everything you've come to expect [fflur]

early october 2002

Sod’s law; Charlie had arrived in Hogsmeade ten minutes or so ahead of when they’d agreed to meet at The Unicorn and Thistle – some restaurant Fflur had picked – had opened the door, taken two steps inside, spotted the familiar red hair of his ex-girlfriend, frozen on the spot and turned around to march back out before either Honey or Fergie saw him from their table. Fortunately, Honey had had her back to him, so if either of them was going to see him it would have been Fergie, but Charlie wasn’t entirely sure if that was really the lesser of two evils given the topic du jour in the press. 

So now he was standing outside in the high street, waiting for Fflur to turn up. One hand in his pocket, he’d lit a cigarette and was smoking it to pass the time – it looked marginally less creepy than standing there with both hands in his pockets trying to avoid eye contact with anyone that walked past. He was the type of figure that didn’t really fit in in Hogsmeade – and not because he was currently sunburnt to shit after spending a month in Mexico. His leather jacket and jeans ensemble stood out against the wizarding robes worn by most of the locals, as did Fflur’s equally muggle attire as she finally made her way along the cobbled street to him.

He took a final drag of his cigarette before extinguishing it on her approach. “Change of plans,” he announced as he wrapped his arms around her in greeting. “I can’t go in there,” he muttered, as though the person he was trying to avoid might be able to hear him, “is the Broomsticks alright? Good.” He pulled back and placed a hand on either shoulder, turning her on the spot to face in the opposite direction without waiting for an answer.

“Honey’s in there,” he explained under his breath, avoiding Fflur’s gaze and what he assumed would be a ‘serves you right’ sort of look. He wondered if Fflur had read the Prophet, or if she was still anti-media. He was sort of hoping for the latter, because that meant he wouldn't have to go over the interview again – he'd already heard it from Kate, from Sam, even Liam. He pushed the door to the other pub open and held it for Fflur, following her in out of the brisk autumn air. On the plus side it wasn’t teeming with students because it wasn’t a Hogsmeade weekend – it wasn’t even a weekend. Perhaps the threat of it being a school night was what Fflur needed to curb her drinking, and Charlie was happy to oblige whatever fit her schedule best. He was trying to be a better friend, given everything she’d done for him over the past few months.

They sat down opposite one another and Charlie glanced over at her anxiously, “You hungry?”

Fflur had mostly forgiven Charlie for that post-wedding hangover by now, though she wasn’t ready to completely let go of it, not just yet. She hadn’t seen him since then, anyway, and being mad in letters just wasn’t the same. Sure, she was excited to see him for other reasons -- going a month without seeing him after several months of consistent visits was weird -- but that was the main one. She had considered making a list, keeping notes of the things she needed to discuss (that interview, for one), but after a little thought, that seemed like a little much.

She wasn’t planning to make it a late night; Robin (and the dog) was back from New York and she had already spent the full day at the castle, so clearly she had better things to do. Besides, Charlie was married now; he’d need to get on home, too. They were meeting at The Unicorn and Thistle for sort of that reason: the alcohol wasn’t as in your face as it was at the other couple restaurant options and Fflur was attempting to be a responsible thirty-something for once in her life.

It was nearing dark as she reached the restaurant -- and Charlie -- and she waved before stamping out her own cigarette. She was about to tell him how creepy it was to wait for her on the street when he announced their change of plans. Confused, she didn’t return the hug, her arms hanging limp at her sides. “Seriously?” She attempted to look over his shoulder and into the restaurant, but the crazed fans or paparazzi she had been half expecting to see weren’t looking back at her (and it was just as well, because she still didn’t think he was that famous). She snorted and rolled her eyes as he pulled back. “Whatever.” Responsible thirty-somethings could not drink at the Three Broomsticks, too.

“She what?” Fflur tried to turn back around and get a proper look but Charlie’s arm was still around her shoulders; she settled on glancing sidelong instead, laughing again that a woman could scare him away that easily. “I’ve been meaning to talk to her, actually, give her some details if she wants to properly take credit for getting you arrested.” She had read that article too -- with some delight -- and had a lot of questions, but one thing at a time, she supposed.

