doing all right [fflur]

june 22 | the three broomsticks

Madam Rosmerta had, unofficially for his sake (he didn’t think it was for anybody else’s sake, at least) started to stock paper umbrellas with longer toothpicks after he’d started trying to use them to stir the drinks, and dropping them in. The umbrella of the day was a flimsy yellow tissue paper, the little printed birds flapping their wings lethargically; Filius rattled the ice around a bit and finally took a sip.

“Another year done,” he said with some relish; his fortieth year teaching, and her second. “Did it get easier?” (A year ago he’d told her that it would; he was mildly interested in knowing whether his advice had been sounder than he’d felt.)

He took another sip of his drink -- “It’s an odd thing, teaching,” he said ponderously, “As much a heartbreak as it is a joy.” He had seen off his seventh years the day before and was nostalgic -- another generation of Ravenclaws moving out of the tower. “Though -- of course -- some of them do come back.”

Case in point, Fflur. He discerned, though, that now was not the time to discuss her current students returning as thirty-something professors themselves (though a favourite discussion of his and Pomona’s had been guessing which of theirs would.) Filius stretched like a cat -- if the cat were plump -- and said, “Two years, you know, means you’ve been around long enough that I can start telling you how to bribe Minerva.”

@Fflur Blevins

Fflur turned her glass around, spreading its pool of condensation on the table, for a few seconds before she picked it up to have another drink. Lime soda, no umbrella. Another year was done; she looked at him with a nod and set her glass back down, back to turning it in its place. “Sure did.” It’d been easier than the last year but she thought she might not have been trying as hard to prove herself as she had before.

She raised her eyebrows as he seemed to reminisce. She nodded again, as much as she could do because if she said anything at all it’d just sound sarcastic and ungrateful and-- she didn’t appreciate the ‘joys’ of teaching like Professor Flitwick did. (She’d tried to call him ‘Filius’ once but it felt like she’d just called her grandad ‘Glyn’ so she didn’t try it again).

Fflur laughed, deciding not to press the point that going back to Hogwarts hadn’t been her first choice. It’d been a good non-choice, in the end.

“Ooh, have I?” Minerva -- another one she still called Professor -- could be bribed. “How do I do it, then?” She leaned forward on both elbows. “Gryffindor needs a win next year and I’m running out of ideas.” Ideas to rig the hourglasses, of course; she’d gotten in the habit of not rewarding points in class because she didn’t want to have to keep track of how much she’d contributed to her former house falling behind. She leaned forward to find her straw.

“Oh, good,” said Filius; he liked it when his semi-unfounded predictions were correct.

She laughed a little, clearly catching whom he’d meant by students that came back. Filius hadn’t ever kept up with the professional Quidditch world -- he’d heard about Fflur’s return to Hogwarts in snippets of gossip, and half of it from students. The rumour mills at Hogwarts were not renowned for accuracy or goodwill, and he tried to take them with a grain of salt, but he had gotten an inkling that Fflur hadn’t expected to become a teacher.

“Absolutely,” he said -- “One year’s no guarantee a teacher will stay, obviously -- you’ll remember that -- but two years is getting somewhere!”

Fflur leaned forward eagerly and Filius leaned back. “Gryffindor has done fine for itself,” he protested; “If I work out how to rig the hourglasses -- which I haven’t --”

He wouldn’t actually rig the hourglasses: the cup would mean more if it’d been won honestly and through his students’ merits and effort. But Merlin, Ravenclaw needed a win to the tune of six-hundred and sixty points behind Hufflepuff. He finished, “I’m keeping it to myself! But she likes needlework and ginger tea, if you’re ever looking to upgrade a few school brooms.” This was how he’d gotten every curriculum change he’d wanted in five years. “Oh, and she supports the Montrose Magpies.”

Filius took a long sip of his drink and sighed contently. “Do you have plans for the summer?”

