wandering limbs [harlan]

may 2003

Bérénice clapped along with the other spectators as Harlan scored another goal, a neutral expression fixed upon her soft features. She was standing on the sidelines of the polo pitch that had been set up for the day at the Bellamys Hampshire estate, her dark hair lifting in the late spring breeze. It was a warm day, with the ladies in their hats and sundresses and the men (those not playing) in collared shirts and blazers.

Since arriving earlier in the afternoon, she had kept an eye out for the redhead she’d met at Harlan’s quidditch match (his girlfriend, she’d discovered), but she didn’t appear to be here (Bérénice considered that the Scotswoman wasn’t considered demure enough for events like this, then felt a little bit bad for thinking that). Going to Harlan’s quidditch match had been stupid, in hindsight. What had she expected? In what world was Harlan not stringing along three women at once? Not that he had done anything to encourage her -- she had done that all on her own.

But the invitation for today's game had come from his family, so it wasn’t like she could decline without raising suspicion, thanks to Simon. And wouldn't not showing make things more complicated? She didn't want her absence painted as the actions of the jealous friend.

Just as the whistle went announcing another goal -- Harlan’s team again -- his horse reared and threw him from it. He landed on his back with a thud that she felt from here, and all the quiet anger that had been festering beneath her skin was washed away by concern.

The healer watched anxiously as he lay there for a moment, then got to his feet. Relief bloomed in her chest. A few seconds that felt like minutes passed as he and his brother, captaining the opposing team, exchanged what looked like a heated debate -- their words caught on the wind and blown away from the line of spectators. Nice's usually warm brown eyes flicked from the younger Bellamy to the elder -- hadn't Simon been contesting Harlan for the ball those last two goals? -- then to Pippa, whom she was standing next to.

Harlan took his horse by the reins and began walking off the pitch, the game thrown in disarray for a moment before it was deemed they would continue play. Bérénice stepped back behind the other onlookers and made her way to the stables, following him from a short distance.

It was cooler and darker in the shade of the outbuilding. Harlan had his back to her, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he tended to the animal. The noise from Bérénice’s heels was muffled by the thin layer of straw across the cobbles.

“Are you alright?”


@Harlan Bellamy

"Get fucked, Simon," Harlan said over his shoulder, brushing aside the healer who had rushed the field when he had been thrown from the horse. It was something he knew well— having grown up with polo and horses— but this, this was different. It had been intentional, and he couldn't afford to take any chances given where the Griffins were in the season.

"I'm fine," He not-so-patiently waited for the kid to step out of his way so he could vacate the field. Simon wanted a show, and he wasn't going to get it.

Pulling the reins of his horse (with more difficulty than he was willing to give away), Harlan kept his gaze steeled forward. He didn't dare look in the direction where he knew his mother was in the crowd. She would no doubt eventually fire off about him ruining the event— it was for charity, and he should have composed himself— but for now her deeply disapproving stare would be bad enough.

There was an awkward murmur amidst the crowd, but Harlan tuned it out. All he could hear was the dizzying ringing in his ears. He needed to get away from it, all of it, as quickly as possible, before he did something that he would regret.

"Alright, girl," He turned his attention to his horse after throwing off his helmet roughly. She was easy to scare, and the whole thing was probably worse for her than it had been him. A voice behind made him pause— he fully expected it to be his mother, or sister, but it wasn't.

So she came after all.

"I'm fine, Nice," He replied, the same as he had with the healer, but regretted it immediately. How he could both want to be left alone and comforted at the same time was beyond his comprehension. He dug a palm into the place where his arm met his shoulder in an attempt to massage the pain away, turning before he showed a pained expression. "Really," Harlan, a fraction less cold now, resumed removing the saddle.

The gruff manner in which he responded threatened to push Bérénice back towards being angry with him -- was he mad with her, for coming? He knew it wasn’t like she could say no, surely? And if he had a problem, he shouldn’t have sent her tickets to his game, or could have warned her off in the few minutes they’d chatted after his team had won, where his girlfriend was supporting him (albeit grudgingly, it seemed) -- but the healer put her years of training to work and took a measured breath, standing patiently a few paces away.

