i'm wishing [william]

 

april 2002

Two more days.

Two more days before Bérénice would be returning to Beauxbatons. It had been a decade and a half since she’d last walked the halls of the palace as a student. That felt so long ago, but she remembered so much of it so clearly. It seemed that moving to Chatoeil, though initially intended as a respite from working, might have been fate – if one believed in such things. Bérénice was beginning to think she did.

She had walked from her cottage to the town centre earlier this morning, holing up in the town library amongst stacks of books on hypnosis and teaching methods, wanting to be fully prepared for her stint as substitute professor. It wasn’t a career change – so she told herself – it was just, something different, for now. Change was good. She had to keep reminding herself. Even if it wasn’t planned change.

The brunette was dressed in a cream sweater with a deep v-neckline, blush pink pencil skirt, and matching blush heels. Her beige coat was folded over the back of the chair next to her, and her thick, dark hair was knotted up in a chic bun, a couple of strands left free to frame her face. Her face, which was currently contorted into a soft frown of concentration as she read.

Bérénice knew her skill almost like the back of her hand, but she was convinced that that may be her downfall as a tutor. Knowing something too well undoubtedly put you in a position where you left out details that came as second nature to you, but were unknown to the uninitiated. Her bookshelves at home had several tombs dedicated to her craft, she had packed those up and left the boxes with her parents in her childhood bedroom when she’d relocated to the seaside town. Bérénice didn’t want to make the trip back to Dahliental now, because they would ask what she was doing, squandering her talent as a measly teacher when she could be at the Hospital, really helping people (and earning good money) – or if she was that desperate for a change, in the Ministere, where her name would get her a job in no time. Both reputable, well-paying positions.

So she’d come to the Chatoeil library. The hypnotist had been reading the same line over and over for several minutes before she realised it was no longer sinking in. She needed a break. Abruptly, Bérénice stood, pushing her chair back along the wooden floor and into the poor soul that had decided to walk behind her at that precise moment. “Oh, pardon!” She spun around, one hand flying up to cover her mouth and the other reaching out gingerly to touch on the man’s upper arm. “Je suis tellement désolé, es-tu blessé?”


@William Dasher

This place was fantastic.

William had always liked books. Some people had favourite smells; coffee, freshly cut grass or baked bread but his? His were the pages of books. He'd stumbled on this library by accident. In fact, this entire place had been a case of serendipity. He'd always found the French sun a bit too hot for his very English skin and so, he'd been here for hours. Or what seemed like it.

He was only here for the day, really. Will had come straight from Nice and he was headed to the Amalfi Coast the following day. He didn't have a set date to return to London. It should have been some time this week but he'd caught sight of a newspaper while he was having an overpriced coffee in Paris. The sting he felt hurt worse than the burning hot liquid that came out of his nose at the shock of seeing his recently ex-girlfriend sat cosily next to a hulking great Quidditch player. In effect, it had scuppered his plans completely.

Was he hiding? Yes. Absolutely. Will was over the initial shock and hurt but he just felt embarrassed now. Honey had been to his office and met his coworkers. He knew they knew about the break up but he wouldn't be able to stand the well-meaning sympathy and the cuddles and the endless cups of tea that he just wanted to drown himself in.

His long legs walked up and down the rows of books, his big dark eyes not really focusing on anything in particular. Dressed in well cut jeans and a pale blue shirt, there was a pocket-sized guide to Positano sticking out of the breast pocket. Will's fingers gently skimmed over the various spines that were there, his touch soft and respectful. He was having a perfectly nice time until a sharp searing pain smacked him in the shin and sent him doubling over in pain.

"Motherfu--" Will managed to stop the curse word from spilling out as he let out a grunt of pain as the throbbing sensation felt like a siren inside of his body. It was just the shock but it still made his eyes water and the sheer force of the blow sent his guidebook and his glasses flying.

Someone was asking him a familiar phrase in an unfamiliar voice and Will forced himself to swallow the embarrassment. As soon as he looked up, his anger dissipated as he looked at a pretty woman. She looked very put together and the sunlight streaming through the windows made her look like she was wearing a halo. Either that or the strength of her chair attack had knocked the wind right out of his sails.

Will squinted at her, completely at a loss. "Non, je suis…fine?" He replied, his eyes wide as the pain was smarting as it ran up and down his shin bone. He knew French. He was fluent but for the life of him, he couldn't string a sentence together. The only phrase bumping around his head was merde, il pleut and it definitely was not. Her hand was warm on his arm and she looked so utterly distraught, he was about to apologise for being in her way.

"Je vais bien," he managed to tell her as he gave her a thumbs up. William took a half step backwards that looked more like a limp. He  had a French pen pal growing up. His bloody grandma was French but all he could think about telling her was that he could count to ten. He offered her a smile. To support her weight, he gently placed a hand on the elbow of the arm that was touching him tenderly. "I'm okay," he finally managed to tell her as he looked around for his glasses and his guidebook. "I'm really sorry," he told her as he looked her over to make sure she was okay. "Je suis un troll," he told her. "Big feet," he joked with an easy smile as  he gestured to his leather shoes. The ground needed to open up and swallow him whole now.

