heavy weather [fergie]

saturday, 1 may 2004

She didn’t recognize the street she was on, which probably meant she should turn around, head back; realistically, she didn’t think they could walk much farther, anyway; this was a much longer walk than usual. Edith pulled back on Bonnie’s lead as she turned her own feet to head the other direction. “Let’s go home,” she said, explaining herself to the dog. She would have phrased it like that even if she didn’t live there, she realized, but she did, which made it expressly weird to say.

It had been one week now, officially, since she had moved her boxes into Fergie’s flat. She hadn’t exactly unpacked in Hackney, had already been spending most nights away from her home-on-paper, so it was easy enough to do. But then there was the matter of her book. It wasn’t due out for another few days, but her publisher had given her a box of them the day before--to sign, she said, which Edith had yet to even think about doing--and Edith had promptly stacked it with the other boxes. It wasn’t easy to ignore, however-- she made it about five minutes before telling Fergie about it, asking if he wanted to read it now versus later (and assuming he would have read it later), confirming she wanted him to when he asked.

But she didn’t have the space to avoid watching him read it. She unpacked the rest of her things in the(ir) bedroom, then swapped which things went into which drawer when she needed something else to do. There was an attempt to clean the kitchen, but there wasn’t a lot of mess to work with. (She could only imagine what she would have attempted to clean or organize if she had woken up when Fergie had.) So she took Bonnie and a book--not the one she had written--to the park, then on another walk once she had finished reading.

Still, she was so eager to know what he thought, not so eager to find out he didn’t like it. She had written about his mum, nevermind the half a book she had written about herself. At least this was easier than actually talking about things. She had to go home eventually.

She let Bonnie off the lead before she opened the door to the flat; she sniffed at Fergie’s foot before trotting off to find her water bowl. And Fergie was still sat there reading--despite Edith’s best efforts to be gone long enough for him to be done--and she offered him a small smile, mostly just acknowledging his presence and silently agreeing to leave him be. He met her eye and she hesitated, unsure what his expression was all about; she followed Bonnie to the kitchen after another second, flipping on the kettle as she resumed dreaming up every possible opinion he could have.

@Fergie Flume

Fergie was already awake when he heard Bonnie scratching around outside the bedroom door, wanting her breakfast (or snuggles on the bed — or both). He hadn’t slept well because before bed Edith had mentioned her book being published—was already printed, ready to be sold—and then went on to explain that there was now a box full of them in their flat, with all of her other boxes of her things.He had known there was a book, of course, and the general gist of it but— it was different, knowing there was a copy there he could read — and she’d said he could, if he wanted (did he want to? Yes, he did. Did she want him to? Also yes, it turned out).

He got out of bed carefully, keeping Bonnie out of the bedroom so Edith could keep sleeping, and flicked the kettle on to boil while he let Bonnie out in the garden. He filled up her bowl with biscuits, checked she had enough water, then went to find the box of books. He took the top copy and went back to the kitchen to finish making a cup of coffee; he would usually go for a run, make himself some breakfast, but it—the book, not knowing—was gnawing at his insides. He moved into the living room and got comfortable — a moment later Bonnie trotted in and leapt up onto the sofa to curl in beside him, content to nap now that she had been fed. Fergie had a sip of his coffee, then set it down and opened to the first page.

He hadn’t made it to his mum’s chapter by the point Edith had arisen. She poked her head into the lounge, saw what he was doing, and disappeared out of sight to the kitchen; Bonnie had sloped off the couch to follow her. Fergie didn’t even call out to say that she’d already been fed — didn’t feel right, for whatever reason. Then he’d come to his mother’s chapter — her name, there, printed in ink on paper. With the others there had been a sort of casualness to it—he didn’t know them, he could almost skim through—but not this one. Even as he was reading he was trying to push out an overwhelming sense of guilt that Edith knew more about what his mum had gone through than he did.

