the winner takes it all [honey]

pride of portree v gravesend griffins | may 2003

Bérénice pulled her thin cloak tighter around her shoulders; May in the south of France was positively balmy compared with the coolness of the Scottish islands. The French witch was possibly the most overdressed person in the Players’ Box, but there wasn’t much she could do about it now. The redheaded woman beside her had dressed more appropriately for the weather, though Bérénice didn’t think much of the lurid magenta jumper she had paired with her denim jeans -- and not just because it was emblazoned with the logo of the opposing team. Then again, the woman appeared to be Scottish (judging by her accent and the fact she was supporting the locals) and Nice had never known the Scottish people to be particularly fashionable.

Harlan hit a bludger at an opposing player and Bérénice clapped along with several others in the stand -- and, curiously, the redhead in the Portree jumper. The brunette glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, then decided to put it down to good sportsmanship.

The game continued on, each team scoring back-and-forth; the man on the other side of the redhead uttering profanities (or, she thought that was what they were, hard to tell with the accent) every time Gravesend scored. The only quidditch games Bérénice had attended lately had been the Beauxbatons matches, and the level of play in this match was a reminder of how sharp the curve was from school level to the professional game.

The redhead’s companion got to his feet and disappeared down the steps. Bérénice waited a beat before speaking to the woman; “You’ve got him well-trained,” she joked in accented English, nodding her head in the direction the man had disappeared in. “Your beau?” Bérénice had come alone for two reasons: first, she hadn’t wanted to take up too many of Harlan’s complimentary tickets, and second, she hadn’t wanted William sulking beside her for the entire match because they were supporting another man and his team (she didn’t think “old friends” meant the same thing in England as it did in France and didn’t want to test it out).


@Honey Bea Flume

Portree needed the win; the Griffins could afford one loss without losing their spot in the table. If the Harpies did really well, Portree didn’t stand much a chance of making the semi-finals. She shouldn’t have to root against her boyfriend, but needs must.

She and Fergie had seats in the ‘good’ box; the one across the way where all the friends and family of the portree players sat was obviously nicer, but the away box wasn’t half bad. She didn’t want to risk losing her free-alcohol privileges by cheering too loudly for the better team; she even clapped (demurely, she thought) when Harlan hit a bludger at Meaghan McCormack. All things considered, she was mute compared to her usual quidditch-watching volume.

She hadn’t ditched her Portree pride at the door, though she had toned it down a bit, limiting herself to only the jumper in the fiercest shade of pink. She had pinned the smallest Griffins badge she could find to her chest, and she caught herself every few minutes concentrating too hard on the Harlan-shaped blur on the pitch; thankfully Fergie was too engrossed in the match to give her any shit.

The score wasn’t anything to be proud of, though; after a quick game of rock paper scissors, Honey sent Fergie along to get their traditional eat-this-or-we’ll-lose-snack, akin to a deep fried Mars Bar (but so much better because Honey made the chocolate bars special for the Portree quidditch stadium). “What?” Honey shifted and looked at the woman seated next to her; at first glance an hour ago, Honey had written her off as not being very fun to talk to and now there they were, talking. “Oh, no.” She glanced in the direction of the stairs Fergie had disappeared down.

“My brother,” she clarified as she looked back to the other woman. “He’s single,” she added with a smirk before turning back to the pitch. “That’s my beau,” she said, using her word as she pointed to one of the players. “No, him.” She pointed to a different, seemingly beefier one. “Hard to choose,” she said with a laugh and a shrug before she took another drink.

“Oh.” Bérénice blinked and drew back a little. “Pardon,” she gave the other woman a practiced smile, but couldn’t help herself from leaning back just a tad to look in the direction the brother had disappeared in. Bérénce was not single but that didn’t mean she couldn’t admire from afar.

The brunette turned to follow the redhead’s point at a grey and red blur that flew past, then adjusted as she pointed at someone else in the same (Harlan’s team) colours. Bérénice glanced back at her with a raised eyebrow -- the Portree jumper was truly throwing her. She laughed softly (fakely). “There’s a few good options,” she conceded, hiding her judgemental thoughts as best she could behind a neutral-bordering-on-amused expression; she assumed the woman was here with her brother and just taking her hypothetical pick of the best looking man on a broom (don’t we all).

Bérénice recrossed her legs and leant a little closer to continue the ‘conversation’. As her eyes fell on the redhead again she spotted a small badge pinned to her jumper -- a Griffins badge. “So are you supporting both teams?” the Frenchwoman asked curiously, her attention drawn back to the pitch as the crowd let out a collective gasp.

