[mcg] anonymous club [fergie]

highland games // 22 august 2003

Lunt was closer to Scotland than London was; that was the main reason Edith was going. That, and she had learned that drinking was just as integral a part of the Highland Games as the caber toss was. (It was more like ‘whisky tasting’ but if one tasted enough whisky...) Well, that, and that, and she was seeing someone other than her parents somewhere other than London. Whatever the real reason, she was there.

She was meeting @Fergie Flume -- she pulled the crumbled parchment from the pocket of her jeans and squinted at it, reminding where she was heading -- but she was a few minutes early; she didn’t exactly have a lot on her plate these days, considering, staying in for the most part except when work required her to leave; early Friday afternoon television wasn’t exactly riveting.

The beer tent was one of the first she passed and like any good festival attendee, she got herself a drink before doing anything else. She found the spot and started loitering, having a sip of beer every time she thought she saw Fergie; she had finished half her drink by the time she’d spotted the real one (and not just another lookalike in a kilt). Of course, this one was in a kilt and she held back a snigger -- she’d half expected it but she was out of her element, here -- as she lifted her hand, about to wave when she saw it. The Puppy.

“Did you get a dog?” She asked stupidly, once he was within earshot (though she had directed the question toward the dog and not Fergie). She’d already taken a knee, wishing she had already finished her beer so she could have both hands to pet the pup, who was very happy to see her (or just didn’t know any better). “What’s her name?” She had rolled onto her back -- the dog, not Edith -- and she -- Edith, not the dog -- had proceeded to doling out belly rubs. “Sorry, good to see you, too,” she said belatedly, realizing she hadn’t said ‘hi’ properly and standing up in the next second before it could get weird.

Honey had been late back from her ‘break’, making the most of her duties as a new aunt (showing off the puppy, presumably getting extra free tastings as a result). Fergie had taken her lead (the puppy’s, not Honey’s -- though perhaps she could do with one too) and escaped the Honeydukes stall as quickly as possible so as not to be late to meet Edith. Then he was stopped several times on his way because people wanted to pat the puppy, and he was too polite to say he was in a hurry and—

He saw her across the field, near the spot he’d described in his last owl, hoping she’d be able to work out where exactly he meant without there being any sort of designated meeting places (which, in hindsight, an event this big could probably do with).

Edith’s face lit up when her eyes fell on the bounding black labrador, tugging at her tartan collar to get to another new friend as soon as possible. Fergie grinned, glad he’d kept the surprise to himself (and that Edith appeared to be a dog person, thank goodness). “Yeah, bad timing really with all of this going on but…” he trailed off; he could get into it in a minute, they had the whole afternoon, or, as long as Edith wanted to stay which, looking at her rubbing the puppy’s tummy, Fergie figured might just be the whole afternoon now. “Bonnie,” he smiled with half a shrug, his cheeks warming at knowing how stereotypically Scottish it was but it had just fit so well when he and Honey had picked her out.

He grinned again as Edith got to her feet. “You too. Thanks for coming, eh?” Fergie had sort of invited her to distract her from her very recent breakup, but he wasn’t sad about having an excuse to actually enjoy the games a bit rather than just work the whole time. Bonnie jumped up, her front paws clawing at the bit of bare leg between kilt and hose. “You found the beer then,” he teased, pointing with his free hand at her cup, noticing belatedly that it was empty. “Any good?” He raised an eyebrow at her, wondering if he should get one or just skip to the whisky.

He said her name was Bonnie; Edith grinned--it was a cute name--but she couldn’t not point it out. “What, like… bonnie wee lass?” She said it in her best attempt at a Scottish accent, which wasn’t complete rubbish either; Macbeth soliloquies were a frequent topic of conversation at family gatherings and there were extra points for style (i.e. the accent). She laughed, saying it again in her head.

She smiled, shrugged a little as he thanked her for coming. She didn’t bother to mention that she had nothing better to do, figured it wouldn’t endear him to her and he was just trying to be nice. But had she found the beer? Edith nodded, grinning as she looked from her cup to the pup and back up to Fergie. “I did.” She nodded that yes, it was good. “This one’s called Kilt Lifter,” she said with a snort, pointedly keeping her gaze at eye level (though in her defense she hadn’t known Fergie’d be wearing a kilt when she ordered it). “I got it froooom--” she turned slowly on the spot to point out the direction the beer was in but there wasn’t any point; she was lost. “Somewhere,” she said finally, facing Fergie again and shrugging.