Ushered inside and to a corner booth, Fflur finally got a good-in-proper-lighting look at her friend. She didn’t hear his question, forgot all her planned ones, too distracted by the postbox red face he was sporting. Without warning, she reached out and poked his forehead with her finger, quickly pulling back and watching with amusement -- that she didn’t bother hiding -- as the red went to white and slowly back to red again. “Christ.” She laughed again as she slipped off her jacket and pushed it off to the side of her bench. “Hope you figured out sunscreen before you went to the nudey beaches.”

“Oh, I bet you two have got an afternoon tea lined up.” Charlie rolled his eyes. If it wasn’t so laughable, he might be more concerned that his ex-girlfriend (who apparently was never actually his official girlfriend) and his ex-best friend-cum-one-time lover-cum-best friend again were neighbours. He might even be worried that Fflur would find out that when she’d turned him down back in February, he’d slept with Honey later that very same day (in his defence, Honey had turned up on his doorstep). Not that it should really concern Fflur who Charlie slept with. Fortunately for him, regardless, he was fairly certain that Honey and Fflur would never catch up and exchange gossip about him, whether over tea or something stronger. Good thing he’d inadvertently pitched them against one another all those years ago, really.

Charlie's eyes went round as Fflur’s finger approached his face over the table; he watched, unmoving, and remained still as her fingertip pressed against his forehead. “What are you—” He swatted at her belatedly – he’d find something to blame his slow reflexes on later. “Fuck off,” he decided to let the grin he was trying to contain win through. “Yeah, gotta have an even tan,” he joked – he was clearly well beyond a bronze glow; he would remain this permanent shade of pink for a little while before peeling and reverting back to his usual pale self. Surprisingly, he hadn’t actually been burnt the entire time he was in Ixtapa – thanks to his aversion to the sun they’d usually waited until the heat of the day had subsided before venturing out, except on the occasion he’d managed to allow himself to burn almost to the point of needing genuine medical attention.

Rather than repeat himself and ask again if she was hungry, Charlie grabbed two menus and shoved one at her to try and shut her up. Or at least, shut her up about nude beaches. He didn’t want to talk about that – or anything related to that – with Fflur.

“So how was your hangover?” he grinned. They’d both seen each other in sorry states before – if Charlie hadn’t been happily (debatable) hungover elsewhere he would have certainly enjoyed seeing how Fflur had pulled up the next day. “Were you still drunk when you got to Hogwarts?” A knowing grin spread across his lips. Bit of a dick move for him to have his wedding literally the day before school started – on another continent, at that – but he maintained that he had not chosen the date and that, really, Fflur was the only one affected by it so she ought not to complain. “Did Robin get to help you outta that dress in the end?” he smirked.

“Tea, happy hour, night caps, the whole lot,” she reassured him. She rather eat her own foot than have a catch up with the woman, but that didn’t have the same sort of ring to it. But speaking of afternoon tea: Fflur did actually have a date lined up with another woman in Charlie’s life; she and Charlie’s Nan had become fast friends at the rehearsal dinner so it wasn’t like she could turn down the invitation, right? She didn’t see any reason to tell Charlie, either, because she had a sneaking suspicion he hadn’t also been invited. Seemed about right, anyway.

Her glee was pretty apparent; Charlie’s discomfort was her safety net. “Gross.” She darted out her hand again, enough to make it look like she was trying to poke him again, not enough to be in his attack zone when he tried to swat at her again (and miss again). She reckoned he had been outside maybe five minutes, ten tops, to get that color, and she was about to say as much when he interrupted her thoughts with a menu and a subject change.

Fflur laughed, scratching her cheek with a grimace. “It was one of my finest yet.” Four hours of sleep, three portkeys, two full minutes of regret, one general consensus: she didn’t need to stop drinking completely (she thought) but she ought to at least try, even just a little harder. “I think I was,” drunk at Hogwarts, that is -- an actual first time occurrence. “It didn’t properly hit until Monday.” She had eased her way into it, happily assisted by tea from Naz. “Poor little first years not getting to fly during their first flying lesson,” she mused with a shrug, not regretting at all how she had amended her lesson plan to something a little less involved.