It was almost lunchtime when he next looked at the clock on the wall—Edith had been making herself busy (scarce), unpacking and whatever else—but then he’d started the chapter about a muggleborn witch who’d fallen in with a pureblood wizard and he didn’t know how he knew but he did know— He heard Edith grabbing Bonnie’s lead, claws on the hardwood in the hallway, the front door close; he shifted position on the couch and kept reading, determined to finish the whole thing because surely this wasn’t all she’d written about herself—

It hadn’t been. He read about her career as an obliviator, and that she’d been at the Battle of Hogwarts—wondered if they’d crossed paths back then, then realised it didn’t matter if they had or hadn’t—and then that she’d been stuck in the dome—the same dome that he’d had to work contacting muggleborn families with updates for months—

The front door opened and Bonnie came running up to sniff at his foot, then carried on through to the kitchen. Fergie sat up and met Edith’s eyes, his thumb acting as a bookmark; she smiled smally and he tried to reciprocate it but the expression came out a little more ambiguous.He waited for a beat before settling back into where he’d left off.

Finally, however many minutes—twenty, thirty, maybe forty—he shut the book and stayed where he was for a moment, trying to process. He closed his eyes, frowning softly. What was he even supposed to say? Did he need to say anything? He did. He got to his feet and walked through to the bedroom, lingering in the doorway; Edith was on top of the covers with a cup of tea in her hand and Bonnie curled into her side. She glanced up at him and Fergie pressed his lips together in an apologetic sort of look. He came into the room and sat on the edge of the bed; he was still holding the book in one hand.

“I wish you’d told me all of this before,” he said quietly.

Edith was half expecting Fergie to come into the kitchen while she stood there waiting for the water to boil. And maybe she wanted him to; maybe she just wanted him to stop reading. He didn’t show, though; the water boiled and she made her tea, and he was still reading as walked back to the bedroom, Bonnie following after.

She stood there for a minute, wondering what else to do. Nap? She didn’t think she’d be able to fall asleep. Read? Her box of books--not that one--was still in the living room. She glanced at the bookstand and the neat arrangement of books Fergie had (and the shelf he had cleared for her but she hadn’t made use of yet), picking one at random: FIX IT YOURSELF. It’d work, anyway.

She was in the middle of learning how to replace a blown fuse when she heard movement in the hall. Bonnie was pressed into her side but even if she wasn’t, it was obvious Fergie was on the move. She waited until she knew he was there in the doorway--rather than using the loo--before she glanced over, her face impassive. His face wasn’t, however; she knew what that look was, and she didn’t like it; didn’t want it; the pity.

Pressing her lips together, Edith looked back at the DIY book, but Fergie didn’t leave, moved farther into the room instead. She looked at the book in his hand as he sat, her book, the book people would presumably be buying in three days time, neatly bound in grey fabric, the black lettering of undesirable embossed along the spine, along with her name. She hadn’t actually given it a good look yet; she had opened the box and saw the many copies sitting there, nodded and closed it again; she was still looking at it when he spoke.

It took her a few seconds before she looked up, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t—“ She didn’t know how to tell him, she was going to say, but the truth of it all was more along the lines of: she didn’t really have anything left, no excuses nor explanations, nothing. She had used everything for the book.

But now she just wanted him to stop looking at her like that. She attempted a less serious excuse, instead. “It would have ruined the mood.” It was, somehow, still true: they had had a nice few months together and trauma wasn’t sexy. She attempted a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her mind was still on the real reason: how would she have brought it up, anyway? And he never asked. No one ever asked. Wasn’t that why she had started writing in the first place?

Edith blinked, feeling the exhaustion--mental, physical, emotional, all kinds--creep up on her. “You finished it, then?” She asked, a roundabout way of saying now she didn’t have to tell him.

Before, he’d said, and he had meant before he’d spent however many months trying to get her a job in the Muggle Liaison Office, not before they’d started dating, before she’d moved in — but he supposed he wished she had told him before then, too. 

Edith started and then stopped. Fergie kept his eyes on hers. The next time she tried she said it would have ruined the mood. Fergie wanted to find that funny, and a part of him did—her sense of humour was part of what he liked most about her—but the mood right now wasn’t right for that. Still, he attempted a weak smile in response to hers, the corner of his lips barely twitching up before turning back down.