“Mhm,” she said with a lopsided smile. There were good options but she had picked the best one. Still, she was probably one drink past being able to pick his blur out of all those other blurs without those fancy quidditch glasses -- which she wasn’t about to spend hard-earned money on, not as long as Portree was losing and Honey felt the need to keep drinking-- but that was beside the point.

Honey thought that was the end of that, the talking when there was quidditch to be watching, but there she was again. She leaned over without taking her eyes off the pitch, nodding at the question without really processing it-- Portree’s seeker narrowly missed a bludger and Honey gasped along with the rest of the crowd, though she thought she was probably the one most interested in figuring out who had aimed at her (and if she needed to be mad at her boyfriend because of it).

She sighed, scooted forward in her seat, glancing over quickly before settling her gaze on the pitch again. “Yeah, I--” Hadn’t she just explained herself? Beau on the pitch, all that. “Have to when you’re dating the captain,” she said with an exasperated shrug, halfway to annoyed. She tapped the badge with her finger; she was very supportive. She managed another quick glance toward the woman, long enough to note she wasn’t showing any support at all.

“Thankfully they’ll only play Portree the one time--” she grimaced at an intercepted pass on the pitch. “Until the finals, anyway.” She had another drink; she didn’t want to think about post-this-match, never mind the next one.

The captain. Bérénice’s attention focused on her new friend (acquaintance, really) with more intensity than before. The captain of Portree, or the captain of… Harlan. The French witch turned her face back to the game, seeking out the grey blurs holding bats as they rocketed around in the sky.

it was obvious, really -- she was Scottish, of course Portree would be her local team, which left the reason for the Griffins pin down to feeling obligated to support one’s significant other -- but the former healer needed it confirmed anyway; “Oh,” Bérénice pretended to seem delighted, rather than allow any hint of jealousy or anger (the latter of which ought to be directed at Harlan, not this woman, who was an innocent party) to creep into her tone, “which captain?”

She could chalk it up to her own stupid imagination -- always overactive in the realm of romance -- but hadn’t he denied any existence of a partner? Or was she putting words in his mouth? She had been more drunk that night than in recent memory. Regardless, he certainly hadn’t corrected her assumption that he was untethered.

The brunette looked at the redhead beside her out of the corner of her eye with a more critical view now; she didn’t look like the kind of woman Bérénice imagined Harlan with. She was pretty, which was his type if history said anything, but she was otherwise rather plain -- she was wearing denim, for a start. Nice crossed her legs over underneath her skirt as if to make a mental point that nobody else would see.

“Yes, I heard that Gravesend were one of the favourites,” she said, watching her expressions with interest -- she was interested in quidditch, at least. Maybe that was what had done it. Bérénice turned back to the pitch in time to see Gravesend score another goal and she made a conscious effort to clap a little louder than she had thus far.

Which captain? The line of questioning was starting to get to her, but getting to tell this woman that she was dating Harlan Bellamy — she was drunk enough to giggle as she thought about it — almost made it worth it. “The Griffins,” she said as coolly as possible, which probably wasn’t as casual as she was hoping for. He slowed down, enough that she could point him out without second guessing herself. “Him,” she said before withdrawing her hand to her lap, just as he hit another bludger toward Portree’s center chaser. She hoped it didn’t make contact but more importantly she hoped he hadn’t pulled anything on that swing; she’d been counting on seeing him after the match.

She nodded, had a little more of her drink. “One of,” she agreed, not feeling like she needed to explain how there were a few favorites. Portree hadn’t broken the top three, but the Griffins weren’t in the top spot, either. “Should be some good playoffs, anyway.” She nodded again, stood up to get a better look (and a dramatic sigh) as the Griffins scored. “They haven’t clenched it yet,” she said with a bit more glee than necessary as she sat back down, aware that she was openly supporting the ‘wrong’ team, more aware that Portree hadn’t pulled far enough ahead that a Griffins snitch catch now would not end things well.

There was a timeout on the pitch and Honey turned to look at the woman a little more full on. “And you?” She tilted her head toward the pitch Most, if not all, of the seats in this section were reserved for the team and those adjacent to it. “Your beau?” She reused her word from earlier, even though she couldn’t picture her with any of the Griffins’ current roster. Maybe she was a friend of the owners or more likely, got lost and found herself here.

“Ooh,” she said distractedly, waving her hand at the wizard walking past their row hawking new bottles of alcohol. She traded a couple coins for another cider — reaching over her chatty neighbor without too much consideration for personal space — and sat back down with a belated, “Sorry.” She waited a beat — she needed to make sure this bottle was as good as the last, after all — before adding: “Did you want one?”