Bérénice’s eyes widened at the man’s short-lived (but rather colourful) outburst. It was immediately apparent that his first language must not be French, but in fact English. Their eyes met, and there was a moment of quiet as each seemingly acquainted themselves with the other. She realised how tall he was as he straightened to his full height; had she not been wearing heels the top of her head would barely reach his shoulders. He was a handsome man, with deep eyes and pleasant features. Bérénice blinked – she had moved to Chatoeil to get away from handsome men for a while, not to fall for the first one around her age that she found, or kicked a chair at. Goodness, she was newly-single, but not desperate.

Her little hunch about his mother tongue was confirmed as he spoke directly to her this time, his French pronunciation wasn’t bad but he obviously lacked a full vocabulary. “I am so sorry,” she said again, this time in heavily-accented English. She hoped he was telling the truth. The healer in her wanted to offer to check it for him, but the rational part of her mind reminded her that it had only been a sharp smack to the shin -- unless he was cursed with exceptionally brittle bones he would be quite fine. He didn't look weak, perhaps just a little sad -- but that may well have been her fault for making his eyes water.

“Oh, bonne.” She smiled, obviously relieved and a little amused at his thumbs-up gesture. Bérénice’s cheeks flushed pink as the man mirrored her and took her arm gently. “You are sure?” Her hand fell away as his did, “Non, it was my fault.” He told him, “I should have looked,” she turned in a mild fluster to glance towards the table and then back to him, via the offending chair. "I did not think there was anyone else in this... uhh," she paused over the word as she searched for it, her English a little rusty from not having used it in several months, "section."

Bérénice let out a soft, tinkling laugh as he likened himself to a troll. “I do not think so,” she smiled demurely. If anyone knew about trolls it was her family. Would they ever live that down? She hoped so. Nice turned to pick up his things, bending at the knee to crouch down and scoop up his book as he simultaneously reached for his glasses. As she stood to hand the small tomb back to him, Bérénice couldn’t help but curiously read the cover. “Italia?” She flicked her eyes up to his, “Are you on holiday?” As soon as she’d asked she looked mildly horrified with herself, “Pardon, it is none of my business.” Her cheeks burned lightly once again as she held the book out for him to take.

Oh good, she spoke English. His face softened as he smiled. He realised now that he could apologise properly, whilst still being mystified that he'd managed to forget an entire language. Oh sure, his head was full of all sorts of things but not full enough that words just…fell out of it. The sharp pain was now more of a dull ache as he stood, careful to shift his weight to the opposite leg. It really wasn't that bad and the overwhelming urge to placate her was strong.

"It's not normally busy?" Will asked, intrigued. If he had somewhere like this on his doorstep, he doubted he'd ever leave. Turning his head, he looked around. It was very much unlike a library. There were a lot of windows which meant lots of light. The place didn't smell damp or musty. The books seemed well cared for. Will couldn't imagine anyone had drawn a crudely shaped willy in any of the pages. What a revelation.

He smiled at her again. "Ah, well, you haven't seen my feet," he joked again. As she ducked down, he was mildly alarmed but extended his hands for his belongings. "Ah, merci," he managed to tell her as he slid his glasses back onto his face.

His smile didn't leave his face but he did flush slightly. "Sort of," he told the woman as honestly as he could manage. A holiday was exactly what he needed right now. "I'm trying to recapture my youth," he paused. "Raison d'être?" He asked lightly. "Or something along those lines. I haven't had time off in a long while and I've suddenly found myself with a lot of free time," he mused. Not that Honey ever took up much of it and it was never a chore. As scrumptiously as he could, his long fingers flicked the newspaper off the table and onto a seat, hidden out of view. He didn't want to be reminded.

"Do you have any recommendations?" Will asked, gesturing to the book before holding it out for her to take and flick through. Unable to help himself, he chuckled. She seemed sweet and even possibly more awkward than he was. "There's nothing to apologise for," he told her in earnest. It made sense with his accent and his lack of spatial awareness that he wasn't from these shores.

"I'm Will," he announced as he held out a tanned hand for a greeting. Though he didn't hate his full name, William added at least ten years onto him and the only person who called him that was his grandmother. Now would be the opportune moment to start flirting. There was a lot he could compliment her on. He could say that her accent was as smooth as melted chocolate, her eyes like a dappled stream. But no. Despite being on holiday, he still couldn't change his personality.

"Could I buy you a coffee?" He asked her swiftly before he chickened out. "Café?" He squinted. "Or tea, juice, wine, whatever you like." Internally, he was screaming. Who the Hell asked a pretty woman out for juice? He wanted to punch himself in the face.

