[thd] when one door closes [emma]

august 2001

At the last minute, Quinn Regan had changed the location of her meeting from the Ministry of Magic to a swanky hotel in central London. It was only a couple weeks since the League finals (which she had won for the Falcons) and she simply didn’t feel like being mobbed by adoring fans. Usually she would have no problem recounting her catch while signing autographs, but nothing had seemed to be going her way today. She hadn’t slept well, didn’t feel great when she finally got out of bed, and her yoga practice had been a bit of a sham.

The meeting had gone well enough; since the incident at the match against Ballycastle, Quinn had been having a sit down every few weeks as some sort of status update or check on her well being or whatever and frankly, Gardner was getting boring. So when she learned that today’s meeting was going to be with his assistant instead, she felt more relieved than offended that her meeting was being delegated to the help.

She liked this assistant though. Former Slytherin, not terribly annoying, knew the sport in a way that wasn’t unbearably know-it-all. They hadn’t even really talked about Ballycastle, just talking quidditch instead over cups of tea. But Quinn had other appointments to keep so they cut things short, both heading back through the lobby of the hotel, wrapping up their conversation so they could head in opposite directions through London.

They came up to the doors, Quinn only halfheartedly paying attention to the revolving one in front of them, panes of glass gleaming as the sunlight shone in through them. Emma stepped in first; Quinn followed directly behind her, not understanding just how, exactly, an automatic revolving door worked and that usually, they were meant to be used by one person at a time.

Just as the door revolved enough to enclose the two women in the turn, everything stopped. Emma stopped short, Quinn almost colliding into her back. “What?” Quinn asked, somewhat unnecessarily. Clearly the ‘what’ was that the door wasn’t revolving. She took a step back, only to find the rear pane of glass directly behind her. “Push it,” she suggested. “Or blast it out,” she added a bit quieter, surely not suggesting they do magic in front of a bunch of muggles.

@Emma Hennings

Just when Emma thought she might be over the whole feeling “star-struck” sensation, she was assigned a new task or responsibility that brought her right back to square one all over again. Today that task was interviewing the Falcons’ own Quinn Regan, who’d had the misfortune of being Transfigured into an Irish Setter during their last match against the Bats. The match in question had been held back in April, but the League was still feeling the repercussions. It had certainly kept Emma and the rest of her department – her boss especially – busy over the past several months, to say the least. Which was, in part, why this opportunity had been bestowed upon her.

Overall, things had gone about as well as she could have anticipated. Fortunately Emma was well-versed in hiding her sense of awe every time she was in the presence of a professional player by now, and the Seeker was personable and entertaining which made it that much easier on the twenty-one-year-old. What was more, she had learned indirectly that Quinn was the cousin of her friend Eamon Doyle.

Business concluded and time being what it was, the women were now leaving their rather unconventional meeting place to resume their respective workdays. Emma stepped into the space allotted by the automated revolving door, careful to keep her distance from the glass partition in front of her lest she walk too quickly and run into it face-first (she had quite the ground-covering stride, so she was told) – when the whole thing suddenly came to a grinding halt. She froze abruptly, congratulating herself on her forethought, only to have something rather solid collide with the small of her back… sending her forward into the partition anyways.
“Oof,” she squeaked in surprise, barely getting her hands out in time to stop her head from making first contact with the glass.

At Quinn’s first suggestion, she pressed experimentally on the glass. Maybe it had gotten caught on something? Though a quick glance at their feet didn’t yield anything obvious…
She snorted at the Seeker’s second suggestion and quirked an eyebrow, her gaze flicking to the front of the building and back again; for a small crowd had begun to gather on the outside. Some were watching with sympathy; others with unmasked amusement.
“Unfortunately I think blasting our way through would earn us a rather unpleasant visit from the authorities – both authorities,” she added, eying the door warily. Emma couldn’t deny the appeal of the suggestion, though; she was beginning to feel the tiniest bit claustrophobic. They were in the process of executing Plan C – which consisted of both of them throwing their collective weight into the front partition at the same time – when a dull banging dimly registered in Emma’s brain.