There were plenty of other alcohol-related places to visit though--she’d seen more than a few in her lookaround for her specific beer just now—and they should have no problem. “Sure we can find something.” She set off in the direction he hadn’t just come from, looking down at the dog after a couple of seconds. “When’d you get Bonnie, then?” She couldn’t remember when she had seen Fergie last but surely it had been too long if he’d managed to get a dog without her hearing about it. She supposed she had some other stuff going on but still.

They had to stop every few feet when Bonnie decided to sniff at something or get pets from a wee bairn—Edith nearly snorted again just thinking it—but she didn’t mind having a slow go at things. It wasn’t like she had anywhere else to be. “What about this?” She pointed at a sign that said very simply: whisky.

Fergie grinned, “Aye, like bonnie wee lass.” That wasn’t the worst attempt at a Scottish accent he’d heard -- far from it, actually. “I didnae realise how hard it is naming like… a living thing,” he admitted. He had sat with a list over a few days, sounding out his options each time he addressed the puppy (‘wee shite’ hadn’t been an option, but she had found her way into the rubbish bag before he’d gotten a chance to take it downstairs) until he’d circled back to Bonnie. Honey and their mum (via a phone call) had approved, so Bonnie she was.

“Kilt—” Fergie flushed, then realised Edith wasn’t making it awkward so he shouldn’t, so he let out a light, barely-there laugh in an attempt to try and be less so (if anything, might’ve just made it worse).

But Edith was focused on more important things: beer. “Well, no harm in working our way around,” he said, a little more confidently, and fell into step beside her. He tugged on Bonnie’s lead and she began trotting between them. “A few weeks ago,” he answered, pausing whenever the dog did as they walked. “Just after our last...” whatever it was they did. ‘Catchup’ was probably the best word for it but really it was a beer-tasting-cum-venting session about their respective lives (or lack thereof). He hadn’t seen Edith since she’d broken up with her boyfriend, but he didn’t really know how to talk about that with her -- or if she even wanted to.

Fergie looked up at the sign Edith was pointing to. “Do you like whisky?” he asked, realising now that he had only ever seen her drink beer because that was mostly what their friendship was founded upon.

They found a table in the (Scottish) sun -- the whole event was ‘outdoors’ but he didn’t want to bring the dog ‘inside’ the tent, even if inside was just slightly less outside -- and Fergie ordered them a tasting flight while Edith sat with Bonnie. He came back to the table where Edith was giving Bonnie scratches under her ears, and set the glasses down carefully. “I can’t believe you havenae had proper whisky,” he told her as he sat down (careful to fold his kilt under his backside as he did so).

“None at all.” She smiled lopsidedly as they headed off in her random direction.

It made sense that she hadn’t known, if he’d gotten Bonnie a few weeks ago. Edith nodded, glancing sideways to make sure he knew she didn’t need him to elaborate. She’d been busy with her own problems--not that the dog was a problem--like moving out of London with little notice to anyone (herself included) and-- she realized with another smile that she could get a dog now; there weren’t any long working hours to deal with in Lunt.

She shrugged as Fergie questioned her choice of place to drink. She didn’t not like whisky, even if they’d spelt it wrong on the sign-- no; she was catching up now. Whisky whiskey. Scotch. It all clicked together--being in Scotland was the main factor--and she shrugged again. “Dunno if I’ve had like, proper whisky.” When in Rome--

Edith offered to sit with Bonnie as Fergie got the first round--she’d insist on getting the next one--and she was finally able to set her empty cup down and give the puppy scratches with both hands. She told Bonnie to ‘sit’ after a minute but abandoned that quickly, scooping her up and setting her in her lap once it was clear she hadn’t gotten that far in her training yet. Edith waited out a round of puppy kisses before she set her down again, figuring out what to do with the lead--tied round the chair leg--and rinsing out her cup before filling it with more water, which Bonnie promptly knocked over instead of drinking.

She was in the middle of giving the puppy more head scratchies when Fergie returned; she sat up and gave the glasses an appreciative look as he set them on the table. “I havenae,” she said with a laugh, doing her best impression of his accent (again). She picked a glass at random and knocked it back without a second thought--or a glance to Fergie which might have clued her in that she was doing it wrong--making a face as she set the empty glass back down. It tasted like she’d just swallowed a campfire. “S’good,” she said, her voice (and face) a bit strained.

He shot Edith a look -- though it was evident by the grin on his lips that he was more amused than annoyed by her imitation.

Fergie picked up a glass of his own, figuring they could have a sip each -- wasn’t like they hadn’t gone for the same pint glass before, and they were both still standing, no dragon pox or whatever -- but Edith knocked it back in one swallow. His eyes went wide. Merlin. “You’re meant to like, savour it, you know,” he said, grinning again before having a sip of his own ‘taster’. He held it out for her to take; “This one’s quite rich. Woody.”

