Magical Hogwarts

saturday 2nd july 2005

All things considered, Honey had taken her birthday being overshadowed by Banshee’s first show of their tour pretty well. It hadn’t stopped her from bringing up the fact that it was her birthday (today) at every opportunity (every opportunity), but he hadn’t really expected anything less. He had worked out how to shut her up though – namely, snogging in a corner of the club the label had booked out for the after party.

His side of their conversations about today—up until today—had mostly focused on how it wasn’t his fault this was the first saturday of the summer, or that he’d asked about pushing it back (once, and half-heartedly – but he left that bit out), or the number of immovable holidays that he put up with for her job (Hallowe’en, especially)—

Charlie let out a soft noise as they readjusted, her hand finding its way lower, his tongue sliding back over hers, the taste of her mouth tinted by the cocktails she’d been drinking. He pulled back, just barely, overcome by the desire to tell her the truth; he hesitated, meeting her glazed eyes, and smiled lopsidedly—fondly—at her. “I— You know the hotel?” he began, referring to the room he’d booked in the central city for tonight – for her birthday, so that they didn’t have to go back to his – where Fflur was still staying, effectively causing him to primarily spend his nights in Hogsmeade for the last few weeks because Honey was weird about staying at his now.

He waited for some semblance of drunken recognition from Honey that they had stopped snogging for the moment, were having a conversation – allowed her one more lingering kiss before he continued; “We were meant to go away,” he explained, poorly. “Like, I’d booked a portkey and— Ferg was gonna cover the shop, I just… I didn’t forget.” He laboured over the last word, hoping it was clear what he hadn’t forgotten: his girlfriend’s birthday.

@Honey Bea Flume

Honey–sans boyfriend–had had an early dinner with her best friend, her brother, his fiancée. She had made an effort to not look too annoyed at Charlie–the missing boyfriend–for not being there, considering why he wasn’t there. He hadn’t planned the show, hadn’t picked the day, and she was probably too old to be upset about not having the perfect birthday (as if Charlie was the reason something would be perfect).

She had seen him for a couple minutes before the show, but they weren’t alone (and certainly weren’t alone). She watched the show from backstage, because that seemed to be something a girlfriend would do (and she definitely wasn’t comparing this to watching a quidditch game from box seats, and how that was the thing to do). Honey had heard the new album several times thanks to both her radio and her dad, but watching Charlie on stage was– hot, for lack of a better word, and by the time the show was over, she had forgotten she was supposed to be annoyed with him. (Him playing the two songs she knew were about her certainly hadn’t hurt.)

Honey fared better at the after party: between the cocktails and telling whoever would listen that it was her birthday–and after a few cocktails, also telling whoever wouldn’t listen–she managed to get Charlie on his own. Mostly. They weren’t as discreet as Honey thought they were, and even then she knew she was snogging him a little too enthusiastically for polite company. She was no stranger to having a shag in the bathroom, but she figured she could do this for a while longer– but not too long. How late was he expected to stay at a party that was one-third for him? She thought she might encourage him, shift her hand a bit lower–

He broke the kiss, and Honey made a soft noise of disappointment. She opened her eyes, found his, then raised her eyebrows because this was turning into a longer pause than she thought the situation called for. But then he asked about the hotel he had (smartly) booked for the night, if she knew it. It had to be obvious where her mind was, that she wanted to leave, go to the hotel, but she humored him and nodded once. She didn’t say anything, hoping that would be the full extent of the conversation, but he didn’t immediately start kissing her again so apparently they were having a chat now (though she got ini one more kiss before letting him carry on).

They were meant to go away, he said, and she furrowed her brow, confused. He went on: a portkey, and Ferg covering the shop, so he meant like, away away. Not their more typical one-night-away-but-back-to-open-the-shop kind of away. She wasn’t sure what to do with that information, knew that she ought to be uncomfortable with the idea, and the surprise, the amount of forethought it required, the however many days he might have been expecting her to not think about work– at the very least, she should be uncomfortable with the fact that she wasn’t uncomfortable.

But he hadn’t forgotten her birthday–as if she would have let him–and curiosity (or snog withdrawal) got the best of her.  “Where to?”