Her warm brown eyes watched his strong hands work at his shoulder blade. He had to know she didn’t just mean physically; she had spent enough time with his family over the years to know Simon was the kind of big brother nobody wanted -- a bully, jealous and spiteful but too charming to ever be caught out. Bérénice had found herself, as a girl, wishing she had a sibling with which to share the responsibility placed upon her by her parents, and then every holiday with the Bellamys had made her thankful that she was alone. Mostly.

Harlan turned to face her and winced; Bérénice mirrored the expression in sympathy, her full lips turning down at the corners and her freckled nose wrinkling softly. “You don’t look fine,” she replied, walking towards him. She pressed her hand to his shoulder to stop him without thinking twice about it -- he had been about to lift the saddle from his horse’s back but paused at her touch; the French witch hesitated then, not missing the way his eyes searched for her in his periphery. “Let me,” she said, a little more firmly than usual, and pushed in front of him to take the saddle from his mount.

Careful not to mark her cream-coloured dress, she turned and hung the tack over the nearest stable door before facing him again, brushing her hands together to rid herself of the dusty mud it had accumulated from the game. Harlan had led his horse into her stall and was removing the bridle (not without some small difficulty). Bérénice frowned softly at him and his stubbornness -- if he had injured his shoulder he needed to not aggravate it further until it had been evaluated; he’d hit the ground from a height, and with his full weight.

“Let me look at you,” she half-offered, half-demanded in her accented English, coming up behind him and placing her hands at his upper back and his ribs, respectively.

He didn't look fine, and he sure as hell didn't feel fine, but he was never going to admit that. Despite an effort to avoid the pain that seared through his shoulder, writhing down his side, the sensation was inevitable. And Bérénice, though she was perfectly capable, needed not use her smarts to pick up on it.

Harlan paused, wincing at her touch, but ultimately gave in all too quickly. He thought to himself that he ought to feel emasculated, watching her step ahead to take the saddle, leaving him to do nothing, but he didn't. He simply watched, curiously, and admittedly impressed. "Thanks," He said gruffly, quieter than he had been before as he directed his horse to her stable to remove the bridle, not bothering to glance back to Bérénice. At least this much he could do.

"Nice—" He countered almost immediately, ready to tell her again that he was fine, but she beat him to it with her hands. Harlan involuntarily let out a breath of air, somewhere between a gasp and groan. Maybe he wasn't all that fine after all.

"Fucking, Simon," He tensed under her touch and pushed the hair from his forehead, damp with sweat. "That was intentional," Harlan sidestepped from her and threw himself onto the old wooden stool pressed against the wall of the stable. "Could have cost me my career—" He spoke more to himself. Still could, depending on how bad his injury was. Everything hit him at once and leaned back against the wall, exasperated.

"Can you look at it?" Harlan asked now, uncharacteristically soft, chastising himself for not letting her do that in the first place. His silvery gaze flicked up at her from the floor, holding hers more seriously now, making it clear that he meant it.

“You’re welcome,” she said quietly, a faint infliction of firmness still present in her otherwise soft tone.

Where an inexperienced hand might draw back at his obvious discomfort, Bérénice kept her fingers pressed to the points he’d reacted to, already trying to picture the muscles beneath his skin (anatomically) and work out what sort of damage he was likely to have sustained in his fall.

Her eyes went a little wide when he swore -- not at her, at least -- and stepped away to sit in a huff. Bérénice remained standing, her hands dropping from where they had been held aloft. Had she overstepped? She was just trying to help.

“It was,” she agreed, though she had no evidence nor had she witnessed anything explicitly. It fit, didn’t it? It was exactly the sort of thing Simon had always done as a younger man. “I thought you two might have grown out of—” she stopped, realising that she sounded like she was blaming Harlan for some part in this. “He’s still acting like a little boy,” she said, her gaze falling to the straw-strewn floor between them, trying to make it clear she placed the fault clearly on Simon.

Her head lifted quickly, her round eyes going big for a moment at his gentle request before she recovered, nodding. “Of course.” She stepped around to his side, just slightly behind him, and he shifted around on the stool to make it a little easier. She crouched, lifting the skirt of her dress to be able to set one knee on the floor for balance. Her fingers hesitated this time, pressing to his side softly at first and then with more pressure.