He looked down at Bonnie and smiled automatically -- why he’d waited so long to get a dog, he didn’t know, but it was worth the sleepless nights. Fergie gave the puppy a scratch under her chin before letting her lick his hand. “So, I was thinking,” He started, glancing back at Edith, “That last article you did, about why aren’t muggleborns talking to the new muggleborns or, teaching muggle studies at Hogwarts…” He had decided he would gloss over the fact he was now regularly buying the Quibbler if only to read Edith’s column and nothing else (he was getting it delivered to his home address to avoid anyone in the Office thinking he’d gone a bit funny in the head, subscribing to the Quibbler).

“Have you ever thought about, you know, doing it yourself?” he asked, meeting her gaze again and holding it, hand still outstretched so Bonnie could keep lapping at him (presumably he had the remnants of some sugary treat on his fingers still). He realised after a second it almost sounded like he was accusing her of something -- like she was complaining without willing to be a part of the solution (which may have been the case but he wasn’t going to say so), so he hastily added: “I just think, you’d be really valuable, with your experience and—” He bit his lip softly, his cheeks warming already as he averted his gaze to the dog again. “It makes sense, that’s all. Having muggleborns more involved in it all.”

She was meant to savor it, apparently. “No kidding?” Edith took the offered glass, too aware of how small the glass was and how hard it was to take it without touching him. She looked at it skeptically before she took a sip; it was woody. “It’s like gnawing on a Christmas tree.” She took another little sip and nodded, setting the glass—still half full—back on the table between them. “Not that I’ve done that,” she reassured him with a little laugh.

Fergie distracted himself with the dog and Edith picked up another glass, eyeing it before she had a sip. It was less Christmas-y and more… she didn’t have time to think of a good word for it before Fergie started in on her last article. He reminded her what she’d written as if she might have forgotten, but she knew exactly which one he was talking about without him needing to explain it. Why aren’t muggleborns talking to the new muggleborns— should she have warned him about that? It was kind of a jab at his office, even if it wasn’t a jab at him. But it was only The Quibbler, and she’d opined that muggleborns should probably teach Muggle Studies, too. It wasn’t all about the Ministry this time.

Had she thought about doing it herself? “Doing what?” If he was talking about Muggle Studies—she’d seen the advertisement for a new professor as well as he had, she figured—there was no way she was going back to Hogwarts but she wasn’t about to get into that now, or even mention how much of an achievement it was to be in Scotland at all, for that matter.

He mentioned her experience and she glanced away, suddenly aware she’d been looking at him almost too intently. She had another drink, not really noticing that the taste of it was getting a little less unpalatable. She glanced back at him with a small frown as he said it made sense. “Right, but there’s gotta be better qualified muggleborns.” None came to mind; most were as well adjusted as she was. “I didn’t leave the Ministry on the best terms,” she started again, almost hoping he was talking about his office again. “Never mind all the er— less than glowing reviews I’ve given them lately.” Fuck, she had way worse articles still in the works. All this was assuming the Ministry still cared about her work; again, it was The Quibbler.

Edith took another drink, switching out the now half-full glass for another full one. “Are there not—“ she caught Fergie’s eye— “Any in your group, then?” She paused, the glass almost to her lips before she lowered it. “Muggleborns, I mean.”

Fergie grinned in reply, then laughed at her review. “Never heard that before,” he told her. He picked up the glass as Edith put it down, his fingers just barely brushing hers in the handoff. He raised a sceptical eyebrow at her, still grinning;  “How’d you know what it tastes like then?”

Edith looked at him like he’d just suggested she eat a barrel of Cockroach Cluster. “Teaching, or,” he shrugged, scanning around the beer tent rather than stare at her, trying to make this seem like less of an attack and more along the lines of friendly encouragement, “working in the Liaison Office.” He glanced back at Edith, holding her gaze until she glanced away; he was going out on a limb, here, suggesting she join the department he worked in (that fell under the same larger Department she’d once worked in), but he felt certain that it was something Edith would be good at, if she gave it a shot.

She drank, he kept holding the glass he’d been meaning to have a sip from for the last minute or so. “Like who?” he asked, before realising Edith wasn’t privy to his thought processes (aside from Edith, the only other muggleborns he knew on a familiar basis were his Mum and Charlie -- neither of whom he wanted working in the Office. He supposed he knew of Hermione Granger -- who didn’t? -- but her reputation preceded her and Fergie wasn’t sure he wanted someone like that tallying up how much time he was ticking up as ‘research’ in muggle cinemas) -- but his point stood: Edith was qualified.