Two years was getting somewhere. Fflur blinked slowly, inching closer and closer everyday to this being her goddamn career.

“Fine, but—“ he wasn’t finished and continued on before she could protest his protest that Gryffindor had done fine. She raised her eyebrows, very interested in how he’d rig the hourglasses; her hopes were dashed a second later when he reassured her he hadn’t figured out how to stoop so low.

She sat back with a nod, crossing her arms across her chest. “Fine,” she said again, rolling her eyes, cheeky grin on her face. She relaxed her expression after another second, feeling properly weird that she rolled her eyes in front of him, rather than wait until his back was turned, like usual.

But needlework and ginger tea; she knew about one of those, anyway, having gotten very into tea since it had replaced alcohol in her life. She’d like to get the brooms upgraded, all of them. She had managed to get a few ‘new’ ones at the start of last term but they were still five or six models behind; she had personal feelings about kids who had no other option than a school broom (and maybe also counted it as a point of pride that she didn’t own her own broom until sixth year but still managed to be captain in her fifth). She wrinkled her nose at the Magpies—she couldn’t shake her Catapults bias despite how much she might have tried—but she nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She watched him sip his drink, had another sip of her soda water. “Not really,” she said with a shrug. “I’ve got to find something, I’m not great at having this much free time, y’know?” Did he know? What did Filius Flitwick, Master of Charms, do in his spare time? “Spent last summer in New York but—“ She shrugged again. “Any big plans at the castle?”

Filius smiled despite himself; it occurred to him that Fflur, a former athlete, with this attitude, was exactly the sort of teacher he’d wanted to be when he’d started work. The students probably thought she was pretty cool -- that was easier to be when one didn’t teach a class prone to accidents. As brand-new professor, Filius had tried very hard to seem cool, but had thrown it in when the chandelier had come down on the third years. (Those third years were probably in their mid-forties now.)

He was old enough now that being cool was far, far out of his reach -- not uncommon, when one had fewer than four feet of height with which to reach. She frowned slightly at his mention of Montrose -- Filius remembered she’d flown for Caerphilly and crinkled his eyes with amusement.

It wasn’t uncommon to struggle for summer plans, either -- Filius’s first years, he’d spent most of them abroad. The Netherlands had been his favourite -- he’d gone thrice in five years -- but he’d had a grand time in France once. Oh, to be thirty-one. “Ooh, America,” he said -- he hadn’t been there since the nineteen-fifties. “I used to travel! Sometimes I’ll still trot out to Nottingham to see my family.” He tilted his head a little thoughtfully -- “This year I’ll be staying here. Of course I trust the Ministry’s renovation teams --” this was about halfway true -- “But I have thirty-three years more experience with the castle than any of them have, and I’m not Master of Charms for nothing.”

He sipped at his cocktail again. “My first years teaching, I spent all my summers abroad,” he said; with a more confidential tone, he added, “It was quite an adjustment, teaching at Hogwarts after my -- well, you could call them my adventurous years, I’m sure.”

Fflur nodded. America. She’d been to New York and San Diego, figured that was enough. He used to travel and she laughed, stopping after a second when she realized he wasn’t trying to be funny (though she’d like to see him do a little trot, anyway). “Of course,” she said, recovered after having another sip of her soda water. She didn’t mention that thirty-three years was exactly how many years she’d been alive, nodding along instead. “I reckon not.” She was honest about that much at least; not Master of Charms for nothing.

Her eyebrows went up a little, more than a little skeptical. Despite being a teacher now she was still having a hard time imagining other teachers having a life outside of school. “Did you?” Fflur tried to remember him ever starting a term with a tan he hadn’t had the previous June; she’d even taken Charms all seven years but could barely remember actually being in class (though she did remember that had been the only class she’d had with Robin once they were taking NEWT level classes).

Fflur grinned. “Adventurous years?” Now she was curious. She supposed she could call her own mistakes her ‘adventurous’ years, but surely he wasn’t talking about the same thing. Or was he?

