[Leaky Cauldron] who cares where you get a drink? [Pierce]

Dean used to imagine he would frequent cool places. Hole-in-the-wall coffee shops with art on the walls and poetry readings in the evenings. That he was on his own with a book and a butterbeer after work at the Leaky, with a couple batty old witches at the table to the left and a middle-aged wizard feeding bits of chip to a puffskein to the right, seemed a good measure of how much he didn’t care anymore.

It wasn’t a bad place by any means, but it wasn’t what he’d envisioned as a kid. He was just straight up too lazy to go drink-hunting these days. Ever since he’d been an adult, really. There were a couple muggle places he’d gotten to know but sometimes he just wanted a good butterbeer, especially this time of year. The bar he’d walked through on his first trip to Diagon Alley seemed as good a place as any. The thought of the Leaky Cauldron as old hat brought a small, ironic grin to his face. When he was eleven it had seemed like the coolest place in the world.

He looked up from his book at the sound of the door, and noticed someone new had come in. It was a good-looking young man who slid into a seat at the bar. Dean eyed him. He didn’t recognize him from Hogwarts—and he would have certainly noticed him there, he thought. Perhaps he was a foreigner. When there were young, hip people here usually they didn’t know anywhere else to go.

After a few seconds of thought, he downed the rest of his butterbeer, letting the warmth spread through his chest. He needed it to summon the nerve. Tucking his book away, Dean walked over, sitting beside the man at the bar. “H’lo,” he said, casually. “Been around here before?” Sliding his empty bottle forward onto the bar, he caught the bartender’s eye. “I’ll take something a bit stronger.”

@Pierce Lachapelle

To call himself a tourist in a place like Diagon Alley felt silly, and yet is was perhaps the closest term to the truth. Hailing from France, the Lachapelle had never really had a reason to be here. At least until now, now that he’d settled, which was perhaps the most outrageous word of all. Less than a month ago the blonde had been swinging through tombs in the heart of foreign lands, aiding the raiders in an endless quest for treasure and glory. And money, to be totally honest. Wandering from place to place was incredible, and it was truly where Pierce belonged, but being broke all the time was not something that really suited him. When the chance at something better, something that really paid came along, he decided to give it a chance.

Hence here, today, where he was wondering along the chilly streets seeing the sights, ducking into all the shops, and buying far more trinkets and sweets from the street vendors than was advisable. He was enamored. He was also cold, and hungry, and ready for his penultimate stop: the Leaky Cauldron. The Leaky Cauldron. How many legendary witches and wizards had hung their hat here for a rest and a butterbeer? The history buff was wandering back in time, sans time turner, purely in his mind’s eye.

He sauntered into the dark and rustic place, taking in his surroundings and blinking at the crowd. Older than he’d expected. Older than he was used to. The Frenchman slid up to the bar, rubbing the dark wood with his hands, ordering a butterbeer from the barkeep and drinking in the aura. It was at that moment when someone appeared beside him. He blinked as he met the man’s eyes. They were warm, he was warm. Above all else, he was young, and he was striking up a conversation. Pierce grinned. Meeting a stranger in the Leaky Cauldron. No matter how many new places he observed, how many new cultures he explored, the discovery always filled him with the same childlike awe.

“Hi,” he replied gently, his french accent noticeable. His English was good, better than many, but it would take him a few months of immersion to really be as quick witted as he wanted. He shook his head. “First time,” he offered, taking a swig of the warm, buttery liquid in the mug before him. He watched the man order something stronger and he raised a brow. “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” he observed with a nod. He tapped two fingers on the bar counter, signaling me too to the barkeep. He swiveled towards the man and offered his hand. “Pierce Lachapelle, pleasure.” 

The man grinned at him, which had to be a good sign. Christ, he was handsome, and Dean had to do his best to put his mind off it. He was just trying to make friends, for now. “A Frenchman, hm?” he asked, taking Pierce’s hand to shake it. He tried to think of anything he knew of France, considered asking if he knew a Fleur Delacour, but decided that would probably be a long shot and offensive to boot. “Dean Thomas,” he said instead. “I’m from here.” He laughed a little, but quickly shut up, not wanting to make things awkward.

