[paris] summer slipped us underneath her tongue [harlan]

“You should have told me you were throwing me a party,” the brunette said through a fake smile, her dark eyes scanning the room as she stood beside her mother. Eugénie Bonaccord fixed a much better practiced smile upon her own features before retorting ”That’s the point of a surprise, darling.” Bérénice sipped at her champagne. “Yes, but then I could have invited William, as you seem to have neglected to,” the witch’s expression slipped for a moment in her upset. The older woman’s smile only widened, “I’ve invited all of your friends, I’m sure you’ll survive. Ah, Pierre--” She turned to follow after husband and left Bérénice alone.

All of her friends. Bérénice mentally scoffed. Many of these people she had not seen in months -- some in years -- but they all had the right last names and sufficiently stuffed bank vaults. Still, she knew better than to cause a scene, and leaving wasn’t an option either. She would have to thank her mother properly later, after figuring out what the ulterior motive was.

She moved through the room, stopping and chatting with anyone who chose to actually acknowledge the ‘birthday girl’. The venue was a decently sized ballroom, with a jazz band (at least her mother had gotten that much right) playing at one end. Trays of canapes and champagne flutes floated between the guests, and -- as she got deeper into the throng -- Bérénice wished she had known about all of this for another reason: she had dressed for dinner, not a party. Her dress was black, and though the sheer sleeves did something to help it wasn’t what she would have picked for an occasion like this; most of the other women were in light, spring colours.

Not a big drinker usually, Bérénice found herself searching for a refill as she emptied another flute (was this her fourth?). She excused herself from another of her ex-friends, and made her way to the bar. She stopped short as she recognised the man standing at one end of it, deep in conversation with (or, rather, being lulled deep into sleep by) the other man with him. She had not seen Harlan Bellamy in… well, she wasn’t sure how long. It felt like a very long time since they’d first met, if that was what you could call it. He had aged (and, she was sure, so had she); he had lines on his face that hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen him -- though some things never changed, she thought, as her eyes fell to his tie-less collar.

“Excusez-moi,” the witch smiled as she interrupted their conversation. “Do you mind?” she asked in French, looping her arm through Harlan’s without looking at him, her eyes fixed on the other man (another ‘friend’ she didn’t know), who promptly bid her a happy thirtieth birthday (only four years too late) and went off in search of some caviar.

Bérénice swapped her glass out for a fresh one and steered them a little away from the bar before slipping her arm from his and turning to face him. “Bonsoir, Harlan,” she smiled. “Is my mother still trying to get you to propose?”


@Harlan Bellamy

"Fuck off," Harlan swatted away Simon's hand as he teased his lack of decorum. The event was formal, black tie, and Harlan was... decidedly not. There he was, in a crisp white button-down and grey slacks— sans the required tie part of the dress code, as his brother was quick to point out.  "Watch your language," His mother hissed as she centered their gift atop the foyer table, running a hand over her dress at the mere idea of a wrinkle.

Bérénice's birthday was not unlike the parties that their families held when they were growing up— it was lavish, over the top even, and filled with strangers. He imagined that she felt the same sentiment, wandering the ballroom, dodging the inevitable small talk from family friends that knew someone, who knew someone. There were only so many times he could casually chat about how far The Griffins had made it this season.

It was nauseating.

Harlan stuck to the fringes of the room. When things picked up, he moved again. It was an ongoing battle, and he was getting tired. He snuck his chance at the bar once his father's colleague had peeled away, safely chasing a twenty-something. "Make it a double," He nodded to the bartender as she poured his whiskey, he wasn't sure when he'd get another opportunity. Better safe than sorry.

"Mr. Bellamy," A voice bellowed. Harlan stiffened. With any luck, the mystery person was addressing his father, or brother, or nephew, anyone other than him— but the hand clapped against his shoulder proved otherwise. Of all the people, Noah Pillar was up there on the top of the list that Harlan was decidedly avoiding that night. As suspected, he wasted no time to dive into a conversation about the profitability of endorsements. Harlan wasn't going to hold his breath to hear about whatever scam he was touting these days.

Thankfully, the torture was shortlived and before he knew it Bérénice was pulling him away. He sighed, heavy with relief. "Thank you," He confessed, taking a larger than necessary mouthful of his drink. "Bonsoir," He repeated with half of a grin, turning to get a better look at his old friend. "Happy birthday— thirty?" He raised an eyebrow. " I could have sworn I missed that birthday a few years ago..." He hummed to himself.

