn't ask questions. Cordelia was not about to become a regular at the Coral Room. Let the service worker make her assumptions. She raised her glass up slightly to her companion before taking a sip of her own. It was good – perhaps she should speed through the rest of her fancy fruit juice.

Oh? said Charlie, in a tone that made it clear he was taking the piss. Cordelia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead she let her gaze move to Charlie's right ear, slowly, and then over still to look at Michael. He was too far away to make out her exasperated, can you believe this slight raise of her eyebrows. Also, he had wedged the lime slice into his mouth and was giving her a thumbs up. Cordelia looked away quickly, trying not to snort or laugh or otherwise let Charlie know about the other guest on his tab tonight.

She shouldn't have worried. Charlie was trying to look down her top. Cordelia raised her eyebrows, in a very schoolteacher, I'm not mad, just disappointed manner. Charlie was slow on the uptake, wasn't he? She had accommodated him to put him at ease, to make him more likely to agree with what she was about to propose. But this wasn't a seduction, as much as Charlie was trying to will it to be so.

"If I wanted that kind of thing, casual or otherwise, we would be at my flat," Cordelia said mildly, sipping her daiquiri. "Let me actually get to my proposal, please." Her eyelashes fluttered as she looked back up at him, checking that she hadn't been too blunt and driven him off.

She wondered, briefly, if Charlie was the type to read the news, if he had read her exposé at the end of January, and if that had changed his opinion of her at all. Maybe, when he had finished this first glass, she would ask. She should really let him get a glass in before anything, but artists were of an easily distracted temperament.

Cordelia set down her glass. "You see, Charlie, I'm writing a book. A memoir, really. But my editor thinks that it would be a rather good idea to include an aside every few chapters on other people's experiences. Capitalize on my journalistic reputation, and so on. I'd like to include your story in one of those sections."  She left a small pause before continuing, watching his face. How explicit would she have to be? "After all, I think everyone wants to know what Britain's favorite muggleborn was doing in ninety-seven and ninety-eight."

Charlie’s brow furrowed softly — at once confused and intrigued (and, honestly, a little impressed) by her rebuffal.

Cordelia set her glass down and Charlie made a conscious effort to not lean in, astutely perceiving a change in whatever had(n’t) been going on between them. She said she was writing a book and he immediately wondered if it was about him— in the next breath she revealed it was a memoir — but she wanted other people’s experiences—his story, so it was about him, in part— He continued to stare at her, rather intensely, and waited for her to go on. How foolish of him to think this had been anything but a genuine interview.

His eyebrows rose slightly. It took him a moment to register ninety-seven and ninety-eight as the war, not as Banshee’s first american tour, but when it clicked Charlie’s grip on his wine glass went slack for maybe half a second before he held it a little tighter. He wet his lips and had a long sip—eyes still on the brunette—before cradling the glass in his lap. “Were you not getting Witch Weekly at Hogwarts?” he asked, hedging a bet that she’d still been in school, then—she looked young enough, probably not far off Kate’s age—and trying to alleviate whatever tension (not the good kind) had descended over the conversation.

He glanced over at the bar, at people around them laughing and talking, then back to Cordelia. “Take it you don’t mean tour gossip, then?” He wasn’t sure how he felt about this proposition — it wasn’t the kind he was used to, that was for sure. Beyond that, he’d actively tried not to think about the war and how little it had affected him, comparatively, for so long— and what was his story, anyway? He’d ran away with his two best mates and ignored the whole thing for the best part of a year — well, ignored wasn’t strictly true, but he didn’t think he had the sort of story Cordelia was looking for.

“What exactly is it you’re after?” he asked, echoing something he’d said to her back in Brussels. “A sob story? Something heroic? I’m not trying to be a dick, but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, love.”

So the association wasn’t automatic for Charlie Baker. She wished she could have her full notepad and quill setup on the table, wished she could waved her hand to jot down how Charlie took ten full seconds to place the war, revealing his understanding with a slip of the hand. Cordelia loved small details like that — body language, the pauses between words, the way people revealed small truths in the slightest of sighs. She knew she did all of those things as well, which disquieted her sometimes. But as long as she was the one looking, as long as she was the one with the notebook, any cracks in her own facade could be safely ignored. 