“I hope you don’t mind me sitting with you,” he continued, looking down as his drink came. “It was you or the puffskein man over there, you see.” He grinned and brought the glass to his lips. “And you look interesting. Well—more interesting, comparatively. You know.” Looking away in embarrassment, he buried his face in his glass for a few seconds, trying to regain his composure.

"So," he asked, “Beauxbatons?” He had nothing to follow this with, and regretted it. “I don’t know much about it other than that it exists,” he admitted. “They came to visit—I was at Hogwarts during the Triwizard. We didn’t socialize too much, though.” Trying to remember, Dean laughed. “Wicked carriages they had. Though I reckon I might have gotten a bit sick, if it were me.” He chanced a glance over at Pierce, relieved that he didn’t seem to be bothered by his pointless rambling.

“Anyway,” said Dean, “er, what brings you to London?” It was the obvious question; why hadn’t he thought of this from the start? He gave Pierce a grin. “We’re glad to have you, at any rate.”

“Oui, c’est moi,” he said brightly to the other man with an affirmative nod. They shook hands and he felt good vibes. “Dean Thomas,” he repeated, “ahh, so you must visit the Leaky Cauldron quite often,” he wondered aloud. “It’s charming, isn’t it? Warm, although different than I imagined. Most things are,” he said quietly. He was a bit bubble with excitement. The barkeep set their drinks down and he nodded in gratitude.

“Not at all,” he said, taking a drink and meeting his gaze. “I know what you mean, I was relieved to see somewhere here who was, well, not quite so advanced in years,” he tried, being as polite as he could. He raised a brow at the man's words. “Interesting? What makes you say that?” he queried, smirking at him and seeing him look a bit shy. He looked him up and down. Pierce wondered if he was understanding the man's subtext, but he didn't want to assume the wrong thing. “You look interesting too,” he offered, intentionally without a hint of context.

“Oui,” he said, nodding, “Beauxbâtons, that I know well,” he said with a smile. “And you must hail from Hogwarts?” he added, feeling he already knew the answer. “I would’ve loved to have seen it, that very tournament took place during my seventh year,” he explained, “but circumstances prevented me from going,” he offered with a shrug. Times were tough back then, with suspicions of the rise of the Dark Lord and all. His father being a foreign ambassador at the Ministry, it was just easier for Pierce to stay behind. Particularly because, due to his standing at the school,  there were some who believed he could’ve been chosen. It was a risk his father didn’t want to take.

He laughed at the man’s comment. “You get used to them,” he explained, “but yes, the first time, well, it’s an experience you remember,” he said with a grin. “London, London,” he mused, “I’m here on business, actually, I’m working as an analyst for an organization around here,” he said, intentionally vague. He was always cautious to tell people about the Nightmare League, not because he was embarrassed, but because the name alone sounded far too sinister. He didn’t want to have to jump through hoops to explain it all.

“I’m glad to be had,” he said, which was an odd thing to say if you didn’t know him. And Dean, being a new friend, certainly didn’t. He chuckled and looked to him. “I mean I’ve been — er, traveling for a few years,” he said. “Here and there, Europe and Asia, archaeological things really,” he offered. “So this is new to me, calling some place home,” he said. “So far it’s been nice though,” he offered, smiling at him. “The locals are welcoming,” he complimented, "and quite charming." He looked to him for a moment.

“What about you, Dean Thomas? What do you do?”

“I like it here well enough,” said Dean. “Good service,” he smiled at the bartender as they left, “and a good place to keep tabs on things. It’s like all of magical London passes through here at one point or another, all the news. And gossip.” He turned his gaze back to Pierce. “S’pose it makes sense that it’d be a good place to meet people. Sometimes, of course,” he said, shrugging. “Sometimes it’s a bit slow.”

Pierce then questioned his “interesting” comment and he would’ve gone red if he could. He considered dissecting his intentions, making it clear that he had no idea what he was saying, admitting defeat. But something in the other man’s reply had a flirtatious edge. Dean didn’t want to ruin it, he’d rather play along. “Well, am I wrong?” he asked, eyebrows raised, with a hint of a smile. “If you’re boring I sincerely apologize for my assumptions.”