Bérénice looked at the man, wondering what he meant at first before she clicked. “Oh. No, not really. I suppose the students try to avoid libraries when they visit the town.” She smiled, herself having never had that inclination. In her school years Bérénice had been a bona fide nerd; she would come to Chatoeil on the weekends, borrow a book and sit outside Rebert’s with a chocolat chaud while her peers would go to the beach or get an ice cream, visit the sweet and joke shops, or explore the gardens and museums. She watched him as he examined their surroundings, finding within her an urge to keep talking to him. “Sometimes busier in the winter, I think.” 

The brunette laughed softly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, I shall take your word for it then.”

"You are welcome." Her lips curved into a small smile. Her head tilted a minuscule amount to the side as she considered him, her hands folded politely in front of her. The poor dear sounded as though he was at a similar point of life as she was – though whether it was for the same reasons, she was unsure, and she had no desire to find out. Best to leave the past where it belonged – in the past. “I see,” the Frenchwoman replied diplomatically, “Well, if you haven’t been before it is a beautiful place.” She offered him a warm smile, “You must try the L'Albertissimo at the port. And see the church, it really is breathtaking.”

“Will.” She repeated, a trick to remember names that hadn't failed her thus far – important in her profession. Well, former profession, for now. “Bérénice.” she took his hand gently and smiled, noting the warmth and how soft they were.

Bérénice's warm, dark eyes popped pleasantly at Will's offer, followed by a twitch of her lips – trying not to show she'd picked up on his apparent discomfort. Wanting to save him from any sort of embarrassment, and in all honesty rather flattered, she answered quickly: “That would be lovely.” The brunette turned to push her chair back in under the table and picked up her coat, folding it over her arm. “There is a café near the harbour that does wonderful coffee, and tea. And juice.” Bérénice offered him the tiniest smirk. “But it is very pink – I hope that won’t put you off.” She beamed, heading for the exit.

Down the stairs and out on the street, her heels clacked against the cobblestones as they walked. “So, Will, what do you do with your time? When you have less of it?” She smiled.

Will boggled. Kids today! Had he had regular access to a library growing up, he'd never have left it. In a way, he was glad it was quiet. Had it been  busy, he might not have met someone new. As she said he'd take his word for it, William gave a self-deprecating laugh and shook his head. "Good idea," he joked weakly. He didn't want to think about that now. He didn't want to think of it at all, really. The prospect of heading home made him feel a bit sick but even he knew that he couldn't run from his problems forever. How frustrating.

"The port," Will replied as he fished a pen out of his pocket. He flipped to the inside cover of his guidebook and wrote down her suggestion, partly to prove that he was serious but mostly because he knew he'd end up forgetting it. Funny. He loved harbours and the sea. It probably stemmed from growing up in a landlocked county and dreaming of what he didn't have access to. "I'll do that," he said brightly. He liked churches. While he wasn't sure he believed in the idea of a higher being, he did usually light candles, just in case. After all, a little bit of extra security didn't hurt anybody.

"Berry-neece," he replied, his pronunciation a little off as he took her hand and squeezed it firmly. He very rarely introduced himself as William any more, almost as though the extra two syllables were ruining his street cred.

"Wait, really?"

The word were out before he could stop them and he was slow to wipe the look of surprise off his face. "Great," Will said hastily in case she changed her mind. With a smile, he stepped back and let her pass before laughing and shaking her head. She had a naughty sense of humour. Usually intimidated, he found himself instantly relaxing into her aura. Cute, he added mentally. "That sounds good," he was quick to add with a nod. He didn't know the area very well but a quaint café sounded very French and very much in his interest.

"It's actually my favourite colour," Will said breezily with a smile as he fell into step beside her on the staircase. Of course he was kidding but he was keen to show that he didn't have to take himself too seriously, either. He hadn't had a lot of exposure to pink in his life. His sister was very outdoorsy and she wasn't very pinky, either.

"I own a publishing house in London," he answered Bérénice's question briskly. "Not a huge one," he added hastily, trying to stay humble. "Only recently, though. Before that, I was just a lackey," he smiled, forgetting about possible translation issues. "My grandfather finally decided to take the retirement he should have taken thirty years go," he told her warmly. It was more like semi-retirement because booting Arthur Dasher out of his own company seemed like a fate worse than death.

She asked about his free time and he sighed softly as he looked up at the sky but he couldn't help but smile. She was so easy to talk to and he didn't have time to feel awkward. "I stupidly said I'd make my cousin's wedding cake," he said, his handsome face contorting into a look of feigned horror. "I love a good wedding but honestly," he pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "If she made a decision and stuck it to, she'd stop from sending me into an early grave. How about you?" Will asked Bérénice smoothly.

"Christ almighty," he blurted out and he pulled up to a stop in front of a candyfloss mountain. He squinted. "You weren't kidding," he mused gently. Everything - literally everything - was bright pink. Fresh flowers and mismatched cutlery was screaming at him. Clearing his throat, he held open the door for her. "Shall we?" Suddenly, he wanted a milkshake. 

“The port.” She repeated with a solemn nod, inquisitively leaning over a little to watch him scribble away with a moldu pen. How fascinating. She really should try to adopt more of their practices – a quill and ink was terribly unsuited for travel, really. “You really should.” She smiled warmly.