“Oi! Ladies!”

The tall brunette’s head snapped up, searching for the source. Belatedly, she realized that the doorman had been attempting to get their attention, but they hadn’t been able to hear him over the reverberation in their confined quarters and their preoccupation with the current predicament. She gave him a sheepish wave.

“Stand together in the middle, now. Too close to the front or back and you’re in range of the sensors, and it won’t move.”

“Right,” she muttered, turning to Quinn and raising an eyebrow. She shuffled closer to the older woman – but nothing happened. The doorman held up his hands and brought them closer together, with a pointed look at the two of them. Ears burning in what might have been irritation or embarrassment or some combination of the two, Emma took the plunge and pulled Quinn into an awkward embrace; made perhaps even more awkward given the six-inch height differential between the two of them.

But – it worked!

The door lurched back into gear and the duo shuffled forward absurdly at a snail’s pace, still holding onto each other’s arms for fear of setting the damned sensors off again. At long last, after perhaps a hundred micro-steps, they were met with a rush of fresh air and a smattering of applause from the onlookers, peppered with a few whoops and whistles. In significantly better spirits now that they were mercifully free, Emma caught the other woman’s eye and grinned wolfishly.

Quinn rolled her eyes dramatically at the mention of the authorities. She was pretty certain she could have gotten away with whatever was necessary to get them out of there when one considered the combination of her name, her recent win, and the numerous family members she had in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But sure, they could avoid that until they got desperate, she supposed.

She squeezed up into the space next to Emma, offering an extra set of hands to press hard against the glass. She was the athlete here, after all. But even then, it didn’t budge. She could see faces through the pane, clearly staring at those two idiot women who didn’t know how to work a door. If she hadn’t wanted to be recognized earlier, she certainly didn’t want to be recognized now, not in this predicament. She could see the tagline in her mind as she gave the glass a final shove: Quinn Regan; can’t be trusted with a door, should she be trusted with a snitch?

A few curses in a few languages escaped her lips as she looked around, finally noticing that someone was talking to them from the other side. “Don’t wave,” Quinn scolded her, though it was combined with a snort of laughter. She arched a dark eyebrow at the doorman’s suggestion, glancing sideways at the woman next to her. “Right,” she repeated, mirroring Emma’s step towards the center of their space.

She had just enough time to say another choice word as she turned her head, doing what she could to avoid burying her face into Emma’s chest. They had just met, after all. And of course, it was the one day Quinn had neglected to wear heels. She fully embraced the embrace, giving her partner’s back a pat or two as they stood there, waiting for something to happen.

The door lurched forward suddenly; Quinn mumbled a muffled “Oh thank Merlin,” as they shuffled forward, still very close and getting more intimate by the minute as they tried to stay away from the rotating windows around them. She was used to getting applause, but never for something she hadn’t wanted to receive for. But they were muggles and they didn’t know who she was, and in hindsight it was kind of hilarious.

She looked Emma’s way to find her grinning, apparently thinking the same thing. “Oops,” she said, her closest attempt she would get to apologizing for causing the whole mess in the first place. She probably wouldn’t be telling other people about this, not wanting to embarrass herself, but she could understand that this might have been the single most exciting thing to ever happen to the other witch. She leaned in, about to ask her to keep it to herself, when one of the muggles broke free of the crowd and approached them.

”Are you…?” He blushed and looked away, looked back, blushed some more, then looked down at his feet. She was used to this by now, people stopping her in the street, coming up to her in restaurants, and the like, and as much as she didn’t want to admit that she was Quinn Regan after the past few minutes, she could hardly pass up the opportunity to be adored.

“I am,” Quinn said with a nod, putting on her ‘look like a pleasant person’ smile she had practiced for ages in front of the mirror. She took the proffered piece of paper from him, looking down and expecting it to be a photo of her, some clipping from a magazine. But the picture he handed her wasn’t moving like it should have been and neither face in the photo was one she recognized as her own. She nearly snorted as she realized that while she was being recognized, this guy was a little off his mark. Quinn was about to correct him when he apparently found his voice again.

