[edinburgh] lemon glow [fergie]

the archive, edinburgh // 1 october 2003

Honey set her glass down, effectively crowding their little tabletop, which barely had enough room for the menu and their two glasses. She was more concerned about the (lack of) contents of her glass, though; that was the thing about drinking whisky at a whisky bar, proper serving sizes. “Think I’m getting a cocktail now.” She plucked up the small menu, scanning past the long list of whiskies to the much smaller list of cocktails. “You want another?” She glanced up from the menu to nod at Fergie’s not-empty glass, unable to recall if he was a drink ahead of her or if it was the other way round. It didn’t matter either way; they were having a little celebration.

“I’ve got it.” She cut him off with a wave of her hand before he could offer, figuring that’s what he’d been about to do. “You’ve earned it,” she said with a grin, reaching over to pinch his cheek between her thumb and forefinger for a second before releasing him and giving his cheek a quick pat. “Temporary Professor Flume.” He’d already corrected her twice when she had called him professor and this was the only concession she was willing to make.

She only hip-checked one armchair on the way to the bar; ordering their drinks (and some chips, while she was at it) was much less eventful. She returned with a drink in each hand—she’d ordered herself a whisky sour, extra cherries—and handed the significantly less full—and significantly more expensive (if she didn’t know any better she’d think he was taking advantge of her generosity)—glass to her brother.

Spearing a cherry with the end of her straw, Honey chewed on it for a second before picking up their conversation pre-refills. “So have you told Mum and Dad yet?” There was a fair chance she would be offended if she wasn’t the first person he told, but she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d already had a chat with their mother.

@Fergie Flume

Fergie glanced from Honey to the sliver of amber liquid still in his glass, then back up to his sister. “Aye,” he said, knocking the whisky back in one swallow to finish it.

He held the glass out for her to take--thought that was what she was reaching for--and screwed his face up as she pinched his cheek instead. He swatted at her hand--missing entirely--and scowled up at her. “You can treat me to a Talisker Thirty, then.” He probably wouldn’t even be able to appreciate it, this many drinks in, but when else would he be able to get her to pay for it?

Fergie let out a dramatic sigh. “Guest speaker,” he told her for the third time. It was a limited thing, not an ongoing tenure. He was too young to teach at Hogwarts -- not that he’d been told as much, but it felt obvious when looking at the lineup. Most of the professors had been there when he’d been at school.

Honey left him at the table and Fergie reclined back in the comfy armchair. He supposed technically he wasn’t too young--could they discriminate on age?--and hadn’t he tried to convince Edith she could do it, if she wanted? She was younger still, but when it came to experience... she was an actual muggleborn. You couldn’t ask for much better than that for Muggle Studies, surely? He hadn’t told her yet, wasn’t sure if he was going to. He was worried she would think he’d applied for it -- or was trying to prove some sort of point, after their last conversation.

Honey returned with drinks and Fergie took the glass offered to him. He sipped at it, savouring it -- he couldn’t tell if it was the Thirty or not but he figured best not to comment. “Not yet, no,” he replied. “Was gonna phone them when I got home but,” he’d had a lot to drink since making that decision, “might wait ‘til tomorrow now.” He rested his glass on the arm of the chair, fingers still cradling it loosely. “I don’t want them making a big deal out of it,” he said, though that was a lie -- he absolutely wanted them to be proud of him. He hadn’t even applied -- and okay, maybe Hogwarts hadn’t asked for him specifically, but he’d been chosen--out of the four of them in the office--to do it.

He hadn’t told their parents yet, and Honey smiled, almost smugly. “Wow, really?” She was taking that to mean she was the first person to know--she was conveniently not remembering he had other friends--and it was hard not to be pleased about it, even if he was her brother and she deserved to be the first. “Tomorrow,” she agreed. The pub was dimly lit but she could see that Fergie’s cheeks were rather flushed; she didn’t know how many drinks they’d had or how long they’d been there but it was late and that was enough to know. Spain was an hour ahead, anyway, and Fergie wasn’t heading home now, so even if he wasn’t pissed--

“Aye, right.” She rolled her eyes as she had a big sip of her drink--they’d given her two straws so it was really the only option. “They’ll be making a big deal out of it.” And he knew that. She wouldn’t be surprised if they wanted to take him to dinner; she’d be even less surprised if they came over to see him off for his first day. Maybe they could walk him from the shop to the train station for ol’ times’ sake.

