[mp] takes one to know one [bérénice]

edinburgh // 4 may 2004

Honey slipped her wand into the pocket of her sleeve, done straightening the petits fours for what had to be the last time; she wasn’t here in any sort of waitstaff capacity. She needed to just supply the sweets and walk away, enjoy the party. She had gone all out because it was for charity but it was also fancy. There were chocolates, truffles, as well as things she didn’t usually make for Honeydukes, things from that pastry semester in school--Fergie had convinced her to contribute, think about the custom orders the guests might place with her once they had seen more proof that Honeydukes was more than sugar quills.

And then her brother had the nerve to not even attend the gala. Honey scanned the crowd, turning her head to the side to roll her eyes once she had locked eyes with Fergie’s colleague and noticed him heading in her direction. She couldn’t remember his name and it was too late to ask considering she had slept with him ages ago. But he was still hot-- and still talking about competitive gobstones, with no lead in at all, no alright?, nothing. He could have brought her a drink, at least.

Someone touched her arm and Honey might have turned a little too eagerly, nearly knocking a drink out of someone else’s hand. (Anything was a good alternative to having to answer which witch she thought might take home the gobstone title.) She smiled at her--Miranda, who had helped coordinate the food--before she looked at who was standing next to her: Bérénice.

Her first thought was thank fuck I put in effort tonight; her hair, dress, makeup-- she thought she was on par with the other woman, at least. Not that she cared what Bérénice thought, of course, but-- her second thought was is Harlan here? and it took every bit of effort to not glance around for him. But she kept her eyes forward, and her smile customer-friendly, tuning back into the conversation as the introductions were being made. She had missed how she was introduced but she assumed it was something along the lines of Honey Bea Flume, she owns Honeydukes, but she did not miss, “And this is Bérénice Bonaccord, Fundraising Coordinator for Asclepius.” Honey nodded politely, as if she knew what that was.

“Hi.” She held out her hand with another small smile. “Thanks, Miranda,” she said, as the other witch started walking away. Honey and Bérénice were left standing there with Gobstones Boy, who Honey turned to with a more genuine smile: “Could you get me a drink?” She looked back to Bérénice with her eyebrows raised. “Not teaching anymore?”

@Bérénice Bonaccord

Bérénice snuck a glance over her shoulder before picking up a third macaron — she hadn’t had much of the rest of the food, but she was particularly fond of the French sweet and—whether it was the hunger talking or the patisserie chef’s genuine skill—these were some of the best she’d had outside of Paris. The flavours were more modern than she was accustomed to, certainly: passionfruit; mandarin and chocolate; and this third one was stickier, sweeter, with a bite — toffee and ginger.

The French witch turned to move towards the nearest waiter to pick up a glass of champagne, holding them up long enough to ask who had provided the catering — the desserts, specifically. The young man took her to a woman called Miranda, who informed her that the ‘chef’ was in fact here as a guest, would she like to meet her, etc. A moment later, Nice was guided across the room and— her eyes fell upon the redheaded woman Harlan had dated before— well, before. Bérénice looked her up and down — she almost didn’t recognise her in a dress, having had a persistent mental image of faded jeans and a fluffy magenta jumper. She was glad she’d worn a decent gown of her own (though of course, all of her gowns were decent).

Honey Bea Flume. She owns Honeydukes in Hogsmeade — more than just a sweetshop, obviously. Bérénice put on her best saccharine smile, aimed at Miranda of course, who had on the way over gushed about what a compliment it was for an actual French person to ask after the food. But: Honey Bee — really? It took some effort not to roll her eyes, instead extending a hand to shake Honey’s politely, surprised by the professionalism exhibited by the other witch. “Enchantée.” At this point Miranda must have deemed her service complete, wandering off; Bérénice almost tried to go with her but she couldn't let Honey Bee think she was intimidating, because she wasn’t.

If there hadn’t been a man standing right next to Honey, Nice would have not-entirely-subtly looked sound for Harlan, half-expecting him to have run back to the frumpy jumper wearing woman who had clearly put up with his indecisiveness better. Nice looked over the man who was here, and couldn’t quite remember if he was the brother from the quidditch match or— Her sending him for a drink didn’t help any, wasn’t that what she’d sent him to do last time?

Bérénice blinked softly, a little affronted by the fact that Honey apparently knew more about her than she did about the Scottishwoman. "No,” she said, “I resigned in March." The corners of her mouth pulled her lips into a tight smile. She hoped the redhead didn’t know why exactly she had had a sudden change in career — but how could she know?