”So that means you’re Ingrid, right?” He was looking expectedly at Emma, his expression somewhere between awestruck and lovestruck. Quinn nudged Emma's arm with her elbow and showed her the photograph, clearly displaying two women who maybe looked like the pair of them on a rainy day.

The Falmouth Seeker leaned in to say something to her but was interrupted by a rather short man who emerged from the crowd, blushing and mumbling something Emma didn’t quite catch but could certainly infer. One eyebrow went up, surprised that a wizard would be so bold as to approach Quinn for her autograph in the presence of a crowd of Muggles. A small frown creased her brow but evidently Quinn had caught on, as she was nodding an affirmative.

But wasn’t until Emma saw the motionless picture and the politely bemused expression on the older woman’s face that she put two-and-two together, just in time for the clearly confused gentleman to presume that her name was Ingrid. Barely suppressing the urge to dramatically hold the photo at an angle and squint at it merely to see how he could possibly have arrived at such an off-base conclusion, an idea struck her. Abruptly, she wiped any trace of confusion from her expression, parting her lips in a slow grin. She shot the man a conspiratorial look before pretending to glance around covertly, as though she didn’t want to be overheard.

“How ever did you recognize us? You’re so clever,” she praised, winking generously at the now-very-flustered fellow. “Honestly, though, we were thinking we’d been right clever about it… what gave us away?” Emma felt mildly guilty about toying with the poor man – but it was too perfect of an opportunity to pass up. Spending the afternoon with Quinn Regan and being mistaken for a celebrity (albeit a Muggle one)? Damn it, she was going to milk this for all it was worth. It’s not like they could cause any real harm, anyhow.
…Could they?

The short man had been rendered momentarily speechless by Emma’s praise – which she noted rather smugly – but managed to stutter out a reply about the height difference and the way Emma walked. The twenty-one-year old feigned fascination, tapping her chin with her forefinger.
“Mer— Goodness, I’d no idea that how I walked was such a giveaway! I’ll have to remember that next time I want to be more convincingly incognito to outsmart such an astute gentleman as yourself.”
It was only then that she realized she really ought to ask the man’s name if she really wanted to be a convincing celebrity. Placing a hand to her chest, she arranged her features in her most apologetic expression. She was likely overdoing it to the umpteenth degree, but who really cared… Certainly not she!

“Where are our manners! What’s your name, dear?”

If Emma thought the man couldn’t possibly go pinker in the face, she was severely mistaken. She fervently hoped he wouldn’t suffer an apoplexy in the middle of the square.
“John— John Richards. Ma’am,” he added respectfully, removing his cap and bobbing his head slightly. Merlin, she felt like the bloody queen. Is this what Quinn endured on a daily basis?

Out of the corner of her eye, Emma spotted a pair of girls maybe a few years younger than she whispering excitedly to each other, stealing glances at the two witches. Other people were beginning to look their way again, and Emma had the sneaking suspicion that things were about to get significantly more interesting. Maybe not for the better.

Turning back to John Richards, she gave him her most endearing smile.
“Well it’s been lovely to meet you, Mr. Richards—”

“Please, call me John.”

“John, of course. We would be so grateful if you could keep this little meeting to yourself until we’ve left the area – once the media gets word that we’re here, it gets quite difficult to, er—”
But she’d barely had time to nudge Quinn in warning – let alone finish her sentence – before the pair of younger girls was upon them, having spied the photograph in the man’s hand and made the same leap to incorrect conclusions.

Thank Merlin. Emma had practically read her mind, figuring out just what, exactly, was going on without her having to say anything to tip her off. Quinn was never one to willingly let down a fan, and somehow being someone's incorrect idol wasn't enough to spoil her attitude in that respect. Of course, she would have to go somewhere incredibly magical after this to be properly spotted, but for now? Quinn loved being memorable, no matter what.