Bérénice’s cheeks flushed as she tried not to laugh at his not-too-far-off attempt at her name. Well, it was close enough, really. “Yes. Nice, if it is easier.” The brunette offered her nickname politely. The Healer had once been averse to shortening her name, but only a week into her secondment in London she’d become accustomed to being ‘Nice’ more often than not.

“I did have an inkling.” She smirked. His nervousness appeared to be having the opposite effect on her; where she shrunk beside strong men, Bérénice seemed to flourish against the more timid of the species. Was that because she knew, if she really wanted to, she could bend them to her will? Did she do it without meaning to, even? Perhaps. Bérénice just considered herself lucky, but it said something that she often got her way – not always, but often. The brunette flicked her gaze upwards for a moment before meeting Will’s warm brown eyes once more. “You know, I haven’t had a favourite colour for so long I don’t remember what it ever was. Maybe it should be pink too.”

Bérénice’s eyes widened in pleasant surprise, “Really?” She could already hear her mother’s voice in her head, telling her how respectable that sounded. Merlin, was she really thirty-three or thirteen? “A… lackey?” She repeated, tilting her head slightly in confusion. Was it his accent or was it some foreign slang? Some publishing-specific job title that she was unfamiliar with, maybe? “Oh, so it is a family business?” She asked politely, both buoyed and dismayed in equal measure by this revelation. That made him even more acceptable in the eyes of her family, and, really, in her own – she had done just that, after all. Followed in the footsteps of so many Bonaccord’s before her. Yet, did that mean he hadn’t really worked for it? Bérénice found it hard to imagine simply being given a job. Many of her peers had assumed she had done just so, but one couldn’t simply just be a Healer. They had to study and train. And she had. Just like everyone else.

“You bake?” The Hypnotist couldn’t hide her amusement, even with a demure hand covering her smile. Perhaps he hadn’t really been joking about liking the colour pink. It would be just her luck to happen upon an attractive man for him to be gay. Bérénice laughed lightly, “A bridezilla? Is that the term?”

Just as he returned her query Will was seemingly affronted by the lurid pink shop front. “Indeed I was not.” She grinned, “I never lie.” That was mostly true. She waited as Will moved to open the door, then stepped inside and waved timidly at the owner with a friendly smile – a man named Felix whom, now she thought about it, might be more up Will’s alley – and removed her coat once more. Bérénice  had been here several times since moving to Chatoeil. At first she’d been somewhat off-put by the overly romantic setting and hadn’t wanted to venture in alone, but had finally given in upon seeing some of the delicious looking food and drinks. She wouldn’t say she was friends with the owner, but he had been one of the first people in Chatoeil she had gotten on first name basis with (again, admittedly not hard to do).

Bérénice moved towards a booth near the windows and took a seat, picking out two menus and sliding one across the table to Will. “I hope you have a sweet tooth.” She flashed him a grin before casting her gaze down to see what she might try today. It was a personal goal of hers to slowly work her way through the whole menu.

"Nice" was easier but it didn't suit her, he didn't think. She had such a lovely name and it really wasn't her fault that his clumsy tongue ruined it. No, he'd make an effort. She'd introduced herself like that and that was how she liked to be mentioned, much the same way he's said his name was Will, not William. His full name aged him somewhat and made him out to be older than he thought he was.

The comment about her favourite colour struck him as sad. Either she didn't have time to dwell on those sorts of things or she didn't care; he didn't know which was worse. She was wearing a creamy pink coloured skirt anyway and he found himself smiling. "Something in common already," Will joked, realising a second too late that his words might sound a little…presumptive?

Her confusion was endearing and it tickled him but rather than be rude, he offered her a smile. "Kind of like a servant," Will added. "Not Cinderella style, more like an understudy. A general dogsbody." He sounded very British all of a sudden as he threw a lot of new words and phrases at her without realising. It was actually kind of cute when things got lost in translation, especially since all of the French he knew had seemingly fallen out of his head. The phrase "filing gopher" might have made her head pop.

"Sort of," Will answered Bérénice with a laboured sigh and a frown. "My grandfather started it, my dad ran it for a little bit before he decided it wasn't really for him. But I love books. I always have," he scratched the back of his neck absently. "I started working there when I was sixteen in the summer between terms. I started from the bottom but I didn't really mind," he added casually. "I sat in the corner, listening, and it's the best thing I could have done. People don't expect a lot from teenagers so I was sort of overlooked." Not by his family but by the prospective authors. He'd been awarded a peek into their work ethic and personality and he picked up on little things that could spell disaster or success for the business.

He offered Nice a distracted smile. "The employees are like family, too," he added as they walked towards the bistro. "They've been there forever and they've known my brother, sister and I since we were in nappies and I know what you're thinking," he added quickly with a wry smile. "Working with family is a disaster waiting to happen." They stepped inside and into the warmth. "But actually, we'd give everything to protect one another and the publishing business is small and flooded. It can be oddly cutthroat at times. I need an honest opinion and if you ever met my grandfather, you'd realise he's not one to mince his words."