He’d let his gaze drift over to Bonnie, who moved to rest her head on Edith’s thigh (and let out a dramatic sigh, unaware of the severity of the conversation taking place because she was a dog). Fergie glanced back up to Edith’s face. “Aye,” he confirmed, his voice still quiet. “I didn’t—” He frowned and looked at the book in his hand, flipping it over to scan the back cover. “Didn’t realise,” he said. He’d known it was bad—the war, what muggleborns had gone through—but this sat differently, reading the account of someone he knew, someone he cared deeply about.

"And all the other stuff," he continued, mostly out of a selfish desire to confess his own ignorance, get it off his chest, relieve the pressure. "I never thought about Obliviation like that," he admitted. “Like, it always seemed just… normal. Acceptable.” He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, still trying to unpack and process everything. That was part of why it had taken him so long to read it, too — he’d had to pause, go back and reread lines where he wasn’t focusing, too busy thinking about the line before it and what it meant.

“I understand why you—” He’d brought his head back up to look at her, paused as his eyes met hers again. “Why you quit,” he finished.

Edith tilted her chin down, looking at Bonnie, happy for an excuse to not continue looking at Fergie. She nodded when he said he had finished the book, but she kept her gaze down until he continued with I didn’t-- She glanced at him enough to see that he was looking at the book instead; she dropped her gaze to the book, too, assuming he was going to say he hadn’t really read it or he’d stopped after his mum’s chapter or--

The third option, the worst option maybe, was him finishing the book, him feeling bad for her, letting some cloud of pity come between them and distort things. Edith’s lips formed a thin line before she agreed with a quiet, “Yeah.” Unfortunately that was kind of the point of the book, telling people what they hadn’t yet realized. She didn’t want to admit that, though, not before she knew Fergie wasn’t going to look at her differently.

She looked at him again when he kept talking, finding it easier without the eye contact. There was all the other stuff, he said, and she wondered if he was talking about her stuff or just the book in general-- ah, no. Her stuff, it seemed. Obliviation. They were going to talk about this now, then. Half the reason she had written the book was so she wouldn’t have to physically talk about things; she supposed if she had to talk about it with anyone, she wanted it to be her boyfriend. Acceptable, he said, and Edith swallowed. “Yeah,” she said again. ‘Talking’ was a general term on her part, but she nodded in silent agreement. Obliviation had been normal and acceptable for her, too, because she had never stopped to think about it. It had been cool, written up in one of those Ministry pamphlets they distributed in fifth year.

He understood why she--Edith met his eye, blinking once before he finished his thought. He understood why she quit her job and Edith felt a rush of… something. Affection? Relief? That had to be what the book was actually about, getting someone to understand. “Yeah,” she said one more time, pushing her glasses up to the top of her head, pressing the heel of her hand into her eye to give herself just a couple more seconds before she tried to genuinely talk to him. She met his eye again; they were close enough that he was only a little blurry.

“I--” She started, stopped, added another, “Yeah.” She had to say more than that; she had more to say than that. “I think I’m going to quit the magazine.” It wasn’t talking about obliviation, or quitting that job--both topics they should probably cover at some point--but she was telling someone else a decision before she made it, maybe even asking for input. It was definitely a first for her.

Looking her in the eye was better — for him, at least. It hurt that Edith had felt more comfortable writing all of this down instead of feeling like she could tell him, face-to-face. But he could understand that, too — and he had his priorities straight: Edith had a lot more to work through than he ever had, not that it was a competition anyway. And they hadn’t been going out that long, but even as friends he would have wanted to be there for her. The pad of his thumb swiped across the embossed title of the book slowly — just the name, undesirable, that was enough to make someone retreat inwards the way Edith had.

Edith propped her glasses atop her head and Fergie kept his attention on her, on the way she was pressing her palm into her eye socket; was she going to cry? He hoped not — not callously, but he didn’t think he knew how to deal with that. He’d seen Edith in various morose states now (happier ones, too), but she’d yet to actually cry in front of him. Fergie passed the book to his left hand and placed his right on her thigh, reassuringly— Bonnie immediately sniffed her head closer, pushing her nose under his palm in search of pets. He glanced down and scratched her head, before flicking his eyes back up to meet Edith’s.

He blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that—thought they had more book contents to get through—but he could roll with it — she was talking, at the very least. He wasn’t sure what the right thing to say to that was but; “I— Alright,” he said. He quickly decided he could—would—support her financially, at least temporarily, but he could tell her that in a minute, once he worked out how to bring up his promotion (which he was conflicted about now, given Edith’s views on the Ministry and how muggleborns were dealt with but)— first things first: “Not enjoying it, or…?” he prompted delicately.

He searched out her hand, took it in his (ignored Bonnie’s further attempts for attention) and curled his fingers around hers. “You know I can cover the rent and that, ‘til you figure things out,” he offered quietly. “Was doing it before, it’s no bother.”

Edith glanced down as he passed the book from hand to hand, kept her gaze down as he reached a hand for her leg. It was nice--physical contact, bridging the tiny gap between them--and half of Edith’s mouth twitched up in a smile as she looked up and met Fergie’s eye again. Both of her hands were cradling her mug, but she was appreciative all the same.

And something about the closeness was encouraging honesty, more honesty even than was in the book. He said aye, alright, and the alright didn’t feel judgemental at all. She had been half expecting an are you sure? or a have you really thought this through? but this wasn’t like the last time, or the time before that. His follow up question wasn’t one of those either; he asked if she wasn’t enjoying it, and she swallowed hard, trying to put into words what she was thinking.

She didn’t figure it out before he reached for her hand, and she returned the gesture, wrapping her fingers around his. It was a simple gesture, but it caught her off guard; she looked down at their hands, at Bonnie, back up to Fergie. Something about it felt different; good different.

He offered to cover rent, give her time to figure her shit out, and she attempted to cut him off: “No, it’s--” she squeezed his hand then rearranged her fingers to thread between his. “I have money,” she said, frowning slightly. They hadn’t really discussed financials any more than determining Edith would cover half the rent, but-- “The book,” she said quietly. It felt a little weird profiting off it, but it wasn’t too different from profiting off the column, and she did that without too much heartburn.

“And that’s why I want to resign.” Edith stretched to put her tea on the bedside table, then reached for the book as she sat back again. She let go of his hand so she could use both of hers to flip to the last page, to the ‘About the Author’ blurb. “Edith Holthouse has written for The Daily Prophet and The Quibbler. She lives in London.” It was simple, like Edith had requested, but-- She looked back up at Fergie as she closed the book again. “The Quibbler? It feels so ridiculous now.” It wasn’t a serious magazine for serious people. She motioned with the book, completing her thought: “After this.”

She waited a beat before she continued, afraid that if she stopped talking she wouldn’t start again. “What if people don’t take it--” and Edith-- “seriously because I work for The Quibbler?” No offense to the Lovegoods, but they had a ‘batshit crazy’ reputation. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” she added quietly, truthfully, “Not just jumping on the opportunity now you’ll pay me rent.”

Edith didn’t answer him immediately, swallowing down her thoughts instead.

She interjected quickly when he offered to pay the rent for them both, though, and Fergie’s brow furrowed until Edith squeezed his hand, knotting their fingers together; he stroked his thumb over the back of her palm. She had money, she said, and he nodded — hadn’t been accusing her of not having any but would have been more than happy to ease any burden.

The book. He glanced down at it, then back to Edith’s face, her eyes and the little flecks of green and brown in them. Why hadn’t it occurred to him that she would get an advance, now that it was printed? “Aye, of course,” he said, mostly so as not to make it seem like he had thought the book wouldn’t be worth much — having now read it, he certainly knew it’s value, but he wasn’t convinced the rest of the wizarding populace would necessarily agree, let alone pay to read it.

But that was why she wanted to resign. Fergie nodded softly, loosening his hold on her fingers as she reached to set her tea down. Edith leant towards him to take the book from his other hand, then let go of the one she was holding; he moved it across to rest on Bonnie’s head, preempting her seizing her chance. He listened to her speak in the third person and the tiniest of smiles tugged at the corner of his lips — especially at the she lives in London, part. His expression flattened out when she repeated The Quibbler. “Well,” he scratched at his ear awkwardly. “I was a shelf stacker at Honeydukes for a year,” he joked, attempting to lighten the mood a little.

