redux [harlan]

She’d said it was a little event for the Scottish National Team, which really was the easiest way to get Honey to agree to anything. She was a reserve chaser (but only a bludger away from starting) but it got her in the door, meeting the other players; none of the quidditch players she had dated previously had been Scottish; none of the Scots had been involved in quidditch.

She’d failed to mention it was a dinner with the Scottish National team, as well as the English, Welsh, and Irish squads, something about a friendly get together before the qualifiers for the next cup started. Once management had left it had turned into more of a drinking competition and it had been both easier -- lots of whisky -- and harder -- people were getting friendlier -- to avoid a particular English beater.

And she’d been so successful at avoiding him, too. She’d skipped Portree’s semifinal against the Griffins and -- that might have been the only thing she had to change for him, but still. It’d only been easy to avoid reading about him in the paper because the season was over now, but then there’d been that article in Witch Weekly her mum had sent her -- Harlan and Charlie’s ex-wife -- and it was almost too far fetched to believe; that, and believing everything she read about Harlan had gotten them here, or there, whatever, to the end.

Well, that and she had done nearly the exact same thing, seeing Will almost as soon as Harlan had told her about-- it wasn’t important. The important thing now was guzzling water at the bar, because her date had only been trying to make her ex jealous, bringing someone else, which only became obvious after Honey was no longer in any state to apparate.

“Look, Honeydukes wants to sponsor Scotland, I’m not lurking.” She spat the word back at the lone remaining Prophet reporter -- the one who had insisted with each drink that nothing was on the record -- missing her self-imposed mark to not make a bad name for herself or the shop. Honeydukes only sponsored Portree (for good reason) and probably couldn’t afford to sponsor a national team -- or could they? She should look into that -- but it was easier (and nicer) than telling him to flat out fuck off.

But fuck off he did; he left the bar and Honey looked past the space he’d just vacated: Harlan. She looked away as quickly as she could, with a quiet (for a drunk person), “Fuck me.” She set her empty glass down with a grimace, motioning for another. Harlan moved in her periphery and she glanced at him quickly before refocusing on the neat little row of what whisky they had left (less Irish than Scottish, which certainly said something about who was winning the drinking games). “Not literally,” she said, this time meaning to be heard.

@Harlan Bellamy

Harlan had noticed her early in the night.

It was hard to miss her, as much as he hated to admit it. Maybe it was the familiar color red of hair splayed over her back, or maybe it was that god damn snort of a laugh that seemed to reverberate off the walls and over the sound of the people around them. Then again, maybe he'd been looking for it.

If Harlan hadn't been contractually obliged to be there, he would have left immediately (in theory), but then came the whisky, and then the drinking games. It was tradition, one they were all fully aware of, including the management that had dismissed themselves following dinner— the piss up before everything. The season hadn't started yet and they had a few weeks before training began but there was an anticipatory energy in the air that was palpable amidst the lightheartedness.

He had done all that he could to not read into why Honey was there, but no amount of drinks gave him any answers, and he sure as hell was trying. When they finally crossed paths it had been by accident— her slumped over the bar, sassing a reporter, just as he'd arrived to try his luck at forgetting once more.

Some things really didn't change.

Then again, it had only been, what, a month? Harlan ran his free hand through his hair in thought, grown out between seasons. He wondered if it was too late to just turn around then but she looked him in the eye. Fuck. The last time they had seen each other it wasn't particularly civil. Hell, not at all civil. They spent half an hour yelling before he finally walked out the door. A conversation had never been on the table— but that was always going to be on him.

Harlan ignored whatever feeling was creeping its way into his chest as he approached the bar cautiously, waving an imaginary white flag in his hand. He paused before planting his palms adjacent to her, only briefly leaning into a grin that didn't quite meet his gaze. Still crass as ever, it seemed.

"Just after a drink—" Not that he needed to explain himself (particularly here), but he was walking on eggshells when it came to Honey. He wouldn't blame her for storming away then and there. "Cheers, mate," He nodded to the bartender who had started to refill his glass. "And another water for the lady..." He only snuck a glance over at her, then the empty glass in front of her. He just couldn't help himself.
 