But that--his first day--reminded her of a question she’d been meaning to ask. “When do you start?” The position had been vacant since term started, so she imagined that they’d want to fill it as soon as possible, but he’d need time to prepare, right? More than that, she assumed he’d stop in to see her at some point; he couldn’t go to Hogwarts and not stop by.

She chewed on another cherry, trying to occupy herself with something other than looking like she was asking for her own purposes; there was literally no reason for Fergie to stay in Hogsmeade past dinnertime--he was a guest speaker who still had his actual day job so he wasn’t moving up--but.. just in case.

“Really,” he replied. Honey said Tomorrow and Fergie nodded -- tomorrow. It wasn’t that late but he mostly didn’t want to call them drunk--as if they’d really mind--because he’d be on the phone for another few hours probably, and he needed his sleep to be able to stay up tomorrow night and work out his ‘lesson plan’. And he didn’t want to head home just yet, if Honey was still buying celebratory drinks, so: tomorrow.

“Aye, I know.” He had the good grace to grimace, as though he didn’t want the fuss. It wasn’t that the Flumes weren’t proud of their son, but he hadn’t joined forces with his sister in taking on the family legacy and he suspected that that would forever be held over him in some small way. It could be worse, though -- he could be cousin Craig, due to inherit a sheep farm he had no intention of keeping. Fergie drank.

When did he start? He looked up at the ceiling, consulting his mental calendar. “Er, Friday,” he said, scratching at his stubbled jaw absently. “They’ve been wanting someone all summer and that. Think people are still a bit spooked after Professor Burbage and then with the Sweden stuff--” He stopped to hiccough, hand over his mouth, then remained silent as he frowned. This was all becoming a little dark a conversation given how tonight had started. He shook his head. “We can get dinner at the Thistle after.”

Honey looked at the ceiling when Fergie did, glancing back to him when he spoke again. He started Friday. That was soon. She nodded, straws back in her mouth for another drink. She was still listening as he carried on--Burbage and Sweden-- that was Honey’s cue to interject because they weren’t going to be having that sort of conversation now, here, with that much alcohol in their systems. (Thankfully Hogwarts had a smaller turnover rate these days and Honey hadn’t let her mind get to that point yet.)

He went on before she could genuinely interrupt, though. What were her plans Friday? If it were Wednesday now then Friday was-- “Like two days from now?” She had internalized that it was soon but two days--less--wasn’t a lot of time to figure out what to teach a bunch of children.

She could do dinner Friday, though. “Love to,” she said, smiling before she had another drink. It was better than him having an early class and wanting breakfast, because Friday morning typically followed Thursday night and she had set plans she didn’t feel like cancelling just for a meal with her brother. She didn’t realize she’d vocalized (most of) her thoughts until the words were already out of her mouth: “Can’t do breakfast Fridays so s’good it’s a late class.” She had another drink as she decided how best to change the subject because Fergie was likely to pry about anything.

“What’ll you teach?”

“Aye, not much warning,” he said with a wry smile. He’d manage, though, he thought. It wasn’t like they were expecting him to be a real professor -- he was just a guest speaker (as he’d told Honey several times by now), so he just needed to be able to talk about something for an hour. He wasn’t sure what McGonagall’s plan was moving forward -- if Hogwarts hadn’t found a permanent professor yet, it didn’t seem likely that they’d find one in the next week either. Perhaps the office would just have to do a sort of rotation to help out. If the class wasn’t being taught properly they could hardly expect students to get an O.W.L. or a N.E.W.T. in the subject, and then there’d be a shortage of qualified wizards -- admittedly, it wasn’t as critical as Charms, say, but the way Shacklebolt seemed to be leading the Ministry, it certainly wouldn’t hurt.

“Great,” Fergie smiled, more warmly this time, and had a sip of whisky. What would he teach? “Dunno yet. Something useful,” he smirked. Merlin knew that the syllabus in his day had been full of some absolute nonsense inbetween the actual worthwhile information. “Not like—” Fergie stopped abruptly and his face fell as he lowered his glass from where he’d been holding it near his mouth.