She returned his smirk. “Sure did.” She waited a beat before adding a simple, “Perv.” Truthfully, he got to help because she had pretty much been sewn into the dress, held up with tape and who knew what else. The hair was another disaster all its own that warranted a long shower, which just led right back around to things she wasn’t going to be discussing with Charlie at present, or ever.

“I figured out exactly how long I had to wear it, so you’ll need to wear yours just as long before we can even think about being even.” She nodded, looking down at the menu even though she knew exactly what she was ordering. Glancing back up, she smirked again. “That, plus a wig, you’ll be a dead ringer for me.” She had wanted to hold off on mentioning that interview, but it was too good to pass up now; she decided to quote it directly instead.

Fflur set her menu down and folded her hands together on top of it. “Really though, tidy interview.” She rolled her eyes with a laugh. “That’s the same hag who interviewed me a few months ago. Great questions.” Great was one word for it, anyway.

Charlie grimaced sympathetically. “Sorry,” he drawled, though his smug look said he was anything but. “Flying’s overrated.” He thought so, anyway. He’d been fine when they’d stayed close to the ground, but even then he hadn’t trusted an inanimate object – much less one that seemed to have been imbued with a mind of its own.

He shrugged, then grinned at her. “Glad someone got something out of it,” he said, focusing his attention on his menu. He wondered if Robin had liked Fflur-in-a-dress, or if he preferred Fflur-the-lad. Charlie wasn’t even sure which he preferred – if he was allowed to prefer one, that was. He wouldn’t be voicing his opinion aloud, regardless. He hadn’t thought the dress itself had looked bad at all – weird as fuck, but not bad – but seeing her all dolled up with hair and makeup hadn’t been Fflur. His Fflur. He knew he owed her more then a cheap dinner in Hogsmeade for going through all that for him.

Charlie laughed. “You’re really serious about that?“ He rolled his eyes, still smiling. “Sure, whatever.” He waved a hand dismissively, “Just let me know when you’re getting married so I can get in shape, eh?” With any luck she wouldn’t. Get married, that is – or not any time soon, so she could forget all about this. On reflection that sounded shitty; he wanted Fflur to get married, and to marry Rob if he made her happy, but she’d never sounded serious about walking down the aisle in the entire time he’d known her. Then again, neither had he.

He lowered his menu and glared at her. “Fuck, not you too,” he groaned and rubbed his palm over his face, then winced as his burnt skin started stinging from the agitation. Had anyone not read that interview? It wasn’t the worst he’d done, but it was the fact it had been printed in the same edition as an exposé on his ex-girlfriend, the one sitting across the street in the restaurant he and Fflur were meant to be in.

He laughed in an exasperated sort of way. “Cheers,” he motioned past her to the barmaid – he needed a drink. ”She was a fucking bitch. Bringing up every woman who’s ever so much as been seen in the same room as me—no offence,” he glanced at her, “and then the muggleborn shit? What the fuck?” He was glad he could at least talk to Fflur about it. Sam and Liam had seemed a little sour that they hadn’t also been invited to the interview – or maybe Sam was still just nursing his breakup.

The barmaid sidled up to their table and Charlie shot a glance at Fflur before ordering lamb shanks and a pint of bitter. “Was she a bat in yours too?” It had been a while ago, he couldn’t say he’d memorised the article, but it didn’t sound like Fflur had had a great time of it either.

Fflur stared at her menu, deciding to ignore anything else Charlie had to say about Robin and her in a dress -- or Robin and her out of a dress. She was thrilled to (sort of) change the subject. “Really very serious.” Fflur set down the menu with a nod. “Dunno if my engagement could go two -- three? -- years, y’know, if you need to get in shape.” She nodded again, very seriously. There were no wedding plans, immediate or otherwise, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t take the opportunity to make Charlie nervous about it, for whenever it did happen. If -- no, when -- it did. She was nearly sure about that, she thought.