Honey’s face felt warm; she considered the ice left in her glass but figured it’d just draw more attention to the issue She was annoyed that Harlan (still) had any effect on her. He hadn’t even said anything to her. She couldn’t remember the last thing he’d said to her because she had done everything she could to yell over him. It’d been a month and she’d moved on. She hardly even thought about him anymore; or, she was getting better at ignoring it when she did. She’d even tried moving on here but that would have gone over better if she hadn’t been ditched and if she hadn’t been ditched here. Next to Harlan.

She chewed on an ice cube as he stood next to her. He was just ‘after a drink’ and Honey rolled her eyes. “Oookay.” The bar wasn’t huge but— she glanced down the bar; there weren’t really any other open spaces but she didn’t want to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The bartender was more interested in Harlan, ignoring Honey’s refill. This might have worked in their favor, once, quiet competition for a woman’s attention but now it was just: thank Merlin that Harlan was here to order her water for her. Honey rolled her eyes again, offering half a smile to the bartender as she was handed a fresh glass; she frowned as she walked away. She didn’t say ‘thanks’, or anything.

But fuck, she really wanted to say something. It was probably the whisky, or the water that was doing nothing, or being ditched, or literally any other reason except that she missed him because she wasn’t that sort of person. She should have already been the better person and congratulated him on his win but she wasn’t really that sort of person either. “I didn’t know you’d be here,” she said truthfully, staring ahead for another few seconds before glancing at him. “Really.” She thought she at least looked apologetic if she didn’t sound it.

He looked nice — casual events suited him best — and Honey turned back to her water because she clearly hadn’t sobered up yet. “Are you not playing ‘never have I ever’? Whatever Wales was trying to start.” That’d been right before she’d been left to drink alone, so— she smirked, assuming the games were why Harlan had headed to the bar in the first place.

Harlan metered his reactions as best as he could. Steel colored eyes, dark under the dim light of the bar, lingered on Honey briefly at her "okay" as he detected that snark that at one point he had been so drawn too. It seemed so long ago now as he stood there like a stranger. Where once was her charm seemed to have been poisoned with something else— anger, maybe, annoyance? Rightfully so, that voice in his head reminded him swiftly. As practiced by his cycle of those thoughts in the last few weeks (once he'd allowed him to actually think about it), what he had done was simply the nail in the coffin. It was never going to work out with them, not really, anyway.

All too eagerly, he took a drink. He needed it now.

"Sorry to have disappointed you," He commented over his glass, unsure how much of that she was saying he believed. To be fair, the event wasn't branded as an inclusive all British team event, but everyone involved knew the tradition, it'd been going on for decades now. Which made him think that whatever reason she was here—whoever more like it— might not be all that serious. It would also explain her sitting at the bar alone drinking water... but maybe he was getting ahead of himself.

Harlan followed her direction to the group of horrendously drunk Welsh players circled around a table. "You think I would play that?" He quirked an eyebrow, unable to avoid falling into the pattern— she knew him better than that, he hoped. "Much more your speed," He didn't feel right with a grin, not yet, so he kept his concentration. "Why aren't you over there?" He couldn't help but look down at the glass of water in her hand. Very much unlike the Honey he had known. In some sick way, he wanted to hear that she was here with someone else, like he knew she was. That, he certainly deserved.

“Thanks.” She was sorry to have been disappointed, too. Maybe disappointed wasn’t the right word but she wasn’t smart enough to figure out what the right one would be. Disgruntled, maybe. She had another swallow of water, still keen to not stick around any longer than she needed to.

Honey shrugged and glanced away. She’d been wrong about other things about him, anyway, so what did it matter what she thought? She didn’t want to be bitter — and again, she didn’t want him to be able to affect her like that — but it was hard to avoid.

“Oh, much.” She rolled her eyes but he was right; Honey loved a stupid drinking game as much as the next girl starved for entertainment or vying for attention. She really couldn’t picture Harlan joining in, never mind that she couldn’t see herself not having very pointed nevers just for him; ‘I’ve never cheated on my girlfriend with a Beauxbatons professor’ * for starts.

He asked why she wasn’t over there — and he asked in a much nicer way than he could have, she supposed — and she shrugged again as she glanced up at him. “I was.” She turned her glass around on the bar top, stalling for the few seconds it took her to decide how much to tell him. “But my date—“ she turned and nodded to a pair of brunette witches sharing a chair— “Got bored.” She caught Harlan’s eye again. “So this is me being responsible and not apparating while drunk.” She was so mature and not trying to make him feel bad at all by alluding to him also seemingly getting bored with her.