"Only when I'm stressed," he answered Nice's question with another smile. "Which, ironically, makes me more stressed." Will did like to bake, it was something his grandmother had taught him from a young age. He liked to cook, too. He thought it was important to be able to cook a few things well to stay alive and maybe attract a romantic interest but that hadn't gone so well.

When she said bridezilla, Will's face lit up and he let out a genuinely deep and hearty laugh. "Yes!" He replied enthusiastically, his eyes wide as he wondered how on Earth that word had made it into the French language. "It's her day, after all," he added soothingly as though not to paint Rosie in a poor light. "It's not her fault and I think all brides like to have some sort of control over the proceedings. I've been a groomsman long enough to realise that whatever the bride wants, the bride gets." No questions asked.


"I'll bet," Will joked breezily as he looked around. Admittedly, it wasn't his style but it was very pretty. After the shock had worn off, he followed the direction of Nice's wave and he offered the man a courteous nod of acknowledgement and looked away swiftly. "Absolutely," Will exclaimed excitedly as he pulled the menu towards him eagerly. His attention was pulled in a hundred different ways as the choice was large. Did he want a cake or a tart? A muffin or a pastry? As he mulled things over, Felix trotted towards them, a fat little pug waddling behind him in tow.

He greeted Bérénice warmly as he squeezed one of her shoulders affectionately and Will wasn't stupid; he wanted the gossip. The shorter man was eyeing him keenly, his pale pink pad of paper open and quill poised for an order. "Hi," Will said with a smile. "The pistachio and rose tart, please. Oh and I'd love a banana and lemon smoothie too, thanks." That was Will all over. He liked as many flavours as he could shove into his face.

Felix took the orders carefully, shooting Bérénice knowing glances which William politely ignored. Behind them, the door of the bistro opened and the bell tinkled. Felix was still hovering close, looking as though he might explode when the customer tried to get his attention. "Sei still!" the man hissed, flapping his hand behind him impatiently to the shocked customer. Will blinked. His German was non existent but he caught the drift.

"A friend of yours?" He asked Nice politely with an amused smile. There was a whirring of a blender and Will could feel a set of eyes burning into the back of his head. He assumed Felix was just making sure she was okay. After all, she might be a regular and to see her enter the café with a man with a strange accent must be concerning. But goodness, imagine if she'd sauntered in here with someone she actually fancied. No one expected the Spanish Inquisition, after all.

Bérénice smiled warmly, trying not to read too much into his comment, “Exactement.”
 
The brunette nodded, a little hesitantly, as he explained what a lackey was. “I see.” She wasn’t one hundred per cent sure she had it, but she got the gist. She at least knew who Cinderella was. “Ah, well, fortunate that you do.” She said with a smile, referring to his love of books. She was pleased to find out he wasn’t one of those heirs; people who inherited a business and slid straight to the top of the pyramid. “That’s the best place to start.” Her voice was warm, softening as she learnt more about Will. “Bottom to the top. That’s how – I would do it.” How she had planned to do it, or almost. She had never had grand dreams of heading up the Parisian hospital, but she wouldn’t have minded progressing to head of department in time.
 
She laughed gently at his description of his grandfather. “I… working with family can be okay.” Bérénice replied diplomatically, her expression somewhere close to a wry smile. “I’m glad that yours is so close.” Her tone was a little wistful, thinking about the growing distance between herself and her parents, and how the Bonaccord’s were such a far-reaching family in France, and in Western Europe, that she struggled to remember who she was related to at times. It was a shame that she had no siblings, no close cousins to confide in the way it sounded Will could would his brother and sister.
 
“Ah.” Another smile. “Perhaps I should try my hand at it.” Bérénice’s dark eyes didn’t leave Will’s face as he laughed, simply grinning wider in response. For a moment she forgot that she had been due to walk down the aisle herself soon – and then the memory of finding Henri in their bed with Valentina found its way into her consciousness and her smile faltered for a second before she recovered. The brunette blinked it away, “Yes, well,” she cleared her throat softly, “It’s very nice of you to help her.”
 
Bérénice lifted her face to greet the blonde man who had approached their table, trying to wilfully ignore the growing warmth in her cheeks at his pointed glances. “Bonjour, Felix. Comment ça va?” The brunette bit her lip softly as she listened to Will’s order – he really did have a sweet tooth – then placed her own; “The orange and almond cake please, with yoghurt. And a hibiscus tea.”
 
She was grateful when Felix retreated to the counter, though she knew he meant well. Perhaps she should have known better than to bring Will here. “Uh, yes?” She pulled a face that said she may regret admitting to it, then laughed. “I met him a few weeks ago, when I moved here. He’s… harmless, I think.” Her eyes widened as she watched Felix work with the blender and hoped that wasn’t an omen. “He’s just, he might be ensuring you aren’t my ex. I may have revealed a little too much over some wine when I first got to Chatoeil.” She offered him an embarrassed smile.