He nodded. “Yep, Hogwarts it is. Well, was.” Specifically skipping over the fact that he never actually graduated, Dean sighed in reminiscence. His fourteen-year-old self had been quite bowled over by all the Tournament pageantry. “It was an experience,” he said. “Well, until…I’m sure you know what happened.” Clearing his throat to lighten the sober mood, Dean took a swig of his drink. “Maybe it was better you weren’t there.” He gave Pierce a half-smile. “I probably wouldn’t have talked to you anyway. All the guests were pretty intimidating.”

As the other man described his business, Dean wondered if perhaps he’d been wrong about him being interesting. He didn’t really care, he seemed alright to talk to. “Well, I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold up a conversation about that,” he joked. But then Pierce told him of all the travels he’d been on, and Dean grinned. “I was right, you are interesting,” he said. “If you’ve got any stories, I’d love to hear them. I always wanted to travel.”

Pierce asked about himself and he finally felt prepared to answer, though he was still trying to let go of the pointed "charming" comment. At least his job sounded sort of cool. “I do tattoos down the alley,” he said. “Well, I’m still learning, but I’ve done some, anyway.” He laughed. “So, if you’re ever in the market, I’m your man."

“Well, no matter how it is on any given day, it’s always legendary,” he reminded with a smile. He supposed the other man didn’t see it the same way he did, with fresh eyes, from an outsiders perspective. The man was quippy, which was a big solid checkmark on the list of things Pierce enjoyed. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see for yourself,” he replied with a playful sip of his drink.

He nodded, gravely, at his remark. “Yes, I’m sorry, my manners have escaped me,” he said with some degree of formality. He was always a bit awkward in new places, with new people. “Interesting and intimidating,” he said, taking note of the adjectives thus far. “I can’t decide if this means you like me or not,” he joked with a smirk. He knew what he wanted. He wanted Dean to like him. Whether or not that would happen was up in the air.

“Oh, worry not, I wouldn’t expect you to,” he said with a laugh. “My work sounds quite boring, and it probably is, but it’s just where I’m starting out,” he added. “I hope to be doing some more… active work in the future,” he said simply. “Stories? You’re talking to the master,” he said with a grin. “When I say archaeology, what I really mean isn’t quite so glamorous,” he teased, “and probably not entirely legal,” he added with a smirk. “I’ll think of one to tell you,” he promised quietly as he met his gaze. He was waiting, just a bit, to keep him interested.

“Tattoos? So you’re good with your hands?” he said, “I mean, artistically, you’re an artist?” he recovered, his English vocabulary making him a bit more forward than he would’ve been otherwise. No bother. Although the look on Dean’s face at his former comment made him a bit confused. Was it insulting to be called charming here? Maybe he wasn’t interested. Maybe he wasn’t like that. He shook his head gently. “Too indecisive to get ink,” he said, “but have you any? I’d like to see, if you’re willing,” he said with a half smile.

“I’m curious like that,” he explained, “interesting, intimidating, and inquisitive,” he said, playfully offering an adjective of his own with a lopsided grin.

“Yeah, definitely,” said Dean. The Leaky was a landmark, one that had a special place in his heart. His mind traveled to his first journey into the wizarding world all those years ago. “I remember coming here when I was eleven—thought it was really weird that the entrance to the magic village was through some dingy little pub.” He smiled fondly and rested his chin on his hand. “But then I got in and we went through the bricks in the back and I got a glimpse of the alley and that was when I… Well, when I first really believed magic was real.” Feeling silly and sentimental, he shook his head. “We had lunch here,” he said, “after getting my wand and books and school robes and everything. Whenever I’m here I remember that day.” He realized then that he’d just made it obvious that he was muggleborn. He hoped Pierce didn’t have a problem, he wasn’t sure what his opinion might be. The other man seemed quite pleasant, but so, Dean had learned, did many bigots until confronted with differences.