She raised an eyebrow as she shrugged. She was close to telling him that she had, in fact, learned to read while he was away, but now was maybe not the time. He motioned for a drink and Fflur rolled her shoulders back, internal monologue at full blast, telling herself to take it easy tonight. Take it easy by not having a drink, or something. She was more than happy to continue bagging on the reporter instead of letting her mind wander too far. “Christ, none taken.” She was sure she was more embarrassed about that whole thing than he was, anyway.

Fflur ordered the same, swapping beer for tea, glancing around the room instead of wait for any questions about her drinking or lack thereof. She wasn’t sure what she was doing, really. “Yeah,” she said with a nod, looking back at him.  “I mentioned one a--” she paused, remembering who she was talking to and changing course mid-sentence to not mention anything too quidditch-specific-- “A quidditch player and she asked if that was why I liked her. Being muggleborn. Think she even segued into talking about you, from that.” She hadn’t been totally sober during the interview, but that would have been weird if she hadn’t had a drink, too.

That had been her last interview, she had decided.

“But all of that aside,” Fflur glanced down -- she really wasn’t in the mood to talk about what it might mean to be a muggleborn in the current climate -- before looking back up with a grin. “You should probably start naming songs after your wife.” She had no doubt there were songs about Kate, but Charlie was the idiot who named things after his ex-girlfriend instead. “Just one album of ‘Kate’s and ‘Mrs Baker’s, really drive the point home.” She rolled her eyes, through in time to smile at the waitress as she set her tea in front of her.

She waited until they were alone before carrying on. “I liked that supplementary article, too. The one about Honeydukes.” She shrugged, doing her best to hide her amusement. She had already mentioned it, but she didn’t receive the full reaction she had been hoping for. “You’re having a very good news week.”

Fuck off,” he grinned. “You haven’t seen me na--” He shut his mouth quickly, pressing his lips together. They didn’t need to reminisce about the last time Fflur had seen him in a state of undress, or his supposed improvement since then. He cleared his throat and looked down at his menu, suddenly very interested in the sides.

He raised an eyebrow at the tea order but didn’t say anything. Was she back to not drinking at all, or just not drinking on school nights -- or not drinking with him? He didn’t ask for fear of hearing an answer he didn’t want to. Charlie shook his head in disbelief. “It’s ridiculous she’s even allowed to work for the Prophet. Like, I get it’s not known for being factually accurate but Christ-- she’s not even trying to hide it, is she?”

Charlie looked at her, unimpressed. “Thanks for that feedback,” he replied in a flat tone. He’d really hoped Fflur would choose to stick with her ‘don’t mention Honey’ routine -- it had worked for them once, anyway. “Right, right, I get it,” he waved her off. “You know they’re not all about--” He glanced up at the barmaid as she brought their drinks over, Fflur’s teapot, cup, and saucer floating serenely into place before her along with a spoon, miniature milk jug and sugarbowl -- his own beer was less ceremoniously placed on the table by the older witch. “Cheers,” he muttered, picking it up and taking a sip before licking his top lip free of the head. It hadn’t occurred to him that Hogsmeade residents might be more inclined to take Honey’s side of things. Fflur was probably just lucky that she was also a Hogsmeade resident (sort of), or she might be tarred (again) as one of his ‘mystery women’ just for being seen in public with him.

Charlie tore his attention from the window -- and where he was imagining Honey, in the restaurant across the street, beyond -- back to Fflur. It took him a moment to remember there’d been a sizeable article on Honey too. Even he’d thought it had been harsh, had briefly considered sending her an owl (something along the lines of “You too?”) but had registered he’d been in hot enough water without adding coals to the fire -- that, and he was still pissed off at her rejection, even if his now being married was a better one-up than he could have hoped for at the time. “Thought you might be over that grudge by now,” he commented, attributing her dislike for the redhead to Charlie’s former attachment to her. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s still a nightmare --” not that he should really bring up having seen Honey any time recently, “-- it’s her brotherI feel sorry for.” He finished, trying to make it sound genuine, as if it was Fergie he was more concerned about.

He gave Fflur an unamused look, setting down his beer and sitting back in his chair. “Come on then, anything else you wanna go over with a fine-toothed comb?” He nodded at her wild hair, “Not your barnet, obviously.”