“Where’d you like to go, then?” She didn’t think they actually had anything in common but it wouldn’t be the most surprising thing to come to light after she’d started teaching. She crossed her arms and rested them on the table as she leaned forward a little.

Filius nodded, lips curving into a contented smile under his moustache. “A very long time ago,” he clarified, “I went to Paris in nineteen sixty-eight.” He’d wanted to see the birthplace of the International Confederation of Wizards, and also the Mona Lisa. Ultimately, of course, the best thing he’d seen that day had been a bulldog in a beret. Since then, his travels had been mostly academic -- charm development conferences, spellwork seminars, countercurse conventions, sorcery symposiums, and so on.

“Oh, indeed,” he said, grinning toothily; the more time had passed since his days as a duellist, the more surprised people were when he talked about it, and -- consequently -- the more delightful it was to talk about. He plucked the maraschino cherry out of his drink to eat. “I was an athlete, of sorts, before I started teaching. A little like you. Competitive duelling, you know.” It was not quite on the same level as professional Quidditch; it was rather less violent and much better regulated. The uniforms, too, were much less chic, and had been even less so, in 1952.

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, and Filius took a long sip, considering her question. “Mostly the continent,” he said, “I spent a year in Holland for an international competition once, with the entire duelling league, but we mostly toured the U.K. After I left, I travelled more on my own. France, Germany, Rome, Greece -- I was not fluent in either Greek or Italian, so those trips were very brief, but I wanted to see goblins’ cities. I do recommend it, if you have a strong stomach.” Goblin cuisine was not for the squeamish.

Indeed. Fflur was all ears. He said he was an athlete--of sorts--and she tried to picture it, but honestly she couldn’t get much farther past a mental image of him in a jockey’s get up and she wasn’t about to put her foot in it asking if that’s what he was getting at. He cleared it all up in the next breath and Fflur nodded, less out of any comprehension of what competitive duelling might have looked like. If there’d been a duelling club at Hogwarts, it had been very low on Fflur’s list of desired extracurriculars. “That’s lush,” she said anyway, meaning it.

She nodded again, understanding the continent much better. She wanted to ask about Holland--Amsterdam, specifically, since she’d spent some time there, though for pleasure more than business--but he didn’t pause long enough for her to interject. “Yeah?” She’d never given any thought to visiting anywhere for the goblin cities, but she’d really never given any travel destination much thought outside what their specialty beverage was. Along those lines: “Strong liver, more like.” She could joke about that--alcoholism--but could she joke about that with him? Too late now.

“We always seemed to end up in the Baltics with quidditch.” Not the Catapults but-- “Welsh National.” Friendlies and actual qualifiers alike, something about magical cooperation during the rebuilding years of the early nineties; Fflur didn’t know enough to mention that bit, though. “Food’s good, at least.” From what she could remember, anyway; meat, potatoes. A surprising amount of wine.

She drained what was left in her glass and set it down, glancing up from it to Flitwick. “So why’d you stop duelling, then?”

That’s lush. Filius beamed but shrugged nonchalantly -- in a sense, it had been, and in another sense, it hadn’t, but he’d decided a while ago to wait until his hair was completely white to tell anybody the particulars of the Cheshire Duelling League -- they’d predated hippies, but they hadn’t predated psychedelic drugs or roving youths; however, until he was quite old enough that nobody could reasonably trust him, he wasn’t saying so.

Of course, Albus had made it to one-hundred-and-thirteen before most people had started to think he was senile, so Filius supposed he’d have to rethink that before he hit triple digits. He wasn’t old enough yet to think about retirement, but he was old enough to think about aging gracefully.

She cracked a joke, though, that made him think she had a working understanding either of his wild twenties or of goblin cuisine; choosing to believe it’d been the latter, he said, “Yes, you’d want a strong liver too.” Goblins could drink limoncello by the pint, and often did.