It was no use. “May I?” she asked at a low volume, her eyes flicking to his and her hand taking the hem of his shirt, her fingers brushing against his hot skin beneath the fabric as she tugged it up just enough to make her request clear.

Harlan thought he would feel validated if Bérénice agreed with him, but it only left him more frustrated. So it wasn't in his head, his brother actually was garbage. "Something like that," He huffed, raised eyebrows indicating that he had other ideas of how to describe Simon— little boy was not presently top of mind. "He wants me to fail," Harlan sighed, aware of how dramatic it sounded after the fact as he ran both hands through his hair, dipping his head.

It was strange, to feel so impossibly vulnerable amidst all of that anger, but he knew he couldn't be above asking for help. Not now. The Griffins were too far in the season, and he had a hell of a lot to lose. He couldn't hold to his stubbornness. Nice, at least, was familiar. He could trust her. With any luck, this would all blow over before the next match.

Harlan shifted again to accommodate her, watching out of his peripheral as she kneeled at his side. His jaw tensed in anticipation, body straightening up. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, her pressing into the shoulder where the injury was, but he knew it had to be done. Thankfully it was his right arm, the non-dominant one.

"Oh— " He realized a moment too late what she meant, having been too focused on what was coming. "Right, sure," Harlan nodded. His eyes flicked from her hand on the hem of his shirt— navy blue and dirtied white, the Bellamy colors— back to her. He began to pull the fabric over his torso but struggled when his arm was raised too high, though Bérénice helped.

Tossing the article of clothing carelessly aside, he looked back to her and offered his shoulder, leaning toward her. The newly exposed skin, unlike that of his arms and face, wasn't dirtied but was glistening in sweat the same. Somehow England had jumped right from Winter to Spring and it made it all too easy to shed layers. "Fuck," He breathed, closing his eyes as her palms pressed onto him again. This wasn't good.

His gaze dropped to her hand, then met her eyes. Both of them were acting entirely too awkward about this for their own good. It wasn’t the first time he’d undressed -- to some degree -- in front of her, but their last interaction was playing on her mind and she was probably just overanalysing things—

Harlan was struggling to complete the task alone, so she helped where the fabric got caught, her dark eyes focused on her usually-steady hands rather than on his body until it was bare and just there, asking to be looked at. Bérénice was staring at his chest and his stomach, both coated in a light sheen of sweat, when he caught her eye and re-presented his shoulder for inspection. Rather than acknowledge her lack of professionalism by apologising she simply got to work, her hands back on his shoulder and ribs but without the barrier his shirt had offered to keep skin from touching skin.

She dug the heel of her palm into his latissimus dorsi to measure his reaction (and maybe a little bit as payback for her earlier grievances), eliciting another expletive from him that rose goosebumps along her arm. The French witch cleared her throat and inclined her head, trying to avoid his gaze under the shield of her thick eyelashes. “Nothing feels broken,” she offered after pinching along the top of his shoulder, moving around on her knees to smooth her fingers under his arm, over his ribs firmly, trying not to get distracted by how close they were, or how it felt to be touching him like this -- it had been her job to care for people not so long ago, and yet her specialty had not been in physical ailments. “The other side feels fine?” she asked, nodding softly at his left.

Bérénice moved back to where he seemed to be hurt the most and braced herself, grimacing in anticipation, before pushing her fingers in deep into the muscle. “Sorry,” she said through gritted teeth of her own. She kept one hand at his back and touched his arm with the other. “I think it’s just strained, which is good, not torn.” Her eyes met his again, her still on her knees beside him with her face turned up to gaze at him. “Ice, and rest, it will come right.” 

“We should— go up to the house,” she suggested, moving ready to rise up to her feet. “You can—" Her eyes fell on his body again and it wasn't like she'd never seen a half-naked man before but it was Harlan, "— shower and,” she looked down, cheeks flushed, at where straw and dirt was clinging to her knees where she’d been resting on them and bent down to brush it off. “We’ll get you some ice.”