"Think she may have given up hope," He pulled a face once they were away from the crowd, as much as they could be. Even his mother knew that in no lifetime would Bérénice be so daft. Not with his reputation. He couldn't imagine why her own would feel any differently. "I got you something—" It was nothing special, but he made a point to bring something that wasn't from The Bellamys. He gestured to the table that was toppling over with gifts. "Let me know when you get around to opening it," He teased.

The French witch rolled her eyes, her lips stretched into a bemused smile. “I’ll take thirty if you will let me.” Then again, would she take having to live through her thirtieth year again? Probably not. She laughed and reached out to squeeze at his forearm in thanks for his well-wishes. “You did miss it,” she confirmed, still smiling. “Busy time of year for your sport, is it not? I’m honoured you could peel yourself away for the night.” She wasn’t stupid, he had been forced to come. Hadn’t she, also?

“Tell her that, will you?” Bérénice implored him. “I don’t think she’ll lose hope until one of us is actually married.” Clearly having a significant other wasn’t enough -- Bérénice had William, Harlan had someone too, according to Audrey, though Bérénice had forgotten the name of the woman. “Maybe even then,” she offered him a small smirk. At least they could joke about it.

The brunette sipped at her champagne. Her brows rose in interest when he told her he’d gotten her something. “Oh? I’ll be sure to write ‘thank you’ notes to everyone who has been kind enough to bring my family a gift,” she met him, clearly unimpressed by the tower of presents -- not because it wasn’t tall enough, but because it existed at all. A small scowl flashed over her features and she drank again.

She turned and slipped her arm around his again, steering them further from the table. “I suppose I’m giving my mother false hope even talking to you,” she joked and shook her head as they walked slowly around the edge of the room. “How have you been? I saw your sister last time I was in Paris.” She glanced up at him with a knowing smile. “I hear you are settling down?” she teased.

Harlan made a face. It was an honor. Bérénice knew as well as he did that this wasn't the sort thing his mother, or hers, would consider as a choice. No matter where he was in the world, she would have made sure that he was back for it— particularly given the amount of ground he had to make up for the bad press that plagued him as of late. It had come with the territory of making it so far in the season, but Celeste most certainly didn't take that as an answer.

Her efforts to rehabilitate his image were almost as cringeworthy as The Griffins'.

"You're so very welcome," His face was dark despite the faux-posh accent he put on to match the conversations around them. It seemed that whenever people got into a room like this they put on some kind of mask— an accent, fake jewels, grand stories.

Blue-grey eyes scanned the crowd before landing on the Bonncord matriarch who, by the looks of things, had already seen them, and was currently pretending to listen to the conversation she had previously been in. Her attempts at subtly were almost laughable.

"We've been seen—" Harlan warned through his teeth, careful to not lean too close. Everything they did was going to be looked at with a fine-tooth comb. No gesture could be too calculated. He raised an eyebrow as she locked her arm in his and led them from the bar, thankful for the camouflage of the crowd that he imagined may help to keep them hidden from the gaze of their families. "I think you may just be correct," He referenced giving her mother false hope with a roll of his eyes.

Once they were safely out of sight, he loosened up. "Did you?" He queried. Audrey and Bérénice had always been friendly, so it wasn't much of a surprise, really, but it was something to talk about. "I imagine she's tried to pitch a piece on you as well?" He continued. His sister's magazine had picked up and the quest for lifestyle content seemed to be neverending. The Bonaccord's were a perfect fit.

"Have you now?" Harlan asked again, taking another generous mouthful of whiskey to allow himself time to formulate an answer. "I'd hardly say that," He refuted with a knowing smile. He would be taking that one up with Audrey later. "And how about you? Keeping busy with work?" He wished he had some anecdote to share about her life that he'd been told but it seemed she was the only one with the intel yet. "Assume this was all your idea," He gestured to the room, giving her a playful elbow to the shoulder.

Harlan seemed his usual cheerful self; Bérénice smiled anyway, amused by his lack of amusement. Her joyful expression slipped as he revealed they were under surveillance. “Oh, wonderful,” she replied, fixing her smile back in place so as not to give away they’d spotted their spottee. The brunette was careful to put as many people between them and her mother -- and Harlan’s, wherever she was -- as possible. It seemed Eugénie Bonaccord’s habit of inviting too many guests had a positive after all; they provided some level of privacy.