He was about eighty per cent sure that was a frown of confusion, not disgust, so perhaps they weren’t on the same wavelength but that was better than the alternative. Maybe make that seventy per cent—

“Er, well,” he began strongly. “Iceland.” He wet his lips and adjusted his hold (hands) on her, meeting her eyes in short bursts rather than with any solid consistency. “I thought— You don’t ever really, talk about anywhere but, it’s not hot… and it’d mostly’ve been in the hotel.” He ought not to be sounding so lacklustre about it, but the farthest he’d convinced her to travel (for him, specifically) had been Switzerland and he was relatively certain that she’d only gone along with it because she’d lived there while studying chocolate or whatever, and because it was a guaranteed shag back when their shags had been less guaranteed. And that had been before they were seeing each other exclusively, and it had been— christ, two years ago.

The most ‘travel’ they had done had been before they were official, but it had all been around the UK, really (and Ireland, if he was being pedantic for Sam). And he didn’t know why he had thought it would be a good idea but he hadn’t had any other ideas and maybe a small part of him had hopes of her visiting him on tour again, and not just this tour, and not just Geneva (they weren’t even going to Switzerland this time).

“It were just… something more exotic than Orkney,” he teased with a soft smirk. “They’ve got sheep.”

Iceland, he said, and Honey raised her eyebrows, expecting some more explanation (because they hadn’t immediately gone back to snogging). She kept her gaze on him, despite him constantly not looking at her, though she was quickly distracted by him wetting his lips. She relaxed her expression, hopeful she had misread things and that had been the whole conversation; she had been about to lean back in (never mind how close they were already) when he carried on with talking, explaining himself, or his choices, or whatever.

Was he blaming her for it? Oh, no, just explaining that Iceland wasn’t hot–she’d gathered that much from the name, thank you–but they wouldn’t have left the hotel anyway, and Honey was back to raising both eyebrows, more suggestively this time. “Go on,” she said, as if they’d get to discussing what they would have done instead of a more practical demonstration.

Except they weren’t going on this holiday, and they were still not snogging.

And it were just-- Honey dropped her gaze to Charlie’s collar, the smudge of lipstick she was responsible for. She brought up a hand to smooth it out, her other hand not moving but still buried between them. He was talking about Orkney, how Iceland was more exotic, and Honey laughed as she dragged her gaze back up.

Honey’s collar-smoothing hand had moved on to his topmost button, and Charlie was going on about sheep. “Sheep,” she repeated, popping his button through the buttonhole with one hand. “I do always plan my holidays on how many sheep they have.” As if she went on holidays at all. But: “Can we go later?” she asked, her hand moving down to the next button. She could extend her birthday until after he was back from tour, if she had to.

Honey’s go on was not solid reassurance but it was enough. Charlie was trying to watch her fiddle with his collar – but it was hard, this close. He brought his attention back up to her face when she laughed, grinning sheepishly (no pun intended) back at her.

Her fingers moved to his button next, and he tucked his chin to look down at what she was doing – namely, undressing him. He glanced back up and laughed. “If you ever voluntarily took one you probably would.” He was promptly distracted by the brushing of her skin against his as she continued working on his buttons, and the request to go—to Iceland—later; he kept his eyes on hers, gazing at her with a softness that didn’t quite fit with the way she was sat in his lap, progressively attempting to remove his shirt. “Yeah,” he replied, his volume lower, “if you want to.”

After a moment he tilted his head up to kiss her again, enough to satiate her (and himself) but drawing back before they could cause any real scandal – they could leave soon, would leave soon; he brought one hand up from her waist to clasp gently around hers, stalling her from getting any further on removing his shirt. “Did you enjoy the show?” he asked between lingering smooches, eyes half-lidded.

She thought about protesting by way of mentioning her week long holidays in Majorca, but she thought better of it. They weren’t really voluntary, were they? Besides, she didn’t really want to talk about Majorca–’family time’ was implied–right now, considering. Honey blinked to bring her focus back to Charlie, easily done as she lingered between her button work. She asked about Iceland instead, about them going later. He said yeah, and she brought her gaze back up to meet his eye, popping the next button without glancing down.

If she wanted to-- Iceland, that is. “I do,” she said, matching his volume. And she thought she actually meant it, too. Maybe not a full fledged holiday holiday, but a weekend? She could pretty easily figure out which weekend was historically the slowest at the shop– except he had asked Fergie to cover the shop for her. Knew she wouldn’t want to go without some reassurance that Honeydukes would be alright when she got back. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing, the holiday holiday.

Her hand was on the third button when he kissed her again (finally) and she assumed they were done talking (again, finally), but apparently not. And apparently she wasn’t allowed any more buttons either. Honey drew her lips into a pout; what a buzzkill.