While Harlan was relieved— his shoulder was strained not torn— the pain Bérénice was inflicting didn't exactly instill calm. He tensed again, sucking in a sharp breath of air as she pushed into his ribs once more. How much could it possibly take for her to come to that conclusion, and why the hell was it still happening after she had? "No, just the one," Thank Merlin. He couldn't take the assault on his left side as well.

"Right," He agreed, watching her work over shoulder curiously. She became something else— more direct, stern, for her— in this element. Ice and rest, he could do. He was sure the team medics had a potion he could apply to numb any residual pain after that. It could have been a lot worse. Harlan stood from his stool and collected his shirt before leading them to the family home.

Inside it was cooler, a lofty breeze from the open windows greeting them as they entered. The Bellamy home was large, not particularly welcoming, but certainly ornate. As his eyes adjusted, Harlan scanned the foyer, flicking up the staircase for any sign of life. With any luck, everyone was still at the match. It felt almost unnaturally quiet, now, in comparison.

"I'll just rinse off quickly—" Harlan decided as he wiped his face with the dirtied shirt. His childhood room was on the second floor, but there was a guest room just off the kitchen that he could use. "Did you want anything to drink?" He turned back to her, one hand looped over to the top of his belt. "Help yourself, anyway," He gestured to the dry bar, leaving the door open behind him as he made his way. It hadn't been intentional, but then again, the thought had crossed his mind, somewhere deep down.

Harlan put up no resistance to her suggestion, standing and picking up his shirt -- not putting it back on, for which she was quietly thankful (no need to further aggravate his shoulder, of course) -- and leading them up to the home.

Bérénice had been here countless times before, but without everyone else milling around it felt as much alien as it did familiar. Nice looked at his back and shoulders as she dropped a pace or two behind him; he hadn’t left her in a reception room somewhere, he’d led her through the kitchen to a little annex bedroom. “Of course,” she nodded, then “Oh—” Her eyes were drawn to where his hand was on his belt, and she thought about the last time she’d had a drink with him. “I’m fine,” she said quietly with a smile.

He slipped into the bathroom and left her standing there, to her own devices. She wrung her hands softly, turning slowly on her heel to take in the room -- she had never been in here before, she didn’t think -- and as she came back around saw he’d left the ensuite door open. The noise of the shower, unmuffled, should have been enough to tell her he had done so, but here was the visual evidence.

He lived alone, didn’t he? That was probably all it was -- habit. But, the thought crossed her mind: had he left it open intentionally? Invitationally?

No. And even if he had, what sort of woman would that make her? Bérénice moved back into the kitchen, distancing herself from— temptation, or offence, whichever it was. The benchtops had trays of prepared canapés and hors d'oeuvres set out ready for afternoon tea. She went to the large butler sink and found a cloth to wet, wiping at her dirty knees. Rinsing the cloth fully, she drew her wand and conjured some ice, wrapping it inside ready for Harlan.

He emerged through the doorway and Bérénice almost dropped her homemade ice pack; he was still topless -- which she had been sort of getting used to -- but the sweaty sheen had been replaced with a moist glistening from the shower where he hadn’t fully dried himself, and he was in only a towel -- his clothes held in one hand at his side. Nice forced her eyes up to his face. “Ice,” she said simply, not trusting herself with anything more, and held her arm out just enough to draw him closer.

The shower was fast, cold— enough to clean up but not long enough to leave Bérénice to her own devices for too long. He figured the catering staff would be trickling in at any moment and if they had any chance of getting out of there unseen, he needed to move with haste. Harlan realized only as he stepped from the shower that he hadn't planned for a change of clothes. "Shit," He murmured to himself, tying a towel around his waist. Nice was just going to have to deal with it, he wasn't very well going to put the dirty ones on now, and it was anything she hadn't seen before.

"Right, thanks," Harlan took a step to grab the ice and hold it his shoulder, trying desperately not to notice her eyes as they slid across his chest. It wasn't that he was above showing his physique— he worked damn hard on it— it was more that this was her, and they'd just had that run-in her birthday party that had put all kinds of thoughts in his head.