They slowed to a more leisurely pace as they reached the balcony that looked out over the gardens beyond. The music drifted out through the large open doors and the warm yellow light spilled across the balcony, with the moonlight above strong and clear, casting them in warm and cool colours. “I did,” she nodded once, “had to meet the little one.” A fond smile spread across Bérénice’s full lips as she remembered holding Harlan’s niece, cradling her gently as Audrey took the opportunity to catch up on some odd jobs that motherhood made more difficult to complete.

“Oh, I’m not interesting enough for that.” Audrey seemed to think she was -- seemed to think people still cared about what the Bonaccords did. Then again, judging by how full the room they’d just left was, maybe they did. That didn’t mean she wanted anything written about her in Oui magazine for all to pick apart and analyse. “Are you gracing her pages?” she smirked, giving him an obvious once-over. “How to look like you don’t want to be somewhere,” she teased, her hand raised and moving across an imaginary headline.

The French witch pulled an oops face at him. “Was it a secret?” She mirrored the quidditch player and sipped at her own glass. Her brow furrowed lightly as he corrected her. “Oh? I apologise, Audrey said--” He cut her off before she could reveal what Audrey had said -- though perhaps that was for the best, she didn’t want to get the other woman in trouble for stirring the pot. “Busy,” she conceded, “it’s a different kind of busy to the hospital, but I think I like it.”

“Oh!” She swatted at him playfully, indignant at the suggestion that any of this was anything to do with her. “It was not and you know very well,” she replied, a little tartly. “I was lured here under false pretences.” She shot a look at him out of the corner of her eye, grinning, and had another sip of her wine, well on her way to finishing another glass of champagne.

“How is your team doing this season?”

It was a relief to be outside— to get away from the party that was bustling just over his shoulder, out of his line of sight.

Harlan cast his eyes to the star-filled Parisian sky and they illuminated under its glow, going dark as they turned back to the ballroom. Through the double doors, it was bright, and warm—deceivingly so. It was drenched in pastels from chandeliers, and candles, and flowers. It looked exactly like the kind of place that anyone would want to be. But there he was, wishing to be anywhere else. He turned to his old friend as she spoke, thankful for the distraction and their newfound solitude.

"She's quite convincing, you know?" He asked, rhetorically. His sister was notoriously just that, and definitely not above manipulation when it came to getting what she wanted. And if she wanted the Bonaccords, she would get them, eventually. In fact, Harlan wouldn't have been surprised if the whole meet-the-baby thing was a ploy to butter her up. But maybe he was giving her too much credit.

"Hell no," Harlan was quick to reply, chuckling to himself as Bérénice put his headline on faux-paper. Wouldn't have been the first time and it wouldn't be the last. "Think she'll wait a few years for that one," He sipped his drink, watching with interest as she nearly finished her own. "Until the redemption story comes full circle," He teased, leaning back against the white granite of the balcony. Given his reputation at the moment, he imagined that might be a while.

"What, you aren't keeping up?" Harlan opted to not delve any further into whatever it was that Audrey had told her, almost certainly about Honey, and focused on the much more palatable subject of Quidditch. "We're doing alright," That was an understatement. He shrugged, finally serious, though trying to downplay the fact that The Griffins had made it to semis. "Ever going to come to a match?" He pretended to kick the side of her shin before resting back on his elbows. Despite himself, if they did make it any farther, he wanted everyone he knew to be there.

“Oh, I know,” Bérénice smiled, rolling her eyes softly. “Luckily I can be quite convincing myself,” she smirked, her free hand subconsciously touching briefly on the fine gold chain around her neck, from which her pendant hung beneath the collar of her dress. She could feel the metal against her skin, reassuring in its presence.

“No?” She laughed gently, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m sure even the French teenage girls would love to know all about the bad boy of Ballycastle.” There was no love lost between the French and the English, but it helped that the quidditch player had French roots. That, and even Bérénice could concede he was handsome. He might have a terrible reputation, but she knew that was something a lot of young women (and not-so-young women) were attracted to.

“A redemption story?” She quirked an inquiring eyebrow. “I look forward to hearing it,” she smiled knowingly, watching him lean back against the stone parapet, crossing one arm over her front and sipping on her champagne.