Fflur raised her eyebrows, returned the grin, daring him to finish his sentence. She imagined (or hoped) that night was as embarrassing for him as it had been for her, and that they would be much better off if memories didn’t come back in pieces, but as it was, she wanted to appear to be as unbothered by it all as possible. And that meant making fun of Charlie for his decisions, no matter how it made her look.

“Y’know I’m here to help.” She placed a hand over her heart and bowed her head, as ridiculous a gesture she could manage while sitting down. Her “Cheers,” was a bit more chipper than Charlie’s; she hadn’t missed the less than warm welcome Charlie had received from their waitress, and she hoped her smirk could be mistaken for being so very pleased to have her tea in front of her. She didn’t risk looking back up at him until she was stirring the milk in, and she shrugged. She had properly met the Honeydukes owner a few years ago, through Charlie, and there had been no shortage of (albeit funny, in hindsight) comments about her quidditch playing, or lack thereof. As far as Fflur was concerned, the other woman had no redeeming qualities -- and Fflur wasn’t so attached to eating sweets that it was much of a sacrifice -- so what was the point not holding a grudge? She was too, anyway. Of all the professors’ ‘Welcome Back’ packages they had received from Honeydukes, Fflur’s had been the smallest (and nothing but those little alcohol-filled chocolates).

“Thought you might be,” she repeated, recalling that Charlie had said there might be some not-so-nice songs about her, too. That, and the huge shift in their plans for the evening, just because the redhead had been spotted having dinner, in the town she lived in. “Right, her brother.” Fflur rolled her eyes, picturing the bloke who had worn a kilt -- he had elected to wear a skirt! -- to Charlie’s wedding. He was mates with the brother of an ex, or his ex was the sister of a mate; Charlie’s relationships were a bit of a jumbled mess, though that was probably underselling it.

She waved him (and his insults about her hair) off. “I washed it, got all dolled up just for you.” She smiled as sweetly as she could while showing him both of her middle fingers. “But yes, there is.” More to go over, that is. She set her teacup down and folded her hands, resting them on the table like this was going to be a very serious conversation. “What kind of idiot names a song after an ex? That’s a rhetorical question, mind.” Fflur rolled her eyes and sat back. “Her? Really.” She thought he had sense, once.

Charlie kept his lips sealed, rolling them awkwardly before stretching them into something of a knowing smile in response to her smug grin. He was in no hurry to relive that night but it didn’t mean he had forgotten everything; unfortunately, he remembered more than he cared to admit -- but not all of it had been bad, he supposed. If it hadn’t ended the way it did he might’ve relayed a couple of (more complimentary) quotes back at her, but he’d just have to keep them to himself.

“‘Course you are,” he rolled his eyes. “Always helping me in and out of holes.” There was a double entendre there that he tried not to draw attention to. Tried, at least.

Charlie lowered his pint to the table and scowled lightly. “I am,” he replied defiantly. “Thought you said you’d read the article?” His one, that was. Where he had firmly (supposedly) closed the Honey chapter of his memoirs. Not that he’d dwelled on answering that question much, really. He could have probably done with denying it a little more fervently for Kate’s sake but then he’d worried being too adamant would have the opposite effect and make him seem bitter about the whole thing.

“I’m flattered,” he replied, mirroring her smile with a mimicky one of his own, touching his hand to his chest as though she’d blown him kisses, not given him the finger(s). Charlie picked his glass back up to take another drink but stopped short of reaching his lips, he hesitated, decided to take a sip while he waited for whatever comment was coming his way.

There it was. He supposed he was an idiot, but he wasn’t going to admit as much -- not to Fflur. “I--” He dropped his gaze to the table between them, rather than let himself glance out the window again in case it came across as longing. “I wrote it before,” he repeated the defence he’d used in the interview, looked back up at Fflur and added: “I weren’t gonna change the name, was I?” ‘Kate’ didn’t have the same flow in the song, even if he had wanted to. Besides, there were too many analogies and metaphors that were too obviously not Kate, and (to anyone who had known Honey and Charlie were an item) too obviously Honey. “Thought you didn’t have a problem with her,” he raised his eyebrows at her, daring her to say she didn’t -- she obviously did.