Will had a brief twinge of guilt. It was abundantly clear that Bérénice was a hard worker and he hadn't realised that he sounded a bit spoiled. He supposed it was nice to have a job to go into, a tradition to step into, a reputation to uphold. He hadn't really much of a choice. Arden was off studying animals in far flung places and Elijah didn't have a delicate touch; it was him or bust, apparently.

He did manage to offer her a smile, though. "Like the mafia," he joked sarcastically. Will was pretty used to painting his family in a positive light. He'd always papered over the cracks because it was easier. His mother always said he was never to air his dirty laundry in public, so to speak. He and his father didn't always see eye to eye but he had to admit that it was easier now that he'd left the business in his hands. Things were still a bit stretched after they'd met Honey and it unravelled quickly afterward. His parents, of course, blamed him for the whole thing.

"I have a horrible feeling you think of me too highly," the writer admitted with a smile. While he wasn't as in tune with his feelings as his sister with her "gift", he sensed it wasn't something she was comfortable with. Will could sympathise, he supposed. He was thirty, single and made no attempt to even consider making that walk down the middle of a church. He did like Bérénice  , he thought she was lovely but he was careful to put the brakes on her thoughts. Yeah, he supposed it was nice that he was making a wedding cake but he didn't want to be nice any more. Nice got him nowhere. Nice had him being someone's back up plan, a second place finish and he had no idea how he could shake this off. Maybe if he bought a leather jacket, it'd make him cooler and by this point, he wasn't above giving that a chance.

His name was Felix, Will learned, and he offered the other man a smile which wasn't exactly reciprocated. Will suddenly felt rather vulnerable as Felix's dark eyes looked him up and down, causing him to squirm uncomfortably in his seat. It lasted a moment or two and he gave a sigh of relief when the air forced its way into his lungs again. "Yikes," he replied with an unsure laugh.

Harmless? Will laughed, deep and chesty, as though Nice had said something funny. "He looks it," he added, clearly thinking the opposite. Will daren't look over his shoulder ever again.

Swiftly, he frowned. "Oh." What else could he say to that? Was that why she seemed so uneasy about the wedding cake conversation? Bérénice  hadn't revealed anything and she needn't because Will was a writer and he was used to filling in the blanks with varying amounts of success. He was ready to jump in and say that he understood what she was going through but no two break ups were ever really alike.

"Well, he's a bloody fool," William blurted out without thinking, folding his arms across his chest as he tutted darkly. "Your ex, not your friend," he added hastily, in case things got a bit lost in translation. Suddenly, Felix was at his shoulder as he dropped off the drinks and Will found himself having to scoot across his chair a little as the shorter man invaded his personal space quite profoundly. Swiftly, Will cleared his throat. "Thank you," he managed to reply as Felix awarded him with some breathing space. Behind his back, the bistro owner mimed to Bérénice for her to call him if anything happened by pointing to the back of Will's head with wide eyes and then at himself before mincing back to the counter.

"He seems nice," he said, sounding uncertain as he sipped at the cold fruit drink before wincing a little as the lemon hit the back of his throat and made his toes curl. The extra lemon was absolutely intentional, he could tell. "In a way, it's sweet that he's defending your honour," he added with another smile. "I wish I had someone defending mine. Or maybe nudging me in the right direction," he wrinkled his face in distaste. "Anyway," Will said briskly, clearly trying to avoid getting in his feelings again. "Do you live around here?" He asked innocently, trying to figure out if he'd be able to find her again. He'd be travelling through the continent, he knew, but he couldn't shake the idea of her in a sundress and a floppy hat, standing on some Mediterranean shoreline. He didn't know where the image had come from but it was sharp and clear.   

“Perhaps,” Bérénice smiled, “You haven’t given me a reason to think lowly of you, yet.”
 
Her dark eyes flicked from Will to Felix and she attempted to convey with a smile to the younger man that she was quite alright, though she wasn’t sure how successful she was. Hopefully if Bérénice looked like she was enjoying herself sufficiently he’d get the hint that Will was no threat.
 
A brief silence descended over them, in which Bérénice wished she hadn’t brought up her ‘ex’ – though she was glad she hadn’t elaborated to the point of saying ‘ex-fiancé’. For two reasons, she supposed; firstly because it would have really cast a sombre mood over the conversation, and secondly because she was still embarrassed by the whole thing -- her friends had told her she shouldn’t be, it wasn’t her fault. And she knew they were right, it wasn’t. But still, she couldn’t help but feel that she hadn’t been enough.
 
Bérénice looked up at him sharply, eyes a little wide -- surprised by his words, but not unpleasantly. She was saved having to reply immediately by their drinks arriving with Felix. “Merci.” She said quietly. The witch glared at him over Will’s shoulder as he mimed at her, she tried to impress upon him with her look that he needed to leave her to it. She wasn’t sure if the message had sunk in.
 