The Griffins. Then, to really drive the point home, she pointed him out. Bérénice felt a hot, unpleasant sensation in her gut. This must have been the woman Audrey had told her about – whom Harlan had expertly glossed over a week ago when Nice had brought her up. Well, his sister had been right about one thing, she thought as she watched the woman pull another unattractive gurn as the crowd oohed; she was certainly entertaining. The French witch forced a smile – girlish, gossipy, hopefully – onto her features. “Really? Lucky you.”

“Maybe you will have to pick a side in the final,” she smirked softly, doing her best to seem friendly, even if she suddenly felt anything but. Perhaps spitefully, she hoped the two teams did have to play again.

The redhead turned to face her properly during a stop in play. Nice blinked softly. Her beau. “He’s not here,” she admitted, quicker than she thought she would. “He’s more into books than sports, a publisher.” There, that was sufficient, wasn’t it? Still, now that she’d breathed life into him it felt worse to be here, alone. Sitting next to Harlan’s girlfriend, of all the people she could have been sat beside.

That unpleasant feeling from a moment before was still present, sitting like oil on water atop the guilt of intentionally not inviting Will. She could be honest. Wasn’t the easiest way to lie to use the truth as much as possible? “I’m supporting your beau —” this was an in-joke now, wasn’t it? “— old family friends.” She smiled again, careful not to let the smugness show through. She pulled a surprised face; “Oh, pardonne, he didn’t tell me your name?” Or that you existed – hadn’t she at least done Will the nicety of being acknowledged?

Like a moth to flame, the Scotswoman spotted alcohol. Bérénice sat back as far as was physically possible in her seat while the woman reached across her with absolutely no consideration for her personal space. The brunette wrinkled her nose as the smell of cider assaulted her nostrils. “I— no thank you,” she tried not to look too offended and turned to look for something decent to drink; everything was in bottles – beers and ciders, no wine – and Bérénice wasn’t exactly in the mood to slum it with her new friend, now that she had been confronted with who she was. “I will wait for the lounge, after the match.”

“Lucky me,” she repeated, almost meaning it, half a goofy smile on her face. It hadn’t been luck that they were an item -- it took a lot of work on her part and, if he was to be believed, on his as well (and she was choosing to believe him) -- and it wasn’t like either of them were settling for the other; it had just made sense, and it was working, mostly. Honey chose not to share the inner workings of her mind with this woman, though, offering her another smile instead. “Maybe I will.” She doubted she’d be allowed back in a Griffins box after this match, but she couldn’t deny that she’d enjoy getting to watch Portree and Harlan all at once, again. It’d be awful when Harlan lost, but she’d worry about that later.

Honey nodded, nearly genuinely interested in finding out more about her. “Been there,” she said with a laugh, reminiscing for a second -- her ex had been the same, more into books than sports; he was a publisher, too -- “Is it too soon for him to pretend to be into sports for you?” Really, she meant if it had been too long, because that seemed to be the thing as time went on in relationships; people stopped pretending as they got more and more comfortable. Honey hadn’t found herself there, ever; she hadn’t let a relationship last that long to find out.

She nodded again, glanced back to the pitch in some vain hope that play had resumed so they could stop talking, but the time out was continuing. She was here for Harlan -- for Honey’s beau -- and he had failed to mention that he had invited anyone else (not that she thought he needed to, but it would have been different if his guest was ugly). “Oh, right; forgot he said you’d be here,” she lied. She decided not to focus on how she seemed to be more his type -- brunette, for starts -- than Honey was (and more Honey’s type, if she was being honest), never mind the small fact that she had literally just established that he was dating her, Honey.

Did this count as irony because friends seemed to be such a contentious issue lately (thanks to Honey) but-- no, she wasn’t going to let herself think about all that again. She’d already decided for herself that she and certain other folk (Charlie) couldn’t be friends and she wasn’t about to tell Harlan to make the same decisions for himself. She was making assumptions about her, anyway, assuming they had a past (because that’s where her mind had jumped, wasn’t it?). Besides, she was a family friend, probably Simon’s age. Mature.

Harlan hadn’t mentioned either of them to each other, it seemed, but Honey tried not to dwell on it. “Honey,” she said, introducing herself as she wiped the bottle’s condensation on her jeans and held out her hand to the other woman.

She had a swallow of her new drink, nodding along. The lounge, after the match— Honey thought her being at Harlan’s match implied spending time with her but if he had other plans she could always just ‘go to work’ (or some other equally made up excuse) after the match instead. She was well aware that he’d by busy after but this wasn’t the sort she had anticipated. Interviews, team things… not other women; she was just going to make herself mad if she thought about it anymore or if they talked about Harlan anymore and Honey was doing her damnedest to be supportive so that was the last thing she needed.