Pierce shifted from playful to composed as he referenced the murder of Cedric Diggory. “Don’t worry about it,” said Dean, shrugging. It wasn’t something he liked to remember, but it wasn’t really rude to bring up. Then the Frenchman teased him about calling the Beauxbatons delegation intimidating, and he hurriedly tried to make himself clear. “I never said you intimidated me,” he said. “I was a kid at the time, everyone who seemed to know what they were doing was intimidating.” He chuckled. “A Beauxbatons girl did ask me to dance at the Yule Ball,” he admitted. “I was a terrible dancer so I panicked and said no; my mates all  made fun of me.” Catching Pierce’s eye, he smiled. “Don’t worry yourself, though,” he said. “I’m less easily intimidated now, and I like interesting.”

“The master?” He repeated. “Ah, I’ve stumbled on a goldmine.” Pierce neglected to launch into a story, however. More wait-and-see. It was mildly encouraging that he seemed to intend their interaction to last longer than a few minutes at a bar. “Take your time,” said Dean. “Make it really good.”

He laughed again, turning his hands palm up to look at them. “I suppose so,” he said. Usually he was uncomfortable saying he was an artist, it seemed like such a pretentious thing to call oneself, but if someone else said it he wasn’t about to shoot them down. “I know the feeling,” he replied as Pierce explained his lack of interest in getting a tattoo. “I haven’t got any either. Haven’t found anything I know for sure I want on me yet. But I like helping people when they do.” He was inclined to wink as a preface to his next words, but that seemed too overt, so he settled for a broad smirk. “And if I had any I’d show you, of course.” He almost wished he had a tattoo just so he could.

“I don’t know that I’m the one you want if you’re inquisitive,” said Dean with a wry smile at Pierce’s last words, tilting the liquid around his glass. “I’m not the lawless archaeologist here.” He echoed the other man’s smile. “But feel free to fire away."

Pierce watched him curiously as he revealed the memory. “I still sometimes forget that magic is real,” he offered, intending it to hold dual meaning. As an elemental, it wasn’t exactly a lie, he felt somewhat distant from traditional wizard kind and occasionally struggled to remember even the most basic charms. But really, he was offering an olive branch. Dean had to be muggleborn, and there was no problem with that. “But every now and again, there’s someone who reminds me,” he said with a knowing smile.

He smirked at Dean’s recollection of the ladies of Beauxbatons and nodded. “Try being around them twenty-four-seven,” he offered with a laugh. “Though in our defense, that’s all part of it,” he said, “the social etiquette, the balls, the dancing,” he added. “A lot of our families have ties to the ministry, myself included,” he offered, “so from a young age we learn all about society,” he said with playful emphasis. “Your mates were probably just jealous,” he offered, “seeing as she wanted you and not them.” He was quiet for a moment, deciding. “Not that anyone could blame her,” he finished, making his choice.

He sat back then and nodded brightly. “A treasure trove,” he added, “I promise.” He took a drink before continuing. “I’m still deciphering you, Dean Thomas, I’m still fiddling with the puzzle pieces,” he explained. “Only then will I know which story is the perfect story,” he said playfully. Pierce set his glass down when Dean turned his palms up, the Frenchman reaching out to feel them. “Ahh, yes, artist’s hands,” he said, nodding as he traced their lines. “They’re easy to recognize, being different from my own,” he said, turning over his own rough palm to demonstrate. “I’ve never had artists hands, but I assure you they’ve found more adventurous uses,” he said with a grin.

No tattoos? That was a bit of a surprise. “My my Mr. Thomas, I was expecting one at least,” he said with a grin, “but I’m relieved to know you understand my — how you say — lack of decision?” He hated when he faltered, especially now, when the man’s hands were still in his. “Maybe you could tell me where you’d get one, if you ever decided,” he countered with a smirk, “or you could show me, too.” A little challenge, a bit of a dare. Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t.

Pierce shook his head. “You’re doing fine so far,” he appraised, letting go of one of Dean’s hands and letting both of his own trace the other. “Perhaps I’ll tell your fortune,” he said, eying his palm, “that would answer all of my questions,” he teased, his eyes darting up to meet Dean’s for a moment. “Tell me, do you believe in palmistry?” he queried with a curious brow. “Many Tibetan witches swear by it, you know."