She shrugged playfully. They were doing alright. She had heard they were doing more than alright -- second in the British League, which was no mean feat. “Never know what to believe in those papers,” she offered, a soft, teasing smirk on her full lips. She knew quidditch scores were a little more reliable, but there had been plenty of rumours in the press about Harlan and his teammates of late. “If you invite me, I’m sure I can get away for a weekend,” she smiled, stepping closer and then around him, to rest back against the balustrade with him. “Where’s your next game?”

His eyes turned at the mention of his ill-fated nickname— the bad boy of Ballycastle. He practically groaned. Clearly, the moniker still didn't sit well with him, even after all of these years. "Good thing teenage girls, of any variety, are not in Audrey's 'target market'," The wizard commented darkly in an uncharacteristically sing-song voice that mimicked his sister over the top of his drink. She was after a far more refined audience than that of the Prophet and Witch's Weekly. The entire selling point of Oui was that it was the complete antithesis of those things.

A perfect fit for the well-groomed (with clean records, to boot) Bonaccord family.

"You're always invited," Harlan quipped casually, though intentionally, as the conversation shifted. For close family and friends, that was always the case. No tickets needed. "Portree," He let out a breath at the mention of their next opponent, the next match. Nerves weren't usually his thing, but he felt the familiar swell of pressure against his chest. The weight of his position was heavy on him, more so as the season went on. "Fancy a trip to Scotland?" He bumped his shoulder into hers but didn't quite meet her eye.

"Hear it's very romantic this time of year," He stopped short of mentioning the fact that the whole evening before their arrival his mother had chewed his ear off about the new man in Bérénice's life. A librarian— she used the term liberally so he knew it had to have come directly from the Bonaccord matriarch herself. It didn't feel appropriate to ask about it, given it hadn't been that long since her engagement, so he let her take the reigns.

She grinned good-naturedly when he rolled his eyes. It said something that he didn’t embrace the moniker -- anymore, at least. Bérénice wasn’t sure if it was down to Harlan maturing or if he had never truly relished in being tarred with that particular brush, but it was refreshing to see that he didn’t bask in it now. “Good thing,” she repeated, a small smirk playing across her lips. “I would assume not in yours, either,” she teased.

“Oh, am I?” The French witch placed one hand on her chest, acting -- and, if she were being honest, feeling -- rather flattered. Bérénice would not call herself an avid sports fan, but she had been to enough quidditch games, polo matches, broom races, and winged horse derbies in her time to be able to enjoy herself -- it was always that little bit nicer when one had a lounge or hospitality box from which to do so, of course.

Portree. She had a vague idea that that was on one of the islands, but she wasn’t sure. The farthest north she had been was Cambridge. “I’ve never been,” she admitted with an unsure smile, shooting him a sidelong glance. “Scotland, that is.” His next comment had her raising a sleek, dark eyebrow. “And why would it need to be romantic?” she turned to face him, resting her hip against the parapet and lifting her chin in an attempt to meet him (he was half a foot taller, after all).

Harlan hadn't realized how out of context his comment would have come across without having been in his family sitting room earlier that evening as his mother anxiously detailed this 'librarian' that Bérénice found herself with post-engagement, pacing as she usually did before an event. Nice's ex was garbage as far as Harlan was concerned, but for whatever reason, their families seemed to stick up for him when comparing to this new guy. It was clear that he wasn't cut from the same cloth in their mind— a thought that turned his stomach.

"Just thought you may like to bring someone along," Harlan attempted nonchalance but ended up chuckling into his drink after a moment. "Look, my mums told me about the new man on the scene," He cast a wayward glance in her direction before shifting to the more comfortable scene indoors. She had been courteous when it came to skirting around his own love life and he supposed that he owed the same.

"No matter," He cleared his throat in a way that for anyone else would have come across as uncomfortable. Somehow, though, he managed to keep it as casual as ever— the mastered skill of brushing things under the rug. "How's Beauxbatons?" He swiftly changed the subject to something a bit more low key. They would need a few more drinks before they got into anything too serious, anyway. On-time, a server peeked out to the balcony and he signaled for another round, assuming he knew what they were drinking.

“Oh.” Bérénice stared into the middle-distance for a moment, feeling just a little foolish for thinking that Harlan could be-- “Oh,” she repeated, meeting his gaze finally and letting her posture sag a little in disappointment (at Harlan’s mother knowing anything about Will, because it would have had to come from her mother and she couldn’t imagine it would have been a glowing recommendation). “He’s not that new,” she said, a little quietly, feeling like a teenager being pushed and pulled to and fro all over again.