“No plus one for you, then?” She’d had a lot of whisky and needed a lot of water; she finished her glass and waved for another one.


* gage wrote this, 2020.

Her date? He'd been wanting her to breathe those words, yet— fuck— there he was left trying to stop the unfamiliar hot sensation as it swirled uncomfortably in his chest like a virus. He had no right to be jealous, of course, but then again.

Harlan followed her attention to the aforementioned date, a dark-haired witch he only vaguely recognized from the Scottish team. Was she a reserve, perhaps? Minor details, he decided, unable to mask his smirk as he turned back to Honey. As he recalled that was the exact type that they shared an affinity for, once upon a time. Again, it felt like he was reliving some unattainable life that had never been his own. Not really anyway.

"Seems unlikely," He retorted over the lip of his glass before taking another drink. Bored with her? Was that what had plagued the facade of a relationship they attempted? No, Harlan decided. The two of them were never going to fit— two mismatched pieces of some shitty, unsolvable puzzle.

Harlan took another drink. At the rate he was downing it he was going to need that bartender with the half-sleeve back sooner rather than later. He raised his eyebrows, visibly surprised by the mention of maturity. Honey had her moments, but that was a rare glimpse into her decision-making process. "You've changed," He couldn't help himself from teasing her a little with a click of his tongue.

"No plus one," He affirmed with a quick nod. This was neither the time nor the place to bring someone new around. And quite frankly, he hadn't wanted to. The options were there, and they always would be at the end of the night. "How've you been?" Harlan ventured, more seriously now, fuelled by the night of drinking behind him. He took a seat on the barstool but kept a safe distance.

She tried to figure out what he was thinking, figured it wouldn’t be close to jealousy, but his face was as hard to parse out as ever. It didn’t bother her as much as it usually did, she realized with a gentle jolt in her stomach. “First time for everything.” Unlikely or not (it was definitely unlikely but there she was) it had happened.

Honey sipped her water, checked her cuticles, tempering her interest in the conversation to something more acceptable for a woman talking to her ex a month past her (technically) worst breakup. And she’d changed? “Not really,” she said, shrugging. “I know when to be careful.” She meant that mostly about about knowing when to say no to apprating; the not-so-small retaliatory part of her hoped he’d take that personally, not being careful around other women. Then again, she was still drunk and wasn’t thinking before speaking.

She didn’t want to say that she felt better that he was there alone but— then again, she didn’t think it was an inability to to find a date. Whenever she’d run into him in the past he was always conveniently solo, which worked out well for the both of them in the end.

And it was hard not to think of this as being just another one of those times — ignoring everything that had happened last month (and the month preceding it) — because it was so eerily similar. They’d so often been someplace like this, doing their best to not draw attention to themselves.

Asking her how she was doing, though; that was new. Normally it’d be ‘how’s business’ with absolutely no intention to discuss her work. She knew she didn’t want to be mad at him forever — and probably couldn’t once she started admitting she’d been nearly at fault multiple times — but this wasn’t what she wanted either. He sat next to her and she decided she didn’t know what she wanted.

“I’m fine. Work’s busy.” He hadn’t asked about work (and it wasn’t that busy) but it was a standard answer, better than detailing how she’d been, anyway. She’d been mostly ignoring it, anyway, keeping herself distracted. “My congratulations gift package must have got lost in the post.” She smiled, hoping that was as close as she needed to actually congratulating him for that win.

Again, Harlan was reminded of the way that things had been between the two of them, double entendres casually weaved into everyday conversation with long perfected ease. Usually with a more licentious undertone, though, he thought. Now, he could see that she was using that same tactic to not-so-subtly make her point. He didn't know when to be careful.

Well, no shit.

There was no argument against that, so he offered a nod, a knowing look on his face. Honey knew just as well when she did those things. He thought that he had apologized enough already, that day, but now that he was thinking about it, a month later, he couldn't remember even a single 'i'm sorry'. It had been less of a conversation and more of a barrage of insults from both directions, trying to find the place between the proverbial ribs where they knew it would hurt each other the most. Among other things, he and Honey had perfected that as well.