Charlie asked if they were getting Witch Weekly at Hogwarts during the war. She resisted the urge to laugh, letting out just one gentle huff instead. “We were. It was censured. Followed the Ministry line — no coverage of known fled muggleborns at the time, I believe.” She took another sip of her mocktail, watching Charlie’s face carefully. “Quibbler wasn’t particularly concerned with your exploits either, I’m afraid.” Tour gossip would have been a good distraction, Cordelia thought, for the girls of Hogwarts ill-equipped to cope with the realities of that year. Too bad, then.

He wanted to know what she was after, precisely. A sob story? Cordelia shrugged, small. "A true story," she said simply. "I'm a journalist. I want to know what's true.” She hesitated here — that certainly wasn’t Charlie’s impression of her profession. “An investigative journalist, really,” she corrected, qualifying herself with her aspirations instead of the bulk of her beat. It was true, Cordelia realized with a jolt as the phrase left her lips. She had actually done an investigation, hadn’t she? It wasn’t an aspiration anymore — it was part of her portfolio.

There wasn’t much of her mocktail left — she emptied the glass, setting it down just by her wine glass before continuing. “The shape of truth is much more than just the facts, isn't it? Facts are simple and present: that I was a child in nineteen-ninety-eight, and you were away in America; that I was a halfblood at Hogwarts under a Death Eater regime, and you were a muggleborn abroad during the worst period of muggleborn persecution in England.” She dragged one fingertip around the rim of the empty glass, slow.  “Simple facts. Don’t tell you much on their own. But.”  With the back of one hand, Cordelia pushed the empty glass away from her wine, to the edge of the table for easy removal. “The space between the facts, around them, that's the story, isn't it? The subjective experiences padding each moment."

It was a bit on the nose, making the space between the empty glass and the wine glass simple allegories for the chasm between Charlie and Cordelia’s experiences. Whatever, it wasn't like most Banshee lyrics were particularly subtle.

"So." Now Cordelia finally reached for her wine, taking the glass but not sipping yet. "You can lead, guide the story as you'd like." When Charlie seemed either unable or unwilling to just start, Cordelia wet her lips with wine. "A prompt, then. Ninety-ninety-seven. When did you decide to leave? Why?"

Charlie’s attempt at lightening the mood backfired somewhat when Cordelia informed him that Witch Weekly had been censured. He failed to hide his reaction too, his brow rising tellingly (had he known that? If he had, he’d since forgotten — like most of ninety-seven and ninety-eight, pushed out).

At being referred to as a known fled muggleborn Charlie brought his wine to his lips again, drinking deeply. Fled sounded so cowardly, didn’t it? And what was he, if not a coward? He had had the tiniest taste of what was to come at that Quidditch World Cup Final and he’d been scared shitless then — made to feel even less certain by the hysteria around him, of non-muggleborns who knew what You-Know-Who was capable of. When he’d been told they were going to round the muggleborns up, well, he did what he thought anyone else in his position would do: run.

Cordelia had carried on talking, joking (he assumed— hoped) about the Quibbler. Charlie raised his chin in a weak acknowledgement of her attempt at humour. He placed his glass back on the table, his fingers splayed across the base to steady it — and to occupy himself with something. She was a journalist who wanted the truth — as if he hadn’t heard that before. Charlie watched the brunette down her cocktail and tried to not look like he was observing too closely.

Charlie listened, more attentively than he would if she had simply been after tour gossip, as Cordelia sold her pitch. She was a child—so how old was she? His gaze drifted over her again—he was in America. Halfblood, muggleborn. His focus was drawn to her finger, lazily caressing the rim of her glass — absently, he was trying to work out what her interest was, if she was a halfblood. Whatever her interest, she was drawing him in, telling a story of her own here. He glanced around the vicinity, as if to double check that they were out of earshot, then back to her. He could lead, she said, and Charlie suppressed a smirk (barely).

Nineteen-ninety-seven. Charlie straightened up and reached for the bottle of Malbec, topping himself up before setting the bottle back down closer to her now that she’d started on the wine too. He had a sip, licked his lips, and nodded. “Professor Dumbledore’s death. Murder,” he corrected himself. “Our tour got cancelled because of that—” he frowned, “—not like, I don’t mean it like that.” He exhaled and ran his free hand back through his hair. “But that was when we— I—” he was so used to talking for the band, but for this, in particular, he couldn’t, “—realised it were serious.”