His brow furrowed in confusion as Honey’s previous statement replayed in his head. “Why? What’ve you got on Friday mornings?” he asked curiously; had she just said can’t do breakfast he might’ve attributed it to her wanting every possible minute of a lie-in (nothing new there), but she’d tacked on ‘Fridays’ and that raised suspicion. Thursday was her day off, too, so it wasn’t like she had some appointments on a Friday morning she wouldn’t schedule for Thursdays.

Alright, that was too close to her telling Fergie about Charlie (because now that she was thinking about not telling him, her whisky-soaked brain thought it might be a good idea to just get it over with). But Fergie moved on, and Honey moved on with him. Something useful, he said; Honey opened her mouth to suggest something, closed it again when she had no suggestions, not even a joke one. Not like-- sheep farming, she was about to say when his face fell. Her eyes went immediately to his drink, trying to remember how many he’d had and when was the last time he’d been sick from drinking and--

It was a little worse than that. Fergie backtracked to Friday mornings and Honey thought she kept her face neutral but really, she couldn’t help herself from smirking softly. It was more like who she’s got on but she knew enough to not make that joke. Not now, anyway. “No, I just--” She shrugged, setting her drink down, stalling for time as she shifted a little in her seat under the guise of making herself more comfortable. She should have come up with a better excuse by now--it’d been how many months?--but surprisingly enough, she hadn’t needed the excuse yet, despite Charlie not being the only one she was trying to keep Fergie in the dark about.

The best lies were mostly true, anyway. “Just have a standing--” she stopped before she could call it a date; she waved her hand in front of her like it was no big deal. “Am not drinking and apparating, so…” She didn’t want to say she might have a guest he would run into: “Won’t be home.” That’d be true half the time, at least. Fergie didn’t immediately point out the floo option, but he also didn’t immediately assume it was a muggle--because that would make sense, not having them over to her flat--if he was asking who, as if there was a chance he’d know them.

She waved him off, not answering his question. “It’s not serious.” That could count as answer considering the last time they’d had this conversation, Fergie had just walked in on a half-dressed Harlan in her kitchen--making breakfast, mind--and that had turned out to be serious enough.

He knew that look, and he did not care to know more detail (he did). Honey was stalling and Fergie rolled his eyes, too steamed to consider being more subtle about it.

Well, at least she wasn’t drinking and apparating. “I bloody hope not,” he said grumpily, as if that had ever been something his sister would do. Of course, there was always that one idiot who did think it was alright to apparate drunk--usually Charlie Baker, and Fergie had started to make a concerted effort to pick pubs closer to Charlie’s new locale to try and reduce the risk (and keep his conscience clear)--and it wasn’t like muggle drink driving where you could just take someone’s keys off them.

But she wouldn’t be home. Fergie frowned, sat up a little in his seat, and waved his hand dismissively (almost aggressively). “Alright, I get it,” he told her. He really didn’t want the details -- or not those ones anyway.

He got through one frowny sip of whisky before asking “Who?” because he at least wanted to know if he knew them (and maybe to make sure she hadn’t gone back to Harlan after what he’d done -- pot, kettle notwithstanding). Honey avoided answering him, instead telling him it wasn’t serious. “Oh, aye,” he said, as if that was great news, “and how long has it been?”

Fergie seemed sufficiently disturbed by the prospect of her not being home after a night out and Honey smirked to herself before she took another drink. In any other circumstance, she might suggest he try it himself, loosen up a little bit, but she needed to keep him in a good mood--if she could call this one, anyway--if she was going to be successful backing out of this conversation. She was already too close to saying something she shouldn’t, probably wasn’t doing herself any favors by having another swallow of her whisky.

She ignored his who, though he seemed to catch that, could tell she was avoiding it. (It wouldn’t be the first time she had dodged one of his questions, after all.) “Aye,” she echoed, confirming it wasn’t serious. He asked another question and she didn’t realize what he was asking until she had already answered him: “Your birthday.” At least it was that answer, and not the more truthful answer of however many years it had been, never mind how many breaks there had been; that wouldn’t be a good look for her.

‘His birthday’ wasn’t really a good look for her, either; Honey had told him she had left his party early (and without saying goodbye) because she hadn’t been feeling very celebratory, what with the quidditch Final being the next day. But he couldn’t possibly read into that. “It’s not serious,” she said again, trying to make a point, reason with him that it really shouldn’t matter. She would have been better off not mentioning anything, let him risk walking in on something he didn’t want to see.