He was sorry. Maybe it was his pride or his stubborn nature that kept him from just saying that, to her, but the unfamiliar feeling of guilt crept its way through his veins. It was much simpler—less messy— for him to focus on everything that led up to what he did. But that was selfish.

"That's good," Harlan thought aloud, the store was busy. He locked his fingers together over his crossed knee under the bar. Fuck, small talk really didn't suit them. "Ahh," His head inclined, a small smile tugging at his mouth at her mention of the championship. He wanted to say thank you, but she hadn't actually congratulated him. Classic Honey. "Let me guess, returning that signed photo?" He spoke without thinking for once. "Thought that was long burned by now..." He met her eye and raised a brow, trying not to smirk.

Harlan didn’t even flinch. She wasn’t going to get any sort of reaction out of him unless she made a scene and even then it wasn’t a guarantee so— she dropped it, trying to stay mad at him. For now, anyway. Surely there’d be a chance for it later.

“It is,” she agreed, taking another sip of water. She turned toward him a little but she made a point of keeping some space between them as she readjusted. Her gaze drifted down a tad but she brought it back up when she realized what she was doing.

Her attention back on his face, it was hard not to return his little smile, despite whatever she was supposed to be feeling about him, all that simmering anger she was meant to be clinging to. But he didn’t say thanks — naturally — and she rolled her eyes. “No, I’m holding on to that.” She hadn’t gotten rid of it, hadn’t felt the urge to cleanse herself of whatever he had touched. But it wasn’t like she was sentimental or anything; she’d found better things than cleaning to distract herself with.

Honey returned his expression, raising both eyebrows. “Y’know, so I can sell it if the store goes under.” She smirked, holding his gaze for a second before looking back to her water, still half full; she’d been slowing down on her water intake without noticing. She had another swallow, chewed on another ice cube for a second.

“That was..” she trailed off with a smirk, either feeling energized because she thought her date might look over at her chatting up Harlan Bellamy and get jealous or just feeling closer to normal, the old normal before they had made things weird between them. “That was a good night.” She’d spilled a drink on herself; he’d helped her clean up. She wanted to cling to that memory, but just as it’d been happening so much recently she immediately tried to figure out how long ago that had been, how old she was then— twenty-seven, and now— “I turned thirty last week.” She grimaced for half a second before rolling her eyes again.

He did what he could to not notice Honey's gaze as it traversed everywhere but his face. A grin snuck over his lips.

"You mean when?" Harlan corrected, in obvious jest. Honeydukes (for whatever reason) was a god damn staple in the thread that was Hogsmeade— it would take an absolute imbecile to mess that up, to ruin the decades of work that had gone into making it all that it was. "You're welcome, in advance," His tongue pushed the spot just under his lower lip in thought. The idea that a photo of him, with her, and his signature was worth something monetarily was uncomfortable, even now, though he knew it to be true.

It was a good night. Despite his best effort, something shifted in him. It had been, hadn't it? A good night. It wasn't the first night that they met, but it was the first that something had happened between them. In a flash, a series of memories dizzied him— the quidditch event, the dive bar, that god damn sticky sugary drink that had been spilled on her skin that he willingly licked off— fuck. Harlan straightened up in some attempt to shake it all from his mind, to pretend that it hadn't happened. Not the time or place.

The irony of how similar this night was not lost on him.

"I know—" He admitted. Her thirtieth. The wrapped gift in his foyer— the one he couldn't bring himself to send— was a reminder. He imagined it wasn't his place to send it, though obviously the thought was there. "Getting old..." He teased. "A birthday drink?" He offered, finishing his own off. Sure, she was sobering up, but that seemed to matter less as time went on. "Did you have a good one?" He asked, suddenly, off-brand, before signaling to the bartender with the tattoos. Either way, he needed another.

“Did I not say ‘when’?” She rolled her eyes and had another big sip of water. Honeydukes wasn’t going anywhere but she could humor him for a second. “Thank you so much.” She managed a small smile — with another eye roll — as she said it but she knew that if she hadn’t gotten rid of the photo after what had happened last month, it wasn’t going anywhere now. She didn’t want to think about him not saying anything, not agreeing that it had been a good night — never mind that she almost immediately changed the subject — glanced at her water again instead.

He had acknowledged her birthday just as much as she had acknowledged his win (though hers wasn’t as unusual an occasion). It was almost funny how they’d mutually ignored each other but she had another sip of water rather than drawing attention to how they were both still too stubborn for their own good.