“I don’t actually know if he likes Quidditch,” she admitted -- not that one really needed to love the sport to go to games. The French witch rested back beside Harlan, an inch closer than she had been before, their arms brushing against one another as she leeched some warmth from him in the cooler night air. “We met a year ago.” She frowned softly, finding that fact rather jarring. “He’s English,” she continued, trying to pretend that Eugénie Bonaccord hadn’t relayed all of this information to Margery Bellamy already, “so I don’t get to see him very often.” Something that, lavish ‘birthday party’ aside, being another year older was casting doubts about the ability for it all to work.

The brunette turned her head to face Harlan and smiled at him warmly, appreciatively. He was trying to be a gentleman and she found herself endeared to him for it. Even more when he subtly ordered them each a refill.

"Beauxbatons is…" She paused, resting her head on his shoulder as she stared straight ahead, sighing gently. "I do like it, though I'm sure I didn't get Deputy Headmistress without a little help," she admitted sadly, lifting her head again to gaze at the party inside -- at her parents hobnobbing the night away. "It would be nice to know I've earned something myself, you know?" That was why they had never even allowed themselves to entertain the idea of being anything more than friends -- neither of them, but especially Harlan, wanted it lauded over them that it had all been orchestrated.

A waiter approached with fresh drinks and Bérénice downed the remainder of what was in her current glass to swap them out. Once they were alone again she turned back to Harlan, her soft brown eyes gazing up at him with interest. "Do you ever regret it?” she asked, “Doing what you wanted, instead of what they wanted you to do?”

Harlan affixed his gaze at the party as Bérénice opened up her relationship, little by little. He didn't want to come across as too interested (he knew he would hate that), but he also couldn't hide his curiosity altogether. He'd only ever really known her with her long-term ex, so the sample size was far too limited for him to make any generalizations about her type.

"More into books, then?" He said as casual as day, only briefly looking over at her. He bit down on his bottom lip, wincing, before letting out a bark of a laugh. He just couldn't help himself. Not that he had any room to talk of course— much of the time he too preferred to hide away for the night with a good novel. "He sounds nice," Harlan said more seriously now, turning to face her, face genuine once more. It was clear that they were still figuring things out and he certainly didn't need to be making that any more complicated with his teasing.

As the conversation shifted to Beauxbatons he found himself trying to recall the school. He'd been there as a young player, for some event that he now couldn't properly remember. All that he had retained was just how stunning it had been. The buildings, the grounds, the people, all of it. It didn't quite have the same tough charm that Hogwarts had, but nonetheless it suited her.

Harlan stopped short of offering up any advice on the topic of navigating their shared family experiences and instead met her eye in thought. He crossed his arms over his chest with a slight audible exhale of breath. Every day he tried to remind himself that he had no right to even be mad about it. He'd been so fortunate with what he'd be been given, and what he'd done for himself, but still, there were moments when he too wished for support the way that he assumed his siblings received.

"No—" He began bluntly. "—don't imagine I'd have made it too long in the Ministry world," Harlan explained with a slight grin, thankful he had that next drink to keep himself busy with. Truthfully, he'd thought about it before, what his life would have turned out like, but each scenario had a bad ending. "Just not worth it to me," He took a sip as he watched his mother flit around the circle of women she was talking with inside, thankful for the glass barrier between them.

"Can't please everyone," He nodded in the direction of her parents vaguely. "Think they've noticed you're gone?" Harlan leaned back next to her with a grin. He'd give it another hour— until she was needed for something, or someone.

Bérénice shot him a warning look, a reluctant smile playing across her full lips. “Is there something wrong with preferring books?” she asked, turning on him. Bérénice, for one, had always preferred study over physical pursuits. She remembered a time when Harlan had been that way too – had it really been so long?

“You’re just being nice,” she replied, not unkindly, with a soft roll of her eyes. Harlan didn’t know enough to know if Will was nice or not – though, of course, Will was. Too nice, almost. The hypnotist sometimes found herself at a loss for how much he bent over backwards; it was what every girl dreamed of, and yet wouldn’t she love for him to just tell her ‘no’ once in a while.