He cleared his throat. "I'll just—" Raising the dirty clothes with his free hand he took a step back. "Go change, quickly," He nodded definitively, taking the makeshift icepack upstairs with him. He rummaged through his dresser, pushing aside old Quidditch t-shirts and settling on a white button-down and trousers. His mother would have his head if he went any more casual than that— especially after the show he put on, he could hear her now.

As he made his way back to the staircase, a movement out of the corner of his eye into the library caught his attention. He grinned. Of course Nice was going to find her way there. Like moth to flame. It was where they spent most of their time as kids when the families were at the Bellamy's— exploring the vast collection passed down by generation, hiding from dinners, in general avoiding people.

"Thought I may find you here," He said as he approached, her back turned to study something on the shelf. Harlan settled against the adjacent shelf and touched the spine of an old forest green hardback with no name that he could see. "A whisky?" Harlan teased, taking a stride to the dry bar in the sitting area, toying with the crystal top. "How was the hangover after your party, anyway?" He let out a laugh, grabbing a glass.

Harlan cleared his throat and it brought Bérénice back to planet Earth. Her warm eyes went from his face to his clothes, bundled in his hand, back to his handsome features (via a brief detour up his torso). “Of course,” she nodded and stepped back to let him lead, walking with him as far as the grand foyer -- and somehow not following him up the sweeping staircase.

She waited where she was for a moment, repeating the same movement from the guest bedroom: spinning slowly on the spot to look around at the pictures on the walls and the very English décor. The doorway that caught her attention this time was one that led to the Bellamy family’s library. With a fond smile she walked towards it, only briefly glancing up the stairs to see if Harlan had gotten dressed in record speed.

The room was the same as she remembered it, for the most part. Her fingers trailed along the top of one of the grand sofas that helped fill the space on her way to the bookshelves on the far wall. It was nothing compared to the library at Beauxbatons, of course, but it wasn’t the size of the room or the books it held that had drawn her in here.

She reached her hand out to touch on the spine of a pale gold volume, then drew back when she heard Harlan behind her. Facing him she smirked softly, her gaze drifting over his now-clothed form. “Old habits…” she trailed off.

Nice grimaced, her expression saying just how bad it had been. “Not the worst I’ve had, but it gave me a craving for one of your full english breakfasts.” She smirked again. She could thank spending a year in London for acquiring that particular taste. “I wonder if it was a hungover man who invented it?” she mused -- it certainly hit a hangover better than a croissant.

She turned and walked leisurely towards him and the whisky. “I’m sure you’ve had some big nights of your own lately,” she said, glancing up at him. “Plenty of wins to celebrate.”

Old habits, Bérénice said. Perhaps he wasn't the only one that had memories engraved in this place. A few very specific ones came to mind. Harlan grinned, at first openly, but then inwardly as he neared. For whatever reason, he felt the need to tread carefully.

"Surely," Harlan agreed, drawing out the vowel. A proper breakfast could cure all ailments, hangover included. It was also almost certainly dreamt up by someone with a bad one. "Don't imagine you found that in Paris?" He teased, pouring a measure of amber liquid into the rocks glass, catching her eye to ask, more seriously this time, if she wanted the drink. It felt wrong to bring up aloud given the topic of conversation but it would be impolite not to.

Running a hand through damp hair, he settled to lean against the back of the nearest armchair, letting out a breath of a laugh. The wins, he agreed with— he couldn't exactly deny the fact, given it was public news and all. Celebration, though, much less the case. "No, no big nights," He corrected thoughtfully before clicking his tongue. "We're on strict orders..." The Griffins had come so far now, and they had no option other than to keep everything in line.

"Did you enjoy the match, then? Harlan added after a moment, the realization hitting him. They hadn't really had the chance to have a proper conversation after with all of the obligations–  interviews, and fans, and everything.

Bérénice laughed. “No, unfortunately not.” It was easier to look at him now that his body wasn’t distracting her quite so much. “Don’t think I’d get a full English anything in Paris,” she said with a slow smile. The French were proud of their food, and held English cuisine in low regard -- even jokingly suggesting she wanted an English breakfast in a Parisian cafe would draw criticism, if not threat of the guillotine.