“But The Quibbler was— in the war, you know. I think people’ve just forgotten now that it’s mostly back to grumpkins and snarks and whatever else.” He caught Edith’s eye and looked down at his lap sheepishly; he hadn’t meant to prove her right. He glanced at the book in her hands. “They’ll take it seriously,” he told her, flicking his gaze back up to meet hers. “But—” He pressed his lips together. “Aye, it won’t hurt.”

He smiled again, ruffled Bonnie’s ears and looked down at her fondly. “Well, you won’t be the first free lodger,” he said, looking back at his girlfriend and sobering his expression. “I mean it though— I can look after it for a wee bit.” He shifted on the bed to face her a little more, bending the leg nearest her to fold it under himself. Now seemed as good a time as any; “I, erm— I got offered a promotion. I haven’t got the paperwork yet—” which was the only reason he hadn’t mentioned it before now, “—but it’s— They’re making me a Senior officer.” He looked more apologetic than proud.

Edith smiled slowly as she pictured Fergie at Honeydukes, pink apron and all, stacking shelves. She appreciated what he was doing; it certainly had the intended effect, making her feel better, but he was comparing Honeydukes to The Quibbler. Honeydukes was like, an institution, and The Quibbler was, well--

It was something that used to be better. She didn’t get The Quibbler during the war, but she had heard about it. And wasn’t he just proving her point, anyway? Grumpkins and snarks, on the facing page to her name. She watched his gaze drop--to the book--and she heard him say they would take it seriously; she didn’t really hear him until he had agreed with her, though. Quitting wouldn’t hurt. It was surprising, almost, helpful even. It was certainly better than a disappointed look and a do whatever you want.

Fergie smiled; Edith looked at the dog before she smiled, too. She nodded as he went on about the rent, first trying to make light of the situation, then turning a bit more serious. Edith was determined to cover half of the rent, but she nodded one more time. “Alright.” She didn’t feel like arguing about it now.

She didn’t look up until he mentioned his promotion. Her heart dropped into her stomach-- Elias and his maybe promotion had been the catalyst for their breakup (though, realistically, there were so many other reasons than Edith not wanting to move to Germany). But this wasn’t that. He looked just as happy about it as Edith figured she did-- fuck. Her book was ruining things already.

But he was good, a good thing about the Ministry. He quit when the Muggleborn Registration Committee became a thing and the consultancy job with the Muggle Liaison office had been his idea and-- Edith looked away, glancing up at the ceiling as she took a breath. She gave herself a couple seconds before she met his eye again. “Senior,” she said with a lopsided grin, scratching at her hairline, mirroring where his greys grew in.

Edith could only bear to keep things light hearted for a few seconds, though. There was the unasked question that she thought she knew the answer to already. She drummed her fingers on the cover of her book, keeping her eyes on his as she asked: “Why aren’t you happy about it?”

Alright, she said, and Fergie nodded once — they could discuss it more later, if they needed to. Of course, whatever he wasn’t putting on rent now that Edith was contributing half he had been putting elsewhere, but that was another conversation for later, too.

Edith didn’t look pleased at his news, and his fears were all but confirmed: a promotion at the Ministry wasn’t a good thing, in her eyes. For the briefest of moments he wondered how he’d go working back at Honeydukes, as an alternative— But he loved his job. From the first moment Professor Sprout had suggested it to him, Fergie had fallen in love with the idea of interacting with muggles on a daily basis — teaching them about the wizarding world, and learning in turn.

Edith looked back at him and Fergie prepared himself for a lukewarm reaction to a position he’d been working towards for years. Senior, was all she said — with a grin. Fergie smiled, relieved. “Aye,” he laughed lightly, unable to stop himself from reaching up to run his fingers through the streak of greys above his left eye. “Think that helped them pick between Sandy and me,” he smirked (that wasn’t likely — no offence to Lysander, but Fergie believed himself to genuinely be the better candidate).