She frowned softly, sympathetically, as she noticed his reaction to his drink. “I think next time we should try Rebert’s.” She said, then blushed at insinuating they would meet again. To avoid having to elaborate she simply began tucking into her treat, using a cake fork daintily. “In a way…” She agreed, turning her attention back to Will. “Do you need nudging?” She asked, politely but playfully, with a warm smile. “Sounds like we have both made some bad decisions.”
 
She wasn’t upset when he changed the topic, though in some ways it was all still related to Bérénice’s ‘situation’. She nodded softly, “I do, yes. As of very recently. Before this I lived in Paris.” She put down her fork and picked up her tea, blowing gently across the surface to cool it slightly before drinking. Setting the cup back on the saucer she swallowed before providing further information; “I’m due to start teaching at the school, as a substitute. I was at the library to do a little more research before I start."

Will smiled again quickly. It was a very English thing, self-deprecating humour, he'd noticed. In the week or two he'd spent in Continental Europe, it was abundantly clear that everyone thought rather highly of themselves. But Will? Not so much. Batting away compliments seemed easier than accepting them and it was inches away from letting Bérénice know that he'd ruin things almost instantly but…he didn't want to muck this up. Ending her sentence on a yet made him grin lopsidedly; this might be fun.

He really hadn't meant to attack Nice's ex-fiancée. It sort of happened, like a knee-jerk reaction. She probably didn't need protecting or reassuring but she seemed like such a lovely young woman, the idea of someone not wanting to marry him made his head boggle.

Did he need nudging? "Herding, more like," William offered with a wan smile. He liked to think he was romantic and carefree but the bare bones of it was that he was stupid and gullible and a bit of a tit. He hadn't dated any "bad" girls, he didn't think but things turned out badly. He'd been lied to, cheated on, strung along and abandoned. While he was strong enough to realise he played some part in the failure of his relationships, he was also confident enough to know he wasn't usually the cause.

"To not making any more bad decisions," Will announced suddenly, clinking his glass against Bérénice's tea cup. As though to further cement their new mantra, the tips of his ears flushed pink. He'd never heard of Rebert's. What was it? Another café, a shop, a gallery? He didn't really care what it was but they were definitely going. "I'd love to," he replied quickly to her before he could back out. "It's nice here," Will said, meaning the French town and not the bistro. He nodded swiftly. "I could spend some time here, I think."

Paris? Will's eyes widened in admiration of Bérénice. "Lovely," he added. She did seem like a strong, independent lady and the French capital might have been a good fit for her. Without her saying anything, he felt himself smile. Her ex-partner must still live in Paris, which is why she was here. Funnily enough, he thought he'd do the same. He'd give up city life in a heartbeat and retire to the countryside without so much as a backwards glance. He got it.

"Oh wow. Congratulations," Will was quick to applaud her as she spoke of her new job. He wanted to know what she was going to be teaching but that seemed a little too forward. "Moulding young minds. A talent. You must have the patience of a saint," he joked but his dark brown eyes were warm and teasing. So, she'd come out of a bad situation, moved across the country and picked up a stressful and respectable profession. Goodness. It was like she'd fallen right out of the pages of "Perfect Girlfriend Weekly".

"You're excited?" He asked gently. He knew very little about Beauxbatons, save for the tales his grandmother had told him. "My nanna went there," he stated as he took a small bite out of his cake and instantly wished he'd ordered more pieces. "I can't remember her House. I think it began with an O or a U or something," he frowned as he scratched his cheek distractedly. "Anyway, it sounded lovely and I hope you like it because -- " I like you. He swallowed the words down with a swig of his bitter drink and coughed, eyes watering. "You deserve some good stuff coming to you." And that's why you're single, you absolute twonk.

Bérénice let out a soft laugh at his reply, setting her fork down to pick up her tea and take a sip. She smiled as he tapped his glass against the porcelain of her cup, bowing her head in agreement, “No more bad decisions.”

The brunette set her cup back on its saucer, peeking up at him through her eyelashes as he cheeks flushed the tiniest bit pink. “It’s one of the oldest café’s here,” she explained quietly, not entirely sure why she needed to, but confident that she did not want Felix to overhear her touting a competitor whilst still in his shop. Nice nodded and used her fork to cut off a chunk of cake. “Chatoeil is lovely,” she agreed, “a nice break away from the city.” She speared the sponge with her utensil and popped it in her mouth.

The Frenchwoman smiled, her warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Merci.” She lowered her gaze momentarily before glancing back up at him. “Well, it is yet to be put to the test,” she grinned, “I’ll let you know if I survive longer than a week.” It was a joke, but there was the genuine doubt in the back of her mind that it might not be her second calling. That she might have to go back to the hospital, or else find something else to do where she could avoid the two people who had caused her so much pain. It wasn’t like she had never taught anyone anything before, but teaching adults was quite different to teenagers and children.

Bérénice nodded, smiling more confidently again. “Yes, I am. I loved Beauxbatons.” Her eyes widened in pleasant surprise, “Really? Is your family French or…?” she let the question trail off open-ended, as there were so many possibilities. She knew the pool of countries for Hogwarts was limited to the United Kingdom and Ireland. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were a lot more flexible, because they were on the continent and although borders still existed, they seemed less firm.