“Fuck off,” she said, unable to stifle a grin. Getting old. He was one to talk; her gaze flicked to that silvery patch of hair she knew was just behind his ear. Normally she’d point it out and push his hair back with her fingers and she might have been drunk enough to do it now if he hadn’t distracted her with his drink offer. A birthday drink. She glanced back to where her date was still sat — and still otherwise preoccupied — and figured she wasn’t about to get jealous if Honey had a drink so was it really worth it? Then again she probably wouldn’t notice if she left (and she was wanting to leave less and less) so.. her couple of glasses of water hadn’t done much, anyway, so having one drink wouldn’t set her back too much. She shrugged by way of an answer.

She’d been looking at the bartender when Harlan asked his question and it took her a second to catch up. “Oh—“ Honey looked at him, half expecting him to take it back, avoid the small talk. “It was good,” she said after a second, after deciding he really wanted to know. She’d spent it working, ended it with dinner and drinks with Grace and it wasn’t lost on her that she‘d have had Harlan over instead if—

Honey was glad the bartender showed up then; she ordered the same as Harlan. Drink in hand, she felt a little better, happy for the excuse to stall for a second as they both tucked in. She turned toward him a little more and nodded toward her date again. “Met her at my party, anyway.” Met, gotten nowhere, etc. She had another sip of her whisky. “Could have been worse.” She meant that in a
I-could-still-be-sitting-here-alone sort of way, though maybe she shouldn’t have.

“How have— how was all your mandatory celebrating?” She’d been about to ask how he was, thought it might be easier to ask something else, not quite to the point of asking about any celebrating he might have done that hadn’t been mandated by his management.

Well, she still had a mouth on her.

Harlan stifled another grin— it felt wrong— and instead focused on her eyes, as honey-colored as her name under the lights as they swiftly shifted to somewhere just behind him. His ear? Did he have something— no. He nearly touched a hand to the appendage before realizing that, of course, she was looking at that patch of silver she so liked to harp on whenever age was brought into the conversation. He could practically feel her little fingers running through his hair at the very idea.

"Could be better, looks like..." He countered, despite himself, gaze following to where her once-date was wrapped around some other chick. That was certainly not how he imagined Honey had pictured her evening going, if he knew even a fraction of the person that she was. And he thought he might. Honey didn't like to feel slighted. She did everything she could to avoid it, in his experience, always taking whatever steps necessary to be the one to hurt someone before they had the chance to do it first. So this had to be a blow, of sorts.

How strange, to realize that now, he mused.

"A party? He raised an eyebrow, taking a drink but opting to not turn to face her any closer as she tucked into the corner of the bar. "My invite get lost in the mail as well?" Harlan couldn't stop the smirk from pulling at his mouth. Of-fucking-course-not was the appropriate response here.

"It's been..." He turned a bit more serious, letting out a half breath of air. "—fuck, it's been a lot," He finally sighed, as if letting the proverbial weight off of his shoulders. They were never much for small talk, but when it came down to it, he still felt comfortable letting his guard down with Honey as it pertained to the more serious stuff. "All of it—" Harlan swiftly corrected himself. "— not just the parties," He took a drink before biting on the corner of his lip in thought. A nasty habit, his mother would chastise.

She looked back to Harlan as he continued giving her date a once-over. “At least one of us is having fun.” She smirked, not really meaning it, she thought. It’d been a fun night up until being ditched, anyway, and while it wasn’t exactly fun now, it could definitely be worse. “Thanks for the pity drink, anyway.” He’d called it a birthday drink but it was almost easier thinking he felt a little bad for her, as far a stretch as that might have been.

Harlan raised an eyebrow and Honey matched him; she thought she’d mentioned the party, considering she’d started planning it two months prior. It took her a second to remember that her and Fergie’s night of party planning -- drinking -- had been the night before Harlan had come back early from Bali, the night before Honey had spent the day apologizing for-- she’d spent the month after that earnestly trying and--

He had a follow-up question and Honey was grateful for the distraction from her thoughts. Her gaze drifted to his smirk and she rolled her eyes, mouth in a straight line. “I figured you were busy.” She shrugged off the obvious answer -- he hadn’t been invited -- and took a sip of her drink. “Bora Bora, Bermuda, wherever.” She didn’t know the names of too many tropical places but figured he had picked somewhere sunny to holiday after his win, celebrate. She had toyed with the idea of going somewhere with him, had started to mentally prepare for taking time off; she’d ended up working more than usual, instead.

