Edith said she had two pages next month and Fergie nodded, making a mental note to pick up a copy when it hit the shelves.
She grinned at him and he felt a little bubble of pride that he’d managed to successfully navigate that particular bit of football knowledge (or, unsuccessfully, really, but he thought that that was the point). Fergie grinned back and into his beer, taking a long sip.
“Oh, were you a prefect too?†he raised his eyebrows at her in recognition, but that little bit of information was quickly eclipsed by her next little nugget. His eyes went wide with wonder. “You drove?†As the son of a muggleborn witch Fergie had been exposed to automobiles since he was a little boy -- had been in cars (and buses and trains, even ridden in his grandfather’s tractor) -- but he had never driven one. He realised, by her expression, that he was geeking out a bit too much so cleared his throat and had another drink. “I think one of my cousins likes Arsenal?†he said, hoping to move the conversation along.
He smirked, then, but his face fell the moment Edith’s did. For a moment he panicked, thinking he’d made some grave misstep, but quickly realised Edith had just lost track of the date. “Er, yeah it is,†he answered hesitantly, feeling guilty for some reason about sitting in a pub with her on a day reserved for couples while her boyfriend sat at home, waiting. Edith was too busy to notice, it seemed, as she began guzzling her pint down while Fergie watched, his mouth hanging slightly open in surprise. He’d seen Honey put a gin and tonic away with ease, but never a beer.
“No bother,†Fergie replied quickly, waving her off -- halfway to pulling his wallet out to say he’d sort the bill now that she was in a hurry, but she beat him to it. He smiled in response to her grimace and waved her off halfheartedly, pulling his own pint glass closer to finish up on his own, watching her slip out the door and past the window.
END