She sighed and shifted in her seat, draining the rest of her glass and fishing another cherry out from the ice. “Why do you want to know?” She should have tried harder to change the subject, but hopefully the whisky would slow him down as much as it was slowing her.

His birthday. His birthday. In June. It  was now October (just, but still), which meant it had been at least three months, and Honey was trying to tell him it wasn’t serious, which concerned him because she had never even had to stipulate this before (in fairness, she had never had two actual boyfriends before, let alone one after the other -- or concurrently, whatever, he didn’t want to think about it).

But his birthday -- as in, at his birthday (she’d done that before -- well, parties, not specifically his birthday itself) or after, when she’d left (and told him the reason she hadn’t said goodbye was because she’d not been feeling her best -- which, as a good brother, he had understood because she’d literally just broken up with Harlan at the time)?

But if it was at—

It’s not serious, she said again. At the risk of sounding like an owl, he asked “Who?” again, because her avoidance of just telling him whether or not he knew the person was making him less confident that he didn’t, and the fact she had now twice said it wasn’t serious—

“Because,” Fergie started, already indignant (though he felt justified -- history was in his favour), “I’d rather find out from you than Witch Weekly.” An exaggeration, but history was still in his favour here. And the sentiment was partly true, but he was more concerned that she’d taken Harlan back.

He didn’t say anything about ‘his birthday’ but Honey could practically see the wheels spinning in his head as he thought about it, running her words back as he attempted to work out the exact timing of what--or who--she was talking about. So she decided to say something else instead, reassuring him it wasn’t serious.

Honey ignored his who? again and finished her drink, using her straw to spear a cherry somewhat angrily.

She sat up a little straighter before she leaned in, lowering her voice (though she was still loud enough to be overheard because she had lost her ability to be covert two or three drinks ago). “Well it won’t be in Witch Weekly because I’m not exactly bringing him around here, am I?” The Archive, specifically-- even if they did ever go out, Charlie had shite taste in whisky; Honey was pretty sure he only drank it because that was all she ever offered him (to drink).

“I wasn’t telling you because this--” Honey waved her hand at the judgemental face he was making-- “Is exactly what you did the last time.” Her eyes went a little wide but surely that reaction wasn’t specific to Charlie-- she could be talking about anyone, really. She crossed her arms across her chest and sat back, rolling her eyes. “Lighten up.”

Honey leaned forward and Fergie leaned in to meet her, despite himself, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. His light eyes widened in surprise as she hissed (loudly) at him. She was back with him, wasn’t she? After everything he had done—

He had unintentionally adopted what Honey affectionately called his ‘judgey face’, which he shared with his mother. He hadn’t, at least, crossed his arms over (yet). But— “Last time?” he repeated before he had given his brain a moment to process. He hadn’t judged her for getting with Harlan (much, aside from the whole overlapping with Will thing) last time, and he tried to think of whom he had—

“Are you shagging Charlie again?” he asked indignantly (also loudly, a man on the next table looked in their direction -- mostly Honey’s). The look on his sister’s face said it before she needed to admit to anything. “Have you just been shagging him this whole time?” Fergie added exasperatedly, genuinely uneasy about the answer -- it was one thing to know his mate was sleeping with his sister, quite another to be involved (by extension) in an affair that had resulted in a divorce.

“This was why you had your knickers in a twist over his wedding, wasn’t it?” Fergie continued before he slouched back, defeated. He rubbed his palms over his face. “For fuck’s sake, Honey.”

Well, that sounded more like an accusation than a question, didn’t it? Honey bristled, her jaw tensing as she swallowed, making a point to keep her eyes on her brother because it would be telling if she looked away now. She had to do something though, so she scrunched up her face, her forehead and nose wrinkling, as if shagging Charlie was the last thing she wanted to do. Fergie had a follow up question--accusation--before she could get any further in her denial of his first one.

“What? No.” Not the whole time; what did he even mean by the whole time? Hadn’t she literally just said it had been since his birthday? If that was what he meant (it had to be), then no harm admitting that much because that was just more proof of how this wasn’t a serious thing. “Well, ye--” she started, before Fergie cut her off.