Fergie frowned softly. “Doesn’t mean you can never come back, you know.” He had that sip of whisky, finally. He considered that maybe she had burnt some bridges that were unmendable, but surely she wouldn’t have come back for the Christmas party last year if it was that bad. “People can’t improve things if they don’t know what’s wrong with them,” he told her, almost sagely.

He had finished the Christmas-tree whisky without thinking about it; he moved the empty glass to the side and picked up the one Edith had swapped out. She spoke again and he glanced at her -- he’d thought for a moment that he had veered the conversation too far down a road they couldn’t come back from, and was grateful for her not holding it against him (yet). Bonnie jumped up at his leg, her front paws up on his thigh as he scratched under her chin. “No,” he answered Edith; just him and a few other muggle fanatics. “We just took someone new on, but he’s not either.” He didn’t want to push it, but; “Would be good to have someone who was.”

Bonnie dropped back to all fours and moved over to Edith, resting her head on Edith’s thigh and gazing up with pleading eyes. Fergie frowned again, but this time from thought. “Would you ever, like, work on a consultancy basis?” he asked, looking back to her.

She could teach or work at the Ministry. Sure, Ferg. There had to be someone better, but he called her bluff, asking her who there was. “Er--” Edith had another sip instead of coming up with any names.

She could go back to the Ministry, apparently. “I know,” she said, except that she didn’t. She’d quit without notice, only gotten out of her contract without her contract-required month’s notice by pointing out that the Ministry hadn’t given her a month’s notice before rescinding her first job offer and accusing her of stealing magic, pointing a finger at her like she was some sort of criminal. Then she’d written about her time at the Ministry, about others’ times, even had something in the works now that she hoped would throw a wrench into the whole Obliviator group.

On top of all that, there were still things she was holding back. She’d admitted to being a part of the Obliviator problem but she hadn’t told anyone about drinking on the job because when it came down to it, she blamed that on the Ministry, too. She had a sip from the glass she was holding, as if drinking could take her mind off of drinking. “I know,” she said again, meaning it this time. Still, she thought she was telling them exactly why they were wrong.

There weren’t any muggleborns already in his department and Edith thought she didn’t visibly react any more than just saying, “Oh.” She didn’t like how that made her stomach lurch, as if it was her responsibility to fix the problem. She didn’t want to fix it; or, more like, she thought she was doing enough by writing about things from the sidelines, as if that was her being an active participant in changing things. Pointing out the problems and waiting for them to be fixed.

That was her participating, though. She was getting herself in more trouble now than she had been as an Obliviator, doing nothing about anything--had everyone already forgotten about all that Sweden and Purcell shit, her editor being an actual Death Eater--and while Fergie did have a point, he was a little misguided telling her she’d be a good fit. He didn’t know her that well, really. Still, she agreed it would be good to have someone in the department. “Yeah, it would.” That was a lot of thinking for such a small answer.

She was startled by bonnie’s head in her lap and Edith glanced down and rested her hand on the pup’s head, scratching behind her ears and looking back to Fergie after a couple seconds, continuing her scratchies as she did. “I--” She furrowed her brow. “Like, consulting for you?” Well, not him, specifically, surely. “The liaisons?” What did that even mean? Remedial Muggle Studies? If he wanted to go to the movies with her, he only needed to ask. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

There was only one whisky left untasted and she swapped her glass for that one, savoring it with a much bigger sip.

Edith said she knew, then said it again. Fergie pressed his lips together in a line. Well, if she hadn’t known before, hopefully she did now. The Ministry needed more people like Edith, not less. While he wouldn’t condemn her for leaving and using her journalistic talent for good, he wondered how much more of a difference she might make from within the ranks.

Fergie let out a soft (playfully dramatic) sigh and straightened up. “Think they’re just not all that interested,” he said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye -- mostly teasing this time, but it seemed to be true didn’t it? Charlie had complained about his induction to the magical world too--as had Fergie’s own Mum--but not a single muggleborn had thought to join the department they loved to complain so much about.

And now Edith was hardly leaping at the chance either -- but he couldn’t say he’d expected anything else, really. “Would,” he agreed.

Fergie lifted his gaze from where he’d been watching Bonnie, doing her best to capitalise on pats. “Er,” he hesitated, then nodded. “Aye, like, having a look at our processes and seeing where there might be holes.” He’d like to hope they didn't have any--could prove to Edith that they were better now than they had been--but if they did have gaps in their knowledge he’d take whatever (constructive) criticism she could offer on board. He cared about his work -- and Merlin knew he obviously cared what Edith thought about it.