The brunette sipped at her fresh flute of champagne, eyes on her companion and still giving him all of her attention. No— She had known that he would feel that way; he had always been so sure of himself – perhaps that came with making your own decisions. Bérénice smiled and inclined her head slightly, turning to look out over the balcony at the gardens beyond. “I don’t know, I think you could have lasted a month or so,” she teased him gently, bringing her eyes back to meet his with a small smirk. She reached to smooth her hand up his front – over his chest – and close his shirt collar, tilting her head to one side as if appraising him. “You know, I think you almost suit it better undone,” she grinned, letting her hand fall back down slowly to join the other, holding her champagne.

Not worth it, can’t please everyone. “You’re speaking far too much sense, Harlan.” She glanced down at his whisky. “How many of those have you had?” She met his gaze again and lifted her glass to her lips— stopped just shy of drinking and looked over her shoulder at the room, and her parents within it. “That would require them noticing anyone other than who’s currently stroking their egos.” Her eyes widened slightly at her candidness. “Pardon,” she apologised, “I haven’t had this many bubbles in a while,” she admitted with a sheepish grin, tucking her hair behind her ear.

The witch cleared her throat. “How long before your family comes looking for you?”

"Not at all," The wizard replied matter-of-factly. He placed far more value in intellect than he did athleticism, especially when it came to other people. He'd always been the type to have little patience for ignorance— it was unimaginable to him that with all the tools provided to wizards these days that everyone wasn't constantly learning. Interestingly enough, he imagined that teaching would appeal to him post-retirement, once his body had finally given out after the years of abuse.

"Keep your voice down, Bonaccord," He pretended to quiet her but ended up half-smirking. He couldn't afford to tarnish that Bad Boy of Ballycastle image.

Once Harlan ascertained what it was that she was doing, he straightened up, his face instantly serious— polished as his mother liked to say. He held still for a moment, leaned against her hand that was pressed to his collar so that she could make her final judgment. While he hated to admit it, he could see it, him in The Ministry. Scrub him up, cut the hair, put him a suit and he was practically a Simon clone. Only slightly better looking, he reminded himself.

"So says you?" Harlan stood down once she took her spot next to him against the balcony ledge again. His white dress shirt fell back into place, only a few buttons open to reveal the top of his chest and dark blond hair. "It's much easier, anyway," He agreed, clearing his throat, keen to change the subject from his looks sooner rather than later.

He practically groaned at the witch's immediate apology for her brief candor (child's play, in his mind)— his eyes turning up to the sky. "Merlin, Nice, would you relax," He teased, bumping an elbow to her shoulder. "It's a party, you're allowed," Harlan continued in his classic less-than-understanding way, a smile threatening his features even still. "Flashback to being seventeen," He joked, mystified— that exact phrase was something that he was sure he'd said to her more than once in their younger years.

"I give it another..." He glanced at the watch exposed on his wrist just under the folded sleeve of his shirt. "...hour," He imagined around then his mother would come looking for him to talk to some potential future business partner. It seemed as his career went on the more she worried about what he was going to do when it all ended. "Clock's ticking," He raised an eyebrow. He did wonder how long they were going to be able to hide out there before someone spotted them.

A slow grin crept across her features. “Or what?” she challenged him playfully. “Worried people will stop being intimidated by you?”

Bérénice shrugged softly; Harlan had always been a good looking boy, then a good looking man – he was only becoming more refined with age, and she didn’t think it would be a surprise to him to find that out. "So says I," she confirmed, taking another sip of champagne as her brown eyes darted to the tanned skin now visible where his shirt had fallen away. Their gazes met and she looked away quickly. "Is 'easy' better?" she asked him next, keeping her focus on the gardens, dark and moody in the limited light.

She had the good grace to look apologetic for… being apologetic. "Sorry, I—" She stopped sharply and glanced at him, her mouth stretching into a grin as her the apples of her cheeks warmed at his gentle nudge. “I know.” It was her party, if she were to believe her parents (she didn’t).

She only became more flustered at his follow-up remark. The hypnotist was thrown back to being seventeen -- or thereabouts -- half their lives ago, when he had used peer pressure to its full advantage and given her her first hangover. Despite the memory, Bérénice drank deeply from her glass, eyes closing in concentration – it was her party, she would drink if she wanted to.

Crystal flute now empty, the brunette handed it to him, half-thrusting it into his chest. “An hour,” she repeated, a soft furrow in her brow. “Enough time for another drink,” she murmured.