Her expression a few seconds ago might have been a wee exaggerated but the look she gave him now was certainly more genuine. Is that what he really thought? That Charlie getting married had affected her in any way? “No,” she said loudly, before she leaned forward again because Merlin help her if anyone overheard her trying to explain this to Fergie, something she didn’t think she would ever need to explain, that she wasn’t some sort of lovestruck idiot.

“Look that—“ was different, she was going to say (because it was and they were divorced now anyhow) but he couldn’t let her get a word in. She mimicked his tone and words, though she threw her hands up instead of hiding her face with them. “For fuck’s sake, Duke.”

She took a deep breath before she launched into her explanation, still leaning close over the table. “He was single and trying to date me and then he was married, what— six months later?” She thought her volume was appropriate for the conversation but how quiet could one be with that much whisky in them? Still: “That wouldn’t bother you?” She was right to doubt the sanctity of that marriage, all things considered, divorced after six months (and with no help from Honey). “Fuck, it doesn’t matter.” She sat back again. “This is nothing. It’s not serious.” She said it again, as if it might convince him this time.

No, she said, but Fergie would find it hard to believe her given the fact she’d as good as just admitted she’d been sleeping with Charlie without telling him — not that Fergie specifically wanted to know, and if it had been anyone else he definitely didn’t need to know, but Charlie.

He scowled at her when she used his birth name—she knew that pissed him off—and was considering just leaving in a huff before deciding he wasn’t about to leave his (thirty-year-old, fully adult) sister alone in Edinburgh in this state.

Honey began explaining and Fergie stayed slouched back in his chair, festering. Begrudgingly, he thought she had a valid point — though he hadn’t known Charlie wanted to date Honey (and didn’t know how he felt about that, either). Fergie pressed his lips together and kept his eyes on his sister. It would bother him. He sighed and brought one hand up to press his finger and thumb to a temple each, shielding his eyes. “Aye, it would bother me,” he admitted, quieter than they’d been talking up until this point.

But it wasn’t serious. So what was it? He lowered his hand and gazed off to the side as he tried to process whatever was going on between his friend and his sister (and trying not to think about it too much). Charlie had wanted to date her once, apparently—had had a crush on her back when they’d been in Hogwarts too (but who hadn’t he fancied back in Hogwarts?)—had divorced his wife less than six months ago and was already back to Honey (how soon? Did he want to know?). And what was Honey’s thought process in all of this? She didn’t want to date Charlie, had had a strop when he’d gone and married that American girl, and now he was a divorcee she was sleeping with him again? Merlin above.

Fergie sat up slowly and met Honey’s eyes wearily. “So how long after his divorce did he come knocking this time?” It was his careful way of confirming that it had definitely been after.

Honey hoped Fergie could feel her eyes on her, even from behind his hand, but especially once he pulled his hand away and purposefully looked at anywhere else but her. He had admitted it would bother him, so why weren’t they dropping this? Why had she brought it up in the first place? It’d only been five minutes or so but she had already forgotten the celebratory mood they had been in.

She had already told him it had been since his birthday--and she didn’t think adding that she and Charlie had left Fergie’s party together would really be helping her cause, as much as she wanted to push the blame on him (for having a birthday?)--but it seemed like that had slipped Fergie’s mind. It was probably a good thing, too; a week later she had invited Charlie to her birthday party and Fergie had spent most of the evening chatting him up; she didn’t want to be around when Fergie remembered how linear time worked.

But maybe it would help to reiterate just how little she’d actually seen Charlie. Sure, they had (re)started hooking up a few months ago, but he’d been gone for half the time on his tour. She opened her mouth to say something, pivoting at the last second to something a little more direct (and defensive): “Fuck you, Fergie.” It had more bite than if she had told him to fuck off and she had done it on purpose. They didn’t need to be talking about Charlie’s marriage (or lack thereof) because it wasn’t relevant. She had only brought it up to excuse her behavior over a year ago, when Fergie was invited to the rush job of a wedding.

“I’m not divorced,” she said, glaring, taking her eyes off him only to glance at her glass; it was empty, which was a good thing because she didn’t want to waste anything but she didn’t want to sit and chat any longer, either. She stood, ignoring the floaty feeling in her head and the slight wobble in her first step away from the table. “You’re embarrassing yourself.” It was a declaration more than anything else, and she headed toward the fireplace before she could change her mind.

[[ out ]]