“So are you in publishing, too?” She looked more into books than sports. “You’re dressed so smartly.” Too smart for watching quidditch, anyway.

Bérénice almost felt bad for thinking that it must have been luck, but – she looked the other woman over head-to-knee – what else could it have been?

She almost felt it again when the redhead sympathised with her. Been there. The brunette kept her eyes on the field as she replied; “No,” she answered honestly. It wasn’t too soon. If anything, Bérénice was starting to feel more and more that it was too long – but there was always the nagging fear that if she and Will didn’t work out, nobody would. She was officially in her mid-thirties now – most, if not all, of her friends had settled and had children. She was lagging. “But we shouldn’t have to change for anyone, should we?” Nice mused, as much for her own benefit, turning back to face her new ‘friend’.

Out of the corner of her eye, Bérénice kept her attention on the woman beside her rather than the pitch (the direction her head was turned in). Forgot seemed like a flimsy excuse, and it should have bothered her more that Harlan hadn’t mentioned either woman to the other, but it bothered her too that she cared in the first place.

Honey. The Frenchwoman tried not to appear bemused as she turned to look at her. Her rich brown eyes fell to Honey’s hand (not missing the way she’d wiped it on her jeans) and manners told her she had to take it. “Bérénice,” she offered in return, holding her hand for as little was was necessary to not seem impolite.

“Hm? No,” Bérénice laughed softly, decided to take the comment on her attire as a compliment. “Thank you,” she smoothed the fabric of her skirt. “I’m a professor, at Beauxbatons. The French school.” She could have said she was Deputy Headmistress, but she didn’t think there was too much need to compete. “And you?” There was no guessing what she did based on her fashion sense – other than not fashion. Bérénice made a mental note to ask Audrey what she thought of Honey’s style next time they caught up.

“We shouldn’t,” she agreed, though was pretending to like quidditch really changing? He could have attended anyway, had a drink, taken part in this riveting conversation. Or he could have pulled a Fergie and gone for snacks, never to return. Honey looked toward the stairs — no sign of her brother reappearing at the exact moment she looked for him — and back.

She offered half a smile — she wasn’t working so she didn’t feel obligated to put any real effort into it — and only just managed to not put on a posh accent and say, “Charmed, I’m sure,” even though it felt like the situation called for it. Fancy name, fancy dress, and all that.

Bérénice -- what sort of ridiculous name was Bérénice anyway -- wasn’t a publisher, but a professor. “How lovely,” she said, ignoring that she had clarified that Beauxbatons was the French school; Honey knew that already and rather than saying as much she let a slight scowl cross her face instead. “I own Honeydukes,” she said, not adding any clarification on her end, that it was the best sweetshop and nothing that the French school had next door could possibly compare. This was Honey’s version of being courteous, or something.

The match resumed play and Honey glanced from the woman to the pitch and back to the entrance to the box; still, no Fergie. Turning back to Bérénice, she smiled one more time. “I should find my brother.” She didn’t go on to explain the why of it all, that the fried chocolate bars he was meant to be fetching would ensure Portree’s victory, that she really didn’t want to watch the rest of the match sitting here, next to this woman who thought conversation during play was normal; Honey would only admit to being a little annoyed that she was Harlan’s ‘guest’.

Honey stood with another look toward the pitch -- just in time to watch her boyfriend hit a bludger toward Portree’s seeker -- and edged her way out of the row in the opposite direction from where Bérénice was sitting. She brought her cider with her, having zero intention on returning to the box; she still had her seats on the Portree side, after all.

[[ out ]]

The redhead agreed, but Bérénice wasn’t filled with any great reassurance by her, specifically.

Bérénice smiled, Honey smiled -- the French witch didn’t think she was the only one who now wanted to end this conversation as soon as could be deemed polite. The smiles didn’t last. “Honeydukes.” the hypnotist repeated, doing her best to sound like she knew what that was. If she had wanted to prolong her time with Honey (Honey… Honeydukes?) she would have inquired, but it was easier to let it drop.

The whistle blew to signal the game restarting and Bérénice was thankful for the distraction. Her brown eyes immediately sought out Harlan. The Scottish woman spoke again. “Oh, of course,” Nice smiled, turning her head just enough to indicate she was listening -- her eyes were still on the field, on Harlan, who had just hit a bludger towards the opposing team’s Seeker.

She glanced up when Honey began leaving properly, her face falling into an unfamiliar scowl now that she no longer had to keep up appearances. Hopefully her brother was waylaid long enough that neither would return before the end of the game. Bérénice turned her attention back to the match and refolded her hands in her lap, though her mind was elsewhere.


END