His hand fell back to his lap and his expression weakened; back to thinking about all of the criticisms from Edith’s book. Fergie blinked at Edith’s question, as forthright as it was. “Erm,” he hesitated, and the fingers of his left hand moved up his thigh to begin fiddling with the seam of his boxer shorts (he had only put a t-shirt on before leaving the bedroom earlier that morning). “I dunno. I am, really,” he admitted cautiously. “I’m just—” He pressed his lips together and sighed through his nose, nodding at the book still in her hands. “Puts a different light on it all.”

He flicked his eyes up to meet hers again. “I don’t mean that, like, your book’s changed my mind,” he added quickly. “It’s just— opened my eyes a bit more, I think.” How could it not have? And worse:, how could he not have known sooner, insead of having to wait for her to publish a book about it all? He frowned softly, more at himself than at her. “I would never have asked you to do the consultancy thing if I’d known.”

Edith smiled again at his aye--that was never not going to make her happy--and he reached for his hair; it was almost enough to make her forget what they were talking about. Almost. He said that was why they picked him over Sandy, and just like that, she was back to thinking about the Ministry again. But he was a good thing.

She hoped she hadn’t ruined it for him, knew that she had.

Maybe she could offer to un-ruin it for him, too. It would take her more time to move out than it would have yesterday, considering she had unpacked most of her things that morning-- it was the last thing she wanted to do, but she would, if that was what he needed to be happy. Fuck.

She glanced down as he fidgeted, glanced back up once she realized she was staring at his underwear. Fergie said he was happy, though it wasn’t very believable. He nodded at her book, said it put a new light on things… at least that was easy to believe. She was a Ruiner of Things. She nodded slowly, genuinely wanting to believe her book hadn’t changed his mind. “Right.” She offered him a small frown and another nod. Normally she would be pleased, people understanding the shitty qualities of the Ministry, but this was different.

And there was the consultancy thing, too. She had written about that, of course. She had had to. But if he had known-- he wouldn’t have asked if he had know, but she wouldn’t have told him then because they hadn’t been that close, and they only became that close because of the job. She didn’t think she needed to explain all of that to him, but maybe it would be worth reiterating.

“You never would have known if you hadn’t asked me to do the consultancy thing.” She drummed her fingers on the book again, exhaling heavily. “Look, your office is good. Necessary.” Necessary was one of those words she used over and over again in her book until it lost all its meaning, but it did mean something. “You have a good job. And you’re good at it.” She lifted her book off her lap, gave it a little wave. “You’re not the problem.” Edith was the problem, or part of it, or had been, anyway.

Right, she said. Aye, he thought.

That had been a shitty apology on his part, but Edith seemed just as apologetic— What did she mean he would never have known? And his office was good, which was good— Necessary sounded less good, but he had a good job, and he was good at it—he allowed himself to feel good about that—and it was all good, so why did this feel bad?

Fergie looked at the book—her book—when Edith lifted it up, then glanced up to meet her gaze when she said he wasn’t the problem. He stared at her for a long moment, confused— “You’re not suggesting you’re the problem, are you?” he asked, frowning. He scooted closer and twisted to face her more head-on. “Edith.” He reached for her hand, and as he glanced down the title of her book caught his eye again. His fingers closed around hers and he squeezed gently. “Nothing in that book makes you the problem,” he told her firmly; her, or any other muggleborn for that matter. He was thinking about the personal experiences she’d written about now, and he couldn’t help but think about Elias, and how he was a fucking problem; Fergie frowned (dating a muggleborn didn’t suddenly make you righteous — and maybe he had to realise that himself, too, to a degree).

His attention was drawn down by the feel of a wet nose against the side of his hand. Fergie swallowed a smile; now wasn’t the time to be distracted, they were on a roll — a slow one, but still.

“Anyone who made you think that you were the problem—” Anyone being Elias, the Ministry, whoever else— He frowned at nothing in particular (her legs, stretched out beside him), too angry that there were people out there who had made Edith, his mum, whoever else feel this way. He lifted his chin and made eye contact, held it; his thumb stroked over the back of her hand.

Edith raised her eyebrows because that had been exactly what she had been suggesting. She was part of the problem, or had been-- the grammar here was not the important part. The general conclusion of her part of the book was that she was trying to do better, but there was only so much she could do. The Ministry had more responsibility than she did, in the end, but that didn’t change the fact that whatever she did or said or wrote now wouldn’t undo the things she had done as an obliviator. Ergo: she was part of the problem.