He finished his glass and set it down, noticed Edith had already picked up the last taster. “If you’d be interested I can ask,” he said tentatively, still wary of pushing her too far too soon -- but he felt like if he didn’t bring it up in full now it would come across more nagging to do it in pieces. “Paid, obviously,” he added, as if that would be the deciding factor (couldn’t hurt, surely). He rested his hands on the leaner, ready to get up. “Shall I get another or d’you wanna try the next tent?” he asked.

They weren’t interested; she briefly considered what it might have looked like if she’d gone into his group instead if obliviating. She’d probably still be working there, probably wouldn’t have been so jaded. But obliviation was actual magic; it was proof that she was good at the thing that so many assumed she wasn’t good at. Talking to new muggleborns— where was the magic in that? Where was the proof that her time at Hogwarts had been effective?

Her liaison had been so… not bad with muggles, necessarily. Maybe he just didn’t know how to talk to kids. He’d called her Little Miss Holthouse, which had been terrible enough that it had completely ruined her hopes of using that memory for casting a patronus.

“Aye?” Edith offered him a lopsided smile because ‘aye’ but— god, she’d love to find holes in a Ministry process. She set her last glass down and eyed what was left; Fergie still had a couple to finish up. But he said he could ask. Edith lifted her eyebrows, inched them higher when he clarified it’d be paid. He was making it sound like he’d already been asking; was he even in the position to be offering jobs?

Fergie gave her the option of where to get their next round and Edith shrugged. “No harm in us working our way around.” Hadn’t he said that earlier? She vanished her beer rubbish and left the whisky glasses to Fergie, leaning down to untie Bonnie’s lead before she stood up.

They walked a little bit—Edith hadn’t handed over the lead and Fergie hadn’t (obviously) asked for it—before she shrugged again, picking up the conversation where they’d left it a couple minutes before. “I’m not not interested,” she said tentatively, “Just—“ She wrinkled her nose; if he’d read her articles he would know ninety percent of her opinions. “You really think the Ministry would want me back?” She glanced sidelong at him with half a smile. “Can be honest.”

“Aye,” he repeated back at her pointedly -- he wasn’t missing her playful jabs at his dialect (if she wasn’t careful he’d start pronouncing his k’s from the back of his throat to return the favour). He also didn’t miss her eyebrows almost disappearing into her hairline. He had the good grace to flush lightly; “I just meant, I’m not gonna offer you up for free,” he clarified. Merlin, this was as bad as asking her to pay for his services.

Fergie nodded and began stacking their glasses back on the flight to return to the bar; he withdrew his wand to send it floating over the heads of people in the queue, to the dish hand. He turned to face Edith and she had already taken up Bonnie’s lead; Fergie smiled and flourished his hand smally, “Ladies first.” He realised after he’d said it that it might not be clear he’d been trying to joke about Bonnie, too, but explaining himself would only draw more attention to it all.

He glanced at Edith, taking an extra few seconds (and steps) to catch up. He opened his mouth to answer, before closing it again and grinning back at her awkwardly. “Well, one way to find out,” he said, honestly. He put his hands in his pockets, content to let Edith keep walking the dog. “I think they’d be lucky to have you back,” he told her quietly, his eyes focused on the grass beneath their feet. He brought his attention up to meet hers. “It’s about time the Ministry started walking the walk.”

[out]

There was no immediate answer from Fergie, and Edith would have to be lying to say she hadn’t expected that. Her smile widened a bit when he grinned at her, though. “Not wrong, technically.” There certainly was one way to find out, and what was the worst that could happen? Actually, with the Ministry, the ‘worst’ was still probably pretty bad. Maybe not as bad as before, but-- Edith didn’t let her mind wander too far in that direction. She was paying attention to walking again, sparing Bonnie a glance as often as she could.

Edith nodded a little, not about to get into how she didn’t think they’d be lucky, not really. (She hadn’t had enough whisky for that, yet.) “Thanks,” she said instead, her eyes still set forward.

She could see him out of the corner of her eye, looking at her, and she looked back at him after another second. “Yeah.” It was more of an automatic response; she didn’t think she could fix the Ministry, assuming that’s what he meant by ‘walk the walk’. But finding holes in their processes--that’s what he’d said before, right?--would be easy enough. She could think of a few already. “Yeah,” she said again, more sure that time. She waited a beat before adding: “One way to find out.” It was probably as close to agreeing to it without coming right out and saying it.

There was another whisky tent, some other distillery’s name on it, and Edith pointed at it with her free hand, giving Fergie the head’s up before she veered off course. Closer, she handed the lead off to him and headed into the tent, taking her turn to buy the next round.

[[ end ]]