Nice watched as Harlan poured from the decanter into a crystal tumbler, her eyes hypnotised by the warm tone of the amber liquid. She flicked her eyes up to meet his knowing gaze, then rolled them and moved closer. “Alright,” she held their look, “just one,” she warned, a solitary finger raising to emphasise her point. Once poured, Nice took the glass from him delicately and lifted it to her lips.

He rested against an armchair and she remained where she was, conscious of the small space between them. Her brows raised curiously and a smirk spread across her full lips; “I thought you gave the orders?” she asked in a low, teasing tone. “So sensible,” she grinned. “Who are you and what have you done with Harlan Bellamy?”

Did she enjoy the match? Bérénice pressed her lips together in a firm line and lowered her gaze, focusing on the whisky held in her hand. Now would be the moment to be honest, wouldn’t it? “I did,” she said, lifting her chin once more to meet his eye. “Sorry I didn’t stay long, had to get back…” she trailed off, lying. She had left as soon as was polite because she had spent most of the game sat beside his girlfriend. Younger, pretty, a little crass.

Bérénice crossed one arm over her front, her fingertips resting at the crook of her other elbow as she lifted her whisky to her lips, stopping just shy. “There was a woman who seemed to think she was dating you,” she said casually, taking that drink now and watching Harlan’s reaction carefully.

Harlan's mouth pulled to a grin—  just one. He only half-bothered to suppress the skepticism, though he knew full well she meant it. 'Lush," Spoken just loud enough, gaze fixed on the pour before casually drifting back up. If he knew Bérénice (and he was fairly certain he did), a playful slap was coming, but he offered the glass anyway.

"Ah, on the occasion not," Harlan began, pausing to take hold his glass to hers before taking a sip. There were plenty of people above him to give orders, to him. "—where necessary," His attempt at modesty was refuted by the otherwise smug look on his face. Lately, he liked to think he was both agreeable, and sensible, as she said. It was an affront to almost all of the impulses he perfected giving into in his thirty-plus years.

"I've grown up," He explained with a quirk of his eyebrow, making himself comfortable now, crossing one leg over the other at the ankle, watching her as she moved fluidly across from him. Maybe the sweat had taken it out of him, or maybe it was the quality, but one mouthful of whisky had gone right to his head.

He was about to tell her not to be so apologetic when she said something about a woman, that he was dating. Rather, a woman who seemed to think she was dating him. He shifted. Harlan knew he had no reason to feel guilty, to feel like he had done something wrong, but there the feeling was, settling against his chest. "Which one?" He quipped with a smile, avoiding, though his eyes didn't quite meet it.

"Honey," Harlan gave in, now addressing Nice's scrutinous gaze more head-on. "Rumor is she made quite the name for herself, Portree kit and all that, " He chuckled to himself thoughtfully, quietly. She was certainly the only one in the Griffins family box seating to do that, and Bérénice wasn't the first to mention it.

Bérénice shot Harlan a withering look, the sincerity of it waning when she let a grin slip across her lips. “I blame present company.”

Nice inclined her head as he silently toasted, then drank; she mirrored him. “Mhm,” she hummed, keeping the crystal near her mouth. The French witch laughed when he said he’d grown up. “Never thought i’d see the day,” she teased, grinning behind her glass. She had once hoped she would, but it had been a long time since that thought had crossed her mind.

He shifted – uncomfortably? – and Nice watched him through focused eyes. Her expression remained mostly neutral when he asked which one?; the corners of her lips just barely twitching up despite herself. That was Harlan though – charming, even when she didn’t want him to be. But he didn’t shy away from her question the way she thought he was going to – another sign of him growing up? “Yes, Honey,” she confirmed, remembering more easily than she wanted to admit.

“Is that her real name?” Bérénice asked, stepping closer so that she was almost hovering over him. She wasn’t tall, but her heels coupled with his resting on the chair meant that – for once – the healer was taller, just. “She certainly stood out,” she said quietly, trying not to give away her judgemental thoughts – not if she was Harlan’s girlfriend, and it seemed very much so that she was. “Friendly,” Nice added, sipping on her whisky, “offered to buy me a drink.”