Fergie scooted closer--closer but still blurry because she still wasn’t wearing her glasses--so this must be the point where he tells her she’s wrong. She loved that; she thought about rolling her eyes rather than actually doing it.

He said her name and reached for her hand, but Edith was making a point to not meet his eye. Nothing in the book made her the problem, apparently, but he just wasn’t looking at it like she was. Big picture stuff. The grand problem of the wizarding world. But what she thought he was getting at--who her parents were or weren’t--she thought that maybe it did come back around to that. Wizards were setting themselves apart, making the choice for both themselves and muggles, deciding what was best, modifying memories to keep muggles ‘safe’. It was nothing more than a power play, all of it. Maybe Fergie understood her book better than she did.

Her cheeks were hot and her eyes hurt and she still hadn’t said anything. She said, “Okay,” and glanced up at him, only to make sure he wasn’t looking at her because she felt herself on the verge of tears and she didn’t want him to see that. He wasn’t looking at her, though, so Edith went back to looking at the dog, trying to insert her nose under Fergie’s other hand.

She glanced back up when Fergie spoke again, though he didn’t finish his thought. Her eyebrows went up again, prompting him to go on, but it took him a couple seconds to look at her and even then he didn’t say anything else. She figured she knew what he was getting at; she swallowed, her throat dry. “I know.” Anyone who made her think that she was the problem wasn’t worth thinking about-- it had to be something along those lines, but she really didn’t want to talk about herself anymore. Writing about herself had taken it all out of her; she didn’t really have anything left to offer that he hadn’t already read.

But there was the rest of the book to talk about. “I’m glad you read it.” And she meant it. She turned her hand over so she could hold his properly, awkward angle be damned. “I rewrote your mum’s chapter about ten times.” Edith had sent her a copy of it--the chapter only--two weeks ago, and her response had been encouraging, minus one criticism: “She said I didn’t mention you enough.” There were definitely less Fergie mentions than previous drafts, especially that draft she had turned in late December (which she hadn’t noticed until her editor had pointed it out and she wasn’t about to mention it now). The right side of her mouth twitched up slightly, though a half smile was better than nothing because she was still trying to get away from anything he had to say about her not being a problem.

He didn’t know how to finish that sentence without sounding overly dramatic and somehow cheapening the sentiment of what he was getting at — but Edith picked up what he was saying (he thought). Fergie kept his eyes on her face, darting from her rosy cheeks to the shine of her eyes and the tension in her jaw, where she was holding it all in (he assumed). He gripped her hand a fraction tighter.

She was glad he had read it. There was a short pause before he nodded. “Aye, me too.” Edith moved her hand and at first he thought she was slipping out of his grasp, but it was just to hold his properly; the corner of his lips pulled up into a small smile.

His eyebrows rose, then he smiled again. Then he smiled a bit more bashfully as Edith went on, glancing away and then back. “Was that before or after you were my girlfriend?” he joked lamely, not knowing what else to say. It had been strange, to say the least, to come across mentions of himself at all.

“It really is— brilliant, you know,” he said, pausing just long enough to find the right word (and still unsure he’d settled on the right one). He shifted a little, encouraged that he could move without spooking her by their awkward hand-hold and the half-smile she’d given him a moment earlier. “It’s a lot to unpack,” he admitted; he’d need to read it again, if he was allowed. “But it’s— It asks important questions. I think it’ll be good,” for muggleborns, but for wizards as a whole — there were a lot of things he’d never considered so morally grey before, and he would need time to work through it all himself, but his priority right now was sitting in front of him.

Fergie pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and gave Bonnie (still nosing at him) a scratch with his free hand finally, reaching across awkwardly. With his head down, his attention drifted from the dog to their entwined hands, to the mark on Edith’s forearm. He abandoned Bonnie’s ears and pulled Edith’s hand closer, running his thumb slowly along the scar, from wrist towards elbow. “I didn’t realise,” he murmured — he had assumed it was a childhood injury, before magic and seamless healing had entered her life. “We were both there.”