She watched as her new acquaintance began getting somewhat twitchy. A less confident woman might assume he was uninterested in prolonging their conversation, but Bérénice was used to picking up on tells. Knew what they meant. The benefits of her profession, she supposed. “Ombrelune, maybe?” she offered gently, hoping to distract him from his own thoughts. “My house,” she smiled, “we also have Bellefeuille and Papillonlisse.” She set her fork down for the last time, cake gone.  “I think you do too, Will.” She held his gaze for a moment before reaching into her bag, withdrawing a fountain pen (muggles really could be ingenious sometimes, how much more travel-convenient than a quill and inkpot?) and pulled a clean napkin towards her. “I’d love to hear how you find Positano,” she slid the napkin towards him, her name and address in her neat handwriting.

In spite of himself, he offered Bérénice a smile. "You'll be absolute fine," Will told her encouragingly. Of course, his experience with teenagers was minimal. They terrified him and he often found himself crossing the street to avoid groups of them. It didn't matter that most of them were harmless but then again, inner city London differed wildly to the French coast. He decided that he was going to send her something, a good luck token.

Was his family French? "Sort of," he answered vaguely because he wasn't really sure what his family tree consisted of. "My grandmother was born in Bordeaux but moved to London to become a Healer. She met my grandfather when she was over here. I don't really feel that connected to that part of the world," he offered and felt guilty almost instantly, like he'd offended her homeland. He offered her another quick wry smile by means of an apology. "I've been told I have a Gallic nose," he joked with a roll of his big dark eyes.

If someone were to look up the definition of "English gentleman", a picture of William would be there. He liked cask ales and rugby internationals opposed to champagne and industrial strike action. "Ah," he said with a nod. "That rings a bell." It was her house, too. He made a mental note to ask his nan if Bérénice's surname meant anything to her.

She wished him well and the tips of his ears turned pink. He'd overstepped the mark. He'd pretty much just stomped all over it. He hoped he hadn't made her feel uncomfortable but the way she extracted a pen had him feeling uneasy. He had made her feel uncomfortable and it settled on him like a wet blanket around his shoulders. He didn't want her to go. He wanted to tell her that he could do better - that he could be better. She was kind and friendly and possibly a little strange for coming out for a drink with him in the first place.

He must have shown his disappointment on his face before he realised that she probably had a lot to organise before she started teaching that term. Positano? Oh, shoot. He'd forgotten all about his journey of self-discovery. "Thank you," he replied, folding the napkin with great care and slipping it into his breast pocket. Will was buoyed up. He had an address he could write to and he absolutely would.

"I shouldn't keep you," he replied gamely and with a smile as he collected his jacket and counted out the correct money (and a generous tip, just to be on the safe side) and stood. She lived locally but his hotel was booked in Antibes and he should really get booked into it.

"It was really nice to meet you," Will said warmly as he reached out and shook her hand, squeezing it gently. He didn't really believe in fate and chance and luck and all that malarkey but him bumping into her in the library had been serendipitous indeed. He didn't wish her luck because she didn't need it. He held the door open for her and didn't look in Felix's direction before turning to face her again. "I'll let you know about Italy," he told Bérénice earnestly. He was split down the middle. He was still sore about Honey but she was far from his mind right now. He was excited to get to know this woman a little more, even as a friend, despite the fact that his intentions weren't really that friendly at all.

Taking a step back, he waved a hand in farewell before he turned on his heel and headed back towards the coast. Will didn't miss Felix using his two forefingers to point to his eyes and then back at Will in the classic I'm watching you gesture.

Bérénice pressed her lips together, trying to hide a smile. “Sort of?” she repeated, before he went on to elaborate. Her eyes widened slightly when will said his grandmother was a Healer. The Hypnotist silently chided herself for putting her surname on the napkin she had given to Will – he would find out eventually, she supposed, or, she hoped there would be an eventually. Hopefully his grandmother hadn’t chosen to study healing overseas because of some bias against the hospital named after Bérénice’s ancestors.

Will got to his feet and so did Bérénice. She slipped her coat on as Will left money to cover their meals. “Oh, you don’t have to—” He waved her off, and she found herself blushing lightly. “Thank you.” He stretched his hand out and Bérénice took it gently in hers, noting how his skin was soft and warm compared to the calloused, rough hands of her ex-fiancé. She wondered if that was down to more than their differing occupations. “And you, though I will try not to start with an injury in future,” she smiled.

The brunette witch intentionally avoided looking in Felix’s direction for fear of whatever might come her way (joy, despair, or otherwise) as Will opened the door for them. She wrapped her coat tighter around her waist and nodded, “Please do.” Should they hug? Kiss? He had already shaken her hand so that seemed to have been their goodbye and she really ought not to read more into this than two strangers having coffee. “Bon voyage, Will.” Bérénice offered him a final quick smile before turning and heading back towards the library.


END