“Then a mate of mine at the Ministry told us about the Registry. My parents are teachers, I know what happened in Europe, World War Two. We weren’t gonna sit around and wait for a knock on the door — one thing to be a muggleborn, ‘nother to be, like, famous.” He grimaced, the word uncomfortable on his tongue. “Had to go somewhere. Label had contacts in the States,” he shrugged.

A thick eyebrow twitched upward on Charlie's face. So. He hadn't known. A twinge of anger in Cordelia's gut -- had he not bothered to know? Or had no-one told him when the rock star returned? Which option was worse?

Charlie watched her finish her drink, with a look Cordelia couldn't decipher from between her long lashes. She had his attention, it seemed -- his eyes followed her fingertip around the rim of her glass, mimicking her across the table. What was he thinking? A glance to the side -- did he think there was another part to her ambush? His focus came back to her, accompanied by a top-up and a shift in posture. Perhaps they would need more wine. Cordelia didn't raise her glass.

When he began to talk, Cordelia's hand went to her purse, pulling away when she felt the low vibration of the transcription quill at work. Dumbledore's death. She nodded. Murder. She nodded again, a small muscle in her face tensing. I don't mean it like that, Charlie said. Mean it like what, Cordelia bit back. Like it was cancelled as a matter of state? Or a matter of celebrity security? It was serious before, Cordelia thought uncharitably. It had been serious since her neighbor was murdered, Cordelia knew with hindsight-- but she had been not even thirteen then, while Charlie had been grown. He should have known, continued uncharitable Cordelia. Cordy took a sip of wine, to drown her out.

We, said Charlie, before correcting himself. We, to I. If Cordelia recalled correctly, the other two members of Banshee were as wizarding as all get out, though she could be wrong. So -- if that, they escaped just to protect Charlie? Cordelia frowned.

Perhaps she should loop back to the Second Muggle World War, at some point, with Michael's lawyer friend. There was something interesting in that comparison Cordelia wasn't sure she understood. She nodded like she knew, though, a furrow forming in her brow. "And your parents?" She prompted, tugging on a thread there, hoping to unravel a story. "Did you tell them where you were going? Did they come with you?"

Should he have said all that? Fuck it, why shouldn’t he? It was the truth — but did it sound like he was belittling it (the war)? If it did, he wasn’t doing so intentionally. He waited for some sort of reaction, some response, and she kept him waiting — he then began wondering if that was one of her tactics. He couldn’t work out whether she was on his side or not — he was remembering more of their previous encounter now, and he’d thought himself in the driver’s seat up until she had made it clear he wasn’t (which he’d only realised after she’d pulled over and turned off the engine to set him walking home).

But all that and she was focusing on his parents? Charlie frowned, confused by the lack of prompting for more — though perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, he still wasn’t sure if telling people that Fergie had potentially saved his life was entirely smart, as if this could all end at any moment and they’d be back under threat.

“I—” he started, then stopped to think about it. “Yeah, I told them but— Well, they’re muggles. They don’t get the paper — not that the papers back then...” He trailed off, acknowledging that they’d sort of covered what the papers back then had been like. He wet his lips and smoothed his hands down his thighs, fidgeting. “They couldn’t comprehend how serious it were, just coming from me. I didn’t even really get it — you hear stories but it’s different when it’s happening.” He caught the look she was giving him and figured he wasn’t coming across quite as pathetic and scared as he ought to — he’d never claimed to be a good posterboy for muggleborns, much less during the war, what did she think she was going to get from him?

He ploughed on, having already dug his hole: “Sam’s mum explained it to mine, to get it to sink in. But they had jobs and that. They weren’t gonna come on tour with us.” Nor would Charlie have wanted them to — unless it had been the only option, perhaps (but probably not — what rockstar took their mum on the tourbus?). But even now he couldn’t say with any certainty that he’d taken it all as seriously as perhaps he should have — too excited by the prospect of America, too distanced physically once they’d gotten there. He hadn’t lost any friends or family of his own in the war, and maybe that was why it had never really hit home the way it had for others.

“They knew we were going to America,” he continued. “I suppose— It was all seen as more precautionary, than anything else.” Or was he just an idiot? Had everyone else known just how bad it was going to get? His sharp features pulled into a frown, cross with her now for putting him in this position — for making him realise how trivial it had all been for him. “I told you I didn’t have what you’re after.”