But did she enjoy the show? He didn’t give her the chance to answer before kissing her again, so she didn’t rush to answer him, and only said anything when she needed to take a breath. “Mhmm.” She wasn’t very focused on what she was saying, hoping they were at least getting closer to leaving. “You looked hot,” she said, as good with words as ever. “If I weren’t already in love with you–” among other things she thought were implied by sitting in his lap– “I would be now.” She smirked into the next kiss, finding his next button with her other hand. “The view’s much better backstage.”

Charlie took that mhmm to mean ‘yes’, coupled with the continued snogging, and that very upfront compliment; he grinned lazily. Distracted by her mouth back on his—they were definitely getting closer to having to leave—he forgot about stopping her from undoing his buttons, but it wasn’t until mid-kiss that he finally processed what she’d just said—if she wasn’t already in love with him—and he immediately stiffened, no longer an active participant in the snogging.

Honey spoke again and gave him a little breathing space, and he was torn between wanting more and wanting less. He forced a (much more nervous) grin, not quite in a place where he could adopt a smirk on demand in the wake of that admission— But she didn’t seem fazed, so she was either so comfortable that it wasn’t a big deal (it was) or she was drunk (she was) and didn’t mean to say it—not out loud, anyway (his ego wasn’t above believing that she meant it)—and was he just supposed to ignore it?

She was kissing him again and that helped. Temporarily. He made a point of kissing her back harder, as if that would sufficiently occupy his thoughts so that he didn’t have to think about— Nevermind, not talking was letting him think too much. “Did you spend the entire time staring at my arse?” he murmured, their faces still close, and if she wasn’t trollied she might’ve picked up on the waver in his tone.

He glanced down at her hand resting on his chest, fingers tucked under the material to splay across bare skin. Another button had parted ways with its buttonhole and his options were 1) brush over it, go back to the hotel and try to forget she’d said something she clearly meant to keep to herself, or 2) ruin things by doing literally anything else.

“We should—” He wet his lips (not that they needed it, he could feel the remnants of her gloss on his top lip). “You wanna go?”

Honey had already been aware that she was snogging Charlie too enthusiastically for polite company, didn’t mind at all when he added a bit more enthusiasm to it. Because she had complimented him? Whatever the reason, she was alright with it. She abandoned his buttons to smooth her hand back up his chest, under the fabric of his shirt, spreading her fingers wide before applying pressure with her nails. She thought she might suggest (again) that they leave, so he might feel her up (more) but she didn’t know what might convince him now, if she hadn’t already. She had already told him he was hot, that she was–

Charlie pulled back before she could, asking her something–something about his arse–but she was still caught on what she had already said. Or maybe said? She couldn’t be sure she had actually said that out loud. And if she had (she hadn’t), he hadn’t heard her anyway. “Obsessed,” she said, because that seemed like an answer that could fit whatever question he had asked about his arse. She loosened up her grip, slid her hand lower again.

He had probably been too distracted by her to know what she was saying, or maybe she was at that point in her drinking where Charlie struggled to understand her through her accent. But judging by his next suggestion (leaving, finally), it had been the distraction.”Please,” she said, not caring if she sounded too eager. It was only with slight reluctance that she slid off his lap, making sure her dress was properly covering her bum–and giving her tits a bit more air as she pulled her hem down, all the better to keep Charlie distracted–while giving him space to ready himself to stand up.

“Taxi?” She asked after another minute, extending her hand to pull him up– and pull him to her for another kiss.

…

A fry up, french toast, and waffles hadn’t sounded like a lot when she had ordered it–and Charlie had told her to get both when she couldn’t decide between the toast and waffles–but once it had arrived and was all laid out, it looked excessive, certainly fitting the brioche french toast with seasonal compote and waffles with chocolate and Tahitian vanilla chantilly cream descriptions she had thought were a bit over-the-top to begin with. But it was her birthday (still, she had decided) and Charlie was still in the shower, so Honey tucked in, trying a bite of everything (minus the veg on the fry up platter). She had already showered, dried her hair, everything she needed to do to eventually leave for work–though she had pushed her own hours back by a few–short of getting dressed (because the bathrobes were far too fluffy to not be worn).