“Did you not grow up with it either?” Dean couldn’t see someone like Ron, for an example, forgetting that magic existed. He, however, definitely related to the feeling. “I always realize halfway through doing my dishes that I could have been doing them by magic,” he said with a little laugh. “I forget all the time.” At Pierce’s next comment, he grinned. “Oh, that’s sweet,” he chuckled. “Do you have a someone?” He wasn’t sure whether he was hoping for the other man to say. If he did, then that would put an end to all the subtext that was starting to drive him crazy, make this interaction a lot easier. But then, of course, if he didn’t…

He listened to Pierce talk about the social climate of Beauxbatons, idly sipping his drink. “Well, that sounds awful,” he said. “Sorry—to me, anyway. I’m not the high society type.” He wasn’t sure he could picture the man beside him in top hat and tails, or rather, whatever sort of dress robes they wore to French Ministry functions. “One ball was enough for me.” At Pierce’s final thought on the matter, Dean raised his eyebrows, flattered and a little excited. It seemed certain he was being flirted with now. He struggled to come up with something equal to say, a way to throw the conversational ball back to the other man. “I might’ve said yes if it were you,” he said, looking Pierce down. It wasn’t true: he’d never have danced with a boy at fourteen, no matter how handsome. But he’d definitely dance with him now.

“Is that so?” he asked. He’d never considered himself particularly complicated; that was just as flattering an appraisal as the earlier comment. He was still processing it as Pierce took his hands. Dean blinked in surprise. Was this a French thing? It seemed quite bold for the low level of flirtatiousness they were on. But he was a Gryffindor, after all. He liked bold.

Pierce was still holding his hands as he admitted he didn’t have tattoos. “Well, it’s an aspiration,” he said. “Someday I’ll be covered in them.” His eyes widened a little as Pierce challenged him. “Well…” he said. His hand slipped out of the man’s and unwound his scarf from his neck, fingering his top button. “I like the collarbone,” he said, unbuttoning it. “The neck,” He stopped after the second button, teasing. “The chest too, the back. Open canvases.” Dean wasn’t drunk enough for that, though. “Though we’d have to get out of here if you really insist on seeing.”

He breathed in deeply as Pierce traced the lines on his palm. “I can’t say I ever put much stock in divination,” he admitted. “Though I could have had a better professor.” He grinned up at him. “Teach me, Monsieur Lachapelle.”

“No, I did,” he said, realizing quickly that he’d been a bit stupid. Pretty stranger, foreign place, running mouth. “I just mean my — father, he was a ministry worker, very strict,” he said, which was true. “Magic was used in our household of course but he liked to do things the old fashioned way now and again,” he offered, which was mostly a lie. He had to cover. Elementalism wasn’t exactly something to tell a new acquaintance. “Maybe,” he said with a grin, “depends on how these next few minutes go I reckon.”

“Oh it was,” he said with a laugh, “dress robes, formal etiquette lessons, ballroom dancing,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “Very fussy, very very fussy. Not really my thing either,” he confessed with a commiserating nod. He shot him a wide smirk at his comment. Now they were dancing, albeit it in a different way. “Would you now?” he said as he leaned back against his chair. “But who would take the lead between you and I? Perhaps I would, seeing as its ingrained in my brain and all,” he said simply. “But I wouldn’t mind letting you lead, either,” he added with another sip of his drink. "If you think you could handle it."

“Very much so,” he said, examining his hands. His eyes darted up to the man’s collar as he loosened his scarf, fiddling with his buttons. Pierce liked to play, and to tease, but he had his bases. Limitations. Lines he didn’t cross. To say Dean was tempting him would be accurate, if not understated. “Open canvas,” he said, “I like that,” he offered, eying him up and down once more. “And where might we go, Dean Thomas? Where would you take me?” he asked with a quizzical brow. “I’ve only been here a day, I’m essentially still a tourist,” he reminded. “I’m an open canvas to suggestions,” he said, heavy on the subtext.

He nodded at the man’s French. “That’s good, very good,” he complimented, “c’est bien,” he added with a smile. He was massaging his hand, for all intents and purposes, feeling the lines and eying him. “This here, this is the head line,” he said, tracing along his palm. “It represents your mind, how you think, things like that,” he offered. “This one here, this is the life line,” he said, tracing near the mound of his thumb. “Vitality, vigor, spirit,” he said as he met his gaze.