There was a pause as talk turned a bit more serious and she worried for a second that she’d overstepped before she noticed his shoulders relaxing, a fairly good sign he didn’t mind talking about something with her. Honey knew he didn’t love being in the spotlight, intentionally or not, and judging by the number of articles about him she had needed to skip over in The Prophet -- or ignore when her mother sent them her way -- he’d had a lot of press.

And not just the parties. Honey swallowed, scanning his face for some indication that was meant to be about her. That’s what she had been asking about, the parties, the celebrating, and she didn’t want to be the sort who hoped her ex was still reeling from their breakup, but she was, mostly. She glanced at her drink, swirling the contents for a second, not wanting to risk asking what he was talking about and find out it wasn’t her; the still-not-sober side of her wasn’t as careful though, especially around him. “What else is there?”

She figured he had been busy. Quite frankly, correct. Though, even now, Harlan thought that he would have made the time, once upon a time, even with everything going on with the finals. Thirty was a big birthday. His own had been a pivotal time for him, whether the war had forced his hand or not. He worked even harder than just a moment before to push back his own memories— this time of Arya and the elaborate and deliberately embarrassing party she had planned for years, that never came to fruition.

"Croatia," Harlan corrected without thought. That wasn't a trip he wanted to get into the details with her about. "Hvar," He continued if only for a reason to avoid any immediate questions. He opened his mouth to speak what was on his mind, that he would have taken the time if she had extended that olive branch, but she hadn't, and he didn't. So he took a drink.

Their eyes met for a moment, and he paused. It could have been any other time in the world when they were sat adjacent to each other at a bar— but this wasn't any other time— almost everything had changed between them. He thought he could see a second of, was it anticipation, in her eyes. Fuck.

Of course, what happened between them impacted him, more now that he allowed himself to actually think about it, but he had long perfected the art of separating his personal life and his professional life. Harlan ran a hand through his hair that had grown out between seasons, letting out a sigh in thought. "Well—" He began, feeling the familiar swirl of a real conversation in his chest.

This wasn't his place, with her. That ship had sailed, and he made sure of that.

"I suppose, it's just— what happens after you get the one thing you've always wanted?" The question was rhetorical, but it certainly didn't feel as such as it crushed down on his chest. He had worked his whole life for it. And now it was gone. "I don't really know—" Harlan sucked in a breath. "—I don't really know what to do with myself," He wasn't sure why he was imparting this on her, maybe it was because she had become comfortable to him, but there they were.

Honey raised her eyebrows expectantly at his well, trying to figure out what she might say when he said that she was the something more. (It was at the front of her mind, what had happened between them, to her; it wasn’t that far fetched that he’d be thinking about it, too.) Maybe he shouldn’t have kissed someone else, maybe he shouldn’t have told her about it, maybe she shouldn’t have overreacted because it was just a kiss, maybe—

Harlan finished his thought and Honey relaxed her face, looking back to the bottles behind the bar. He had everything he wanted. Now.

He wasn’t fishing for an answer, she didn’t think — she hoped — and she didn’t have one for him. She didn’t have an end goal; ‘keep Honeydukes successful’ was the main thing and there really wasn’t any finite way to measure her success. Then again she had just thought this could be about something more than their respective careers, all things considered, but—

She looked back at him, at a loss for words. This was new, not knowing what to say. A month ago she could have just deflected, told him exactly what he could do with himself — her — but that wasn’t them anymore. They’d seen to that. It was so hard to avoid though (especially when she was actively avoiding getting too close to discussing anything too serious). “Don’t you just.. win the next one, too?” She took a drink and lowered her glass with a smirk. “You’re not a ‘one and done’ kind of guy.” She shrugged and turned a little more toward him. “If only you’d let Portree win.”

Honey waited a beat, almost regretting not being more serious when he had made the effort. “I’m not good at not working, so..” She shrugged again. “Aren’t you—“ she looked at him more intently. “You have the national team and you’ll have a title to defend next season.” Unless he wasn’t talking about that, either.