She picked up a piece of the maple-glazed bacon and took a bite, considered it for a moment before eating the rest of it. There was only one other piece and she rolled her eyes to herself because she was going to be considerate and let Charlie–she had heard the shower turn off a couple minutes past–have it. “You need to eat this before I do,” she said, loud enough to be heard in the other room, as she stood up, bacon in hand. “Seriously,” she added as she entered the bathroom–larger than her kitchen–and only pausing briefly to give him a once over. “It’s so good,” she went on, not really thinking about the logistics of eating while shaving, holding it out for him to either take it for himself or eat it out of her hand, dealer’s choice.

“I love this place.” she said–as if that hadn’t already been obvious–and popped the other half in her mouth because she could only be so considerate.

Obsessed, she said, and he was inclined to agree – but there was a question over it now.

Honey stood after another quick kiss, and Charlie adjusted his jeans before standing. “Yeah,” he answered before his mouth was pressed against hers again – he’d have just apparated them if he didn’t think it’d start another argument about drunk-apparating, and then he remembered it was a muggle hotel, anyway, and the back of a black cab was the one of the less unusual places he’d initiated some underhanded foreplay.

…

Charlie had woken to Honey deliberating over her breakfast, and in an effort to get some more sleep had told her to just order whatever she wanted, even if that meant two breakfasts, plus a fry up for him (he was hungry and hungover). He had heard plates being manoeuvred from trolley to table whilst still in the shower.

Honey appeared in the doorway brandishing bacon. Charlie looked at her once to check if she was serious, then smelt it and leant in to take a bite of the rasher from her hand. “Mm,” he hummed in appreciation. He’d just lifted his razor back to his skin when she said she loved this place, and he managed to nick himself with the blade. He hissed air in through his teeth, distracted at first by the bright red blossoming on his reflected cheek, but he’d only done that to himself because—

He grabbed one of the pristine white face cloths and ran it under the tap, then pressed it against his cut. It wasn’t big, it’d heal – he was more worried about the L word. She’d said it last night, but he wasn’t sure then (or now) if she’d meant to or even realised she had – unless she’d said it now again, on purpose, to try and prompt him or something? Charlie lowered the flannel and met his own eyes in the mirror, forced himself to finish the task at hand.

He emerged from the ensuite and warily took a seat at the table with their breakfasts laid out, towel still around his waist. Honey was eating, none-the-wiser – or still waiting for him to pass the test. Charlie lifted the cloche from his plate and picked up his cutlery. This was their last breakfast together for— well, it might be longer now. But was that why she had said it in the first place? Did she think it’d stop him from having sex with other women while he was gone? He chanced a glance at her and away again, back down at his food.

Honey grimaced around her mouthful of bacon, taking Charlie’s shaving injury as her cue to leave (though not without a last look at his towelled bum).

She started in earnest on the waffles first, and was halfway through them when Charlie joined her. Honey raised her eyebrows suggestively, looking—obviously, she thought—from his towel up to his face, but he didn’t notice; she relaxed her face and went back to her breakfast. If he was more hungover than she was, it must have been the bottle of champagne they’d had once they had arrived at the hotel. She thought they had split it pretty evenly, but apparently not.

Deciding to be nice about it, Honey didn’t make any intentionally loud noises, or anything really. But he still hadn’t said anything by the time she had moved on to her french toast—not a thanks for last night, or a thanks for ordering the breakfast he was so interested in, while he had a lie in—so it was a mood, then. She couldn’t think of any obvious reason why; she hadn’t done anything, anyway. Right? Her chewing slowed as she shifted her efforts to thinking.

She had thought about it a lot already—lying awake last night when trying to fall asleep, mostly—and had decided she had definitely said it, that she was in love with him. But he hadn’t heard her. The music had been loud, he had been distracted (by her, specifically). He hadn’t reacted at all and there should have been something, right? It wasn’t like  she hadn’t meant it, and if she felt like this, then he did, too, right? It was Charlie, and she was, well, her. It was just that Honey wasn’t ready for him to know, still wasn’t sure when she knew, but she did know she wasn’t going to waste her first time telling someone by doing it too soon. What if she was wrong, just getting ahead of things yet again? She set down her cutlery and picked up her mocha, taking a large sip.

Honey needed to figure out if Charlie had heard her, without asking if he did, without letting him get the upper hand, without letting her temper get the best of her. She spared him the eye contact, looking at her coffee instead as she sat back in her chair. “Am working late tonight,” she said, conversational. She had to make up for her late morning and for her early closing the night before. “But tomorrow?” It was a fairly normal question for them and he wasn’t leaving leaving for another week because his next show was in Dublin, so… She had another sip of her drink, glancing at him over the rim of her mug.