The seeker nodded along enthusiastically as Emma asked how he had managed to recognize them; they had been so clever and inconspicuous! Offhandedly, she wondered how many times he had run into other "celebrities" on the street, how many times he had accosted "the Queen" at the shopping mall. But she had to stop and arch an eyebrow as Emma asked for his name before he had even asked for an autograph; it was taking every ounce of restraint she had not to roll her eyes at her. She clearly had much, much less experience encountering fans, accurate ones or not. Quinn, for once, kept her mouth shut, letting Emma enjoy the bit of spotlight that her companions didn't usually get to enjoy.

But Quinn was good at spotting when she was being looked at, had trained her for it for years. Other people were starting to catch on; either they were about to be recognized as imposters or start getting mobbed and asked more questions and that was the wrong kind of attention she wanted. Emma was wrapping things up with John, thankfully, but she was far too outspoken to secure them a quick getaway.

"Damnú," Quinn breathed, a little too loudly depending on what her supposed reputation was supposed to be. One of their newly arrived fans, a girl who was surely still in school, however looked gleeful at her swear.

"See! I told you! She's even speaking Swedish and everything!"

Quinn wasn't even sure what her name was supposed to be, let alone if she was supposed to be from Sweden or not. Never mind that she hadn't been speaking Swedish in the first place. Instead, she nodded, adding casually, "I'm working on my Dublin accent for a..." who were they? She stole a glance at the photo still clutched in Emma's hand and quickly put the pieces together. Some sort of music act? Sure. "For a gig."

"We're going to be late for our train to Stockholm, are we not?" She looked up at Emma, not really caring if there actually was a train to Stockholm and not knowing enough to suggest that they were about to miss a flight. But the girls were rummaging in their bags for bits of paper and pens, anything to get some autographs from the mistaken duo.

She really should have been watching Quinn more closely for cues, but the tall brunette was much too entertained by the poor guy to give it much thought. At the younger blonde girl’s triumphant declaration, however, Emma looked up; but fortunately Quinn covered the slip. The blonde then turned to the redhead beside her – the girls looked alike enough to be sisters – and began whispering excitedly. The distraction was enough to bring Emma back to her senses and she found Quinn looking up at her expectantly, saying something about a train to Stockholm.

There was a small gasp from the direction of the younger girl, and Emma caught one sentence very clearly then, in perhaps the whiniest tone she had heard in a long time.
“But no one will ever believe I met Ingrid and Linnaea if I don’t!”
The redhead cast a glance in the witches’ direction, a small frown creasing her brows. Emma knew that look. Calculating – she wore it herself when trying to decide if someone was who she thought he or she was.

‘Definitely time to go.’

“Er, yes. We should hurry,” she added quickly, for the benefit of those within earshot. With a cheery wave she took Quinn’s cue and began walking briskly away, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder right away. Emma hadn’t been to this part of London in a while and desperately hoped she had chosen the correct direction to King’s Cross. Not that it really mattered, though, since that wasn’t where they were headed anyways.

Once they’d gotten a safe distance of several blocks away (not without frequent backward glances), the witches ducked into an alley and quickly Apparated away.

It was the hardest thing she had ever had to do to deny an adoring fan an autograph, but she still hadn’t been told what her name was, let alone how to spell it, and more likely than not she would instinctively sign her actual name if given the chance. Quinn offered an apologetic smile as she shrugged, grabbing at Emma’s elbow with a small hand. “Yes very late.” Stockholm was calling after all.

She didn’t offer the same cheery wave that her bandmate did, instead trying to use the taller witch to part the crowd for her. She wasn’t completely sure which direction they were headed in, though it looked to be in the somewhat correct direction to get to Oliver’s apartment and she smirked as she considered the look on his face when she would tell him this story. Her embarrassment was always such a comfort.

“You’d make such a friendly celebrity. You should probably look into that.” She nodded quickly. “And this meeting was much better than all the meetings with Gardner,” she nodded again, as close to a thanks she was going to offer. She hugged the other woman (they were close now, after all) before reluctantly apparating back to Falmouth.