“Ah!” he said, having quite forgotten she’d been on an international team. “We were only abroad the once in Holland.” The Cheshire Duelling League had had a potent rival in the Hereford Hexslingers. He raised his eyebrows -- “I’ve grown to appreciate the food the most, when I travel,” he said. “I think I’ve rather outgrown tourist attractions.” Outgrown had probably been the worst word to use -- but she’d follow.

Fflur finished her drink and Filius glanced at his own, spun the ice around again. “I didn’t feel like I was accomplishing anything,” he said finally, “I was an ambitious young wizard, I’m afraid. It wasn’t satisfying enough just perfecting a skill when I thought I had more to contribute to magic.” He had, of course, contributed -- but much later, and on a much smaller scale than he’d envisioned.

Fflur perked up when he mentioned Holland again, thought she could sneak in a not-question about his time there. “Ooh, I love Amsterdam.” She loved it more after she’d been fired, once she was really enjoying herself and her travels; it was just a quick little hop up from Paris. It probably wouldn’t be as exciting now. What would she do there? Look at the art? Or, the food. Fflur smiled, mostly at the idea of Flitwick outgrowing anything, but also because they had something in common, after all.

He looked down and she wondered if she had overstepped, asking why he had quit duelling, but he answered and Fflur nodded. She knew exactly what the felt like, not accomplishing anything. Of course, that was how she now, at this point in her career, taking steps backwards from quidditch to teaching. She was the perfect embodiment of ‘those that can’t do, teach’. Flitwick didn’t fit that; he was solidly contributing.

It was a fun little existential crisis to have over a glass of water, anyway.

“Well,” she said with a nod in Flitwick’s direction, “I passed my Charms NEWT, and if that’s not the ultimate contribution to magic, dunno what is.” She smiled quickly before she pointed at his glass. “Did you want another?” She made it nearly a second before she backtracked: “Actually, I think I should be getting home.” Now that it was summer, Robin would probably get sick of seeing her so much but they weren’t to that point yet. “We can do this again, though-- I’m sure there’s more bribery tips somewhere.”

[out]

“You’ve been?” said Filius -- he nodded approvingly. “It’s an excellent place. Unimpressive Quidditch team, though.” He’d not thought much of the Maasland Draken, though -- he allowed -- they might have improved since the fifties.

At first he worried he might have offended her somehow; she, after all, had been perfecting a skill of a sort playing Quidditch (he wasn’t sure anybody that played Quidditch was doing much more than that; certainly none of them were contributing much to the sport. It’d been a few years since a new foul had been added.) On a more dangerous level, he worried he’d given her the impression he was unhappy here. He’d felt, as a young wizard, that it was a waste of his talent.

But she didn’t agree -- Filius’s first instinct was just relief, and his second was a warm gratitude. The ultimate contribution to magic. (He tried to remember whether she had been especially bad at Charmwork, but couldn’t. What had that been -- 1980? 1981?) “Well, thank you. That means a lot,” he said sincerely, looking back up at her. It felt awkward being unable to reciprocate it, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. He certainly wouldn’t offer to let her teach him to fly -- he’d had the sense to give that up young. Broomsticks hadn’t been made with goblins in mind (though, of course, a few classmates had mockingly offered to loan him the ones they’d had as six-year-olds, when he’d been eleven.)

She had to head home, and said -- he assumed hopefully -- there might be more bribery tips sometime, and Filius tapped the side of his nose with amusement: “Absolutely! Though you’ll understand if I save some of those for myself.” Gryffindor had only finished in second place this year. “I’ll see you again in September!”

It felt as though it’d been a while since Filius had enjoyed the Three Broomsticks at the end of term with a colleague, likely not since Pomona had retired. He adjusted his short necktie and turned back around, looking for Madam Rosmerta -- he could do, he thought, with another cherry soda.

[out]