The man Honey had sent for a drink was still visible from here. Nice nodded her head in his direction. "New beau?" she inquired gently, in an almost-apologetic tone.

She resigned; pity. Honey wanted to say something to that, something about how the French school must miss her terribly, but instead she nodded, trying to be sympathetic. Empathetic? She wasn’t sure of the difference (but it didn’t matter which it was, because she was neither).

Honey followed Bérénice’s nod, looking in the direction of the bar; it took her a second to realize she was meant to be looking at Gobtstones. Damn, he was fit, but-- new beau? Merlin, no. She looked back to her, eyebrows raised a bit. Was she looking for her new beau? Did she want an introduction? Actually, with the subdued way Bérénice had watched that quidditch match, her quiet opera claps at some of those plays--especially with how much she had been into Harlan--she and Gobstones would probably get along well.

And what she would give to mention Will right now-- where was he, by the way? A book thing put on by his pretend girlfriend, it was surprising she hadn’t seen him yet.

But Honey was being professional, Merlin help her. “No,” she said instead. “My brother’s mate.” That wasn’t mutually exclusive from beau, but she wasn’t about to start elaborating on that now, with her. She swallowed, put on her customer service smile again. “Asclepius?” Honey could ask tiny questions, too, and she could only hope she had said Asclepius right.

The look Honey gave her in reply veered a little too close to accusatory. Nice supposed she deserved that, and had the decency to hold the other woman’s gaze — accept responsibility, without actually admitting to anything aloud of course.

Her brother’s mate. “Oh,” Bérénice nodded, smiling softly. Her eyes went back to the other man, now that the risk of being seen to be meddling had reduced; he was good looking, but perhaps a little young.

Asclepius? The French witch turned her head back to the redhead. “Yes,” she smiled, more confidently this time. “Have you heard much about the work they do?” She substituted the ‘we’ she usually used there, partly because Honey wasn’t a potential donor, and partly because it still felt rather disingenuous to accept credit for the charity’s work, this early on in her role. Nice was also careful to be more polite than their previous encounter; her tone was kind, rather than condescending.

In for a centime, in for a franc. “Your macarons are divine, by the way. The chocolate and mandarin, is it? Is delicious.”

It was hard to believe that Gobstones was suddenly more appealing to Bérénice now that she knew he wasn’t there with Honey—that wasn’t how she worked—but damn, if he wasn’t nice to look at. Honey looked at him for another second before turning her attention back to the other woman.

She didn’t correct her pronunciation of Asclepius (and Honey didn’t think Bérénice would have let the opportunity to do so pass her by), asking instead if Honey had heard much about the work that they did. She had; it was some big charitable organization providing healing to people in need and of course that was who she worked for now. “Not a word,” Honey lied, rolling her shoulders back to stand a little taller-- taller than Bérénice.

Honey almost regretted her snark when Bérénice complimented the macarons; it seemed like a genuine compliment and Honey knew she should be gracious--Bérénice was French and was complimenting pâtisserie--but there was still the teensy fact that Bérénice slept with her boyfriend and Honey wasn’t feeling very compelled to accept anything from her, compliments or otherwise. “Thank you,” she said anyway (because she did have some manners in the proper settings), adding: “The secret is the Swiss meringue.” That was true--that was how she had learned it in school--and it had the added bonus of being a little less French.

She was still smiling at Bérénice when Gobstones returned, a flute of champagne held out to her. “Thank you,” she said again, taking the drink in one hand and reaching for his elbow with the other, to turn him right back around. Honey looked over her shoulder, directing her next words to Bérénice: “Nice seeing you.” It truly wasn’t that bad, but Honey had to get herself (and Gobstones) out of there before either of them wanted an introduction.

…

“Champagne.” She was ordering her own drinks now, one elbow resting on the bar as she leaned into it. The auction was over (and had been rather boring) but the crowd was perhaps a bit more fun, now that most talk of the war was over (and the free alcohol kept flowing). This should have been the point Honey started locking down her plans for after, but she had already made plans-- “What?” She thought she had misheard the bartender, thought he said they were out of champagne. No, she had heard him correctly; he had just given the last glass to-- Honey followed his finger as he pointed to a woman she could only see once the man between them walked away. “You have got to be kidding me,” she said, still looking at Bérénice as she ordered a large glass of whisky instead.