“And this one… right here,” he said, tracing along the length, “is the heart line,” he offered, smiling gently. “It represents love, passion, attraction…” he said, his fingers running back and forth along the line. “Some people believe it’s a very sensitive place on the hands” he offered, “perhaps the most sensitive.” He slowed his fingertips until they stopped, resting quietly upon his warm palm.

“What do you think? Did that make you feel something?”

Dean nodded slowly. “Ah.” It seemed a flimsy reason, like the other man was choosing not to tell him something, but he didn’t want to pry. Hopefully he’d tell him someday, on his own terms. After all, he seemed open to something, from his next words. Though whether he meant a relationship or some groping in an alley was up for interpretation.

“Well, your lessons certainly paid off,” Dean said. “You’re quite charming. The pride of fussy French Ministry parties, I’m sure.” He held his breath, unsure how Pierce would take the dance comment, his most open overture so far. The other man smirked at him and he shivered. “You may need to teach me,” he said, just as flirtatiously. He was determined not to let Pierce make him lose his words, lose this sparring match. “I’m still no dancer. Two left feet, and all.”

But he was caught off guard at the next question. Where would he take him? Magical London was fairly limited, and he’d probably been down Diagon Alley even if he’d just gotten in. He probably had had enough of Ministries. And he couldn’t very well say “my place,” even if he was fantasizing about it. They weren’t there yet. He decided to go with a bit of an ironic suggestion. “If you’re a tourist you’ve got to do all the tourist things, obviously,” he said. “You’ve already got one landmark down. Go see, I dunno, Buckingham Palace, Big Ben…” He chuckled. “I’ve lived here my whole life and I’ve never done half this, maybe I could tag along.” He had no interest in historic buildings full of tourists, but perhaps with a good-looking Frenchman whispering in his ear…

Pierce was touching his hand then with undue intimacy. He nodded, dazed, at the things he half-remembered from Divination. “And…” he began, “what do my lines say?” He met Pierce’s eyes, boldly. “Because I certainly feel something…

“Charming, am I?” he teased with a smirk. “Perhaps, but I can assure you that wasn’t something they taught in any old etiquette class,” he quipped with a nod. “Fussy Ministry parties are exactly as terrible as they sound,” he offered with a laugh, “but I don’t know, they’re not all bad. I bet you’d look rather fetching in some nice dress robes,” he observed. “And two left feet or not, anyone can be a good dancer,” he explained. “You just need the right partner.”

Pierce nodded intently as his suggestions. “Yes, what a marvelous idea, muggle London, the original sights!” he said, lighting up. “Pretend to be someone else entirely, a whole new soul,” he said with a grin. “Tuck away the wands, the riffraff, just live for a day you know?” he said fondly. And his fingers traced along Dean’s palm once more as the man asked the question. Pierce glanced at his palm and read it, following the curves and dips in each line. “What the lines say,” he offered slowly, “doesn’t matter at all.” He met his gaze, more intently this time.

“The future is not created here, in your palm, by the lines of your birth,” he said with a grin. “It’s created here, in moments like this, when you decide which path to take,” he said with a wink. He gave a final squeeze before he released his hand, grabbing his glass and throwing back the last of his drink. He hopped up then, pulling his coat from the back of the chair and smirking. “Get your coat,” he said, sliding the sleeves up his arm. “We’ve got a day ahead of us I reckon, what did you say, Buckingham Palace? Big Ben?” he repeated with a smile.

“I’ll let you pick where to go first, seeing as I’m the guest and all,” he added. He pulled a coin from his pocket and set it for the barkeep. It was more than enough to cover their drinks with a nice tip to boot. “You’re gonna have to keep me on my toes,” he said with a playful grin, “I’ve been around muggles more than most but I’m surely not perfect,” he teased as he took a few steps towards the door. He stopped then, glancing back at him. “I’m not going to tell you the story of one of my great adventures,” he said, smiling softly.

“We’re gonna write a new one.”