Magical Hogwarts

Harlan caught the face of his watch as it shone under the lights of Hogsmeade—  store fronts flickering closed, lamps doing the same and the moon doing the opposite. The familiarity of it all wasn't lost on him. But it had been... god, how long had it been since he'd actually been there? It was only as Honeydukes came into view (even less familiar than the last time) that he realized that he had no idea.

Audrey nagged him every now and again but Harlan was good at compartmentalizing.

Honeydukes— and all that came with it (not her, specifically, obviously)— belonged to a different lifetime. And it was one that he intended on leaving in it's place.

Until of course a letter came, and he couldn't help himself. The age old tradition of getting Arya's once favorite sweet (was it still, he wondered only when he allowed himself the indulgence) was one that he had intended on honoring until he physically couldn't any longer. So, something like a "discontinuation" wasn't going to stand in his way.

He knew that Honey meant well in letting him know. She knew the sentiment better than most.

The bell of the door dinged and all at once he was brought back to another time and place. Harlan took in the empty shop in search of her.

@Honey Bea Flume

The pre-Easter Honeydukes kitchen was a mess of organized chaos, with different areas set up for different parts of the chocolate-egg-making process. On one oak table, chocolate was setting in molds; on the other table, set chocolates were waiting to be filled; and in the cramped corner of the long counter, Honey was decorating the filled chocolates, biting her bottom lip in concentration as she made up various delicate patterns with a tiny-tipped paintbrush.

She loved her job.

Caoimhe had been gone only twenty minutes before Honey heard the bell. They were technically closed, but it was Honey’s responsibility to lock up and naturally, she hadn’t; she hadn’t done anything but chocolate eggs for the past few hours. She sat up straight, rolling her head to stretch out her neck, set down her paintbrush and rolled her shoulders. She pushed the sleeves of her jumper up unnecessarily– she had already rolled the sleeves up to her elbows, and different splotches of color dotted her arms. Her apron, at least, was surprisingly clean (and almost as pink as her jumper).

“Can I–” Honey stopped speaking as soon as she saw him, stopped herself in the doorway between the kitchen and the shop. She was torn between finishing her original question–she had been in a good mood and was going to offer to help–and changing it to something along the lines of can you leave?

Honey had sent Harlan a letter–or a note, more like–earlier that day, letting him know that Glacial Snowflakes were being discontinued. There was nothing more to it, just a thought you’d like to know kind of thing. She knew the sweets meant something to him in a way they didn’t for most people– but he, Harlan, personally, had not bought them from Honeydukes since– since before she knew him, she thought. She figured he’d sent someone to do it for him, the last couple times, so she hadn’t really been expecting him to show up, now. She couldn’t help that she had been hoping he would, a little.

“Hi,” she said instead, taking a step forward but not coming around the counter, unsure which sort of feeling was bubbling closest to the surface.

Harlan wasn’t surprised to see Honey but there was something in him that prickled in the familiar (and the not-quite). The scene before him was one that he had seen countless times– eventually less, then not at all– Honey, in various stages of work and him turning up after a practice, or passing through during the travel season to stay the night (or not). The sentimentality of it was quickly brushed aside.

He sucked in half of a breath and offered his palms as a peace offering and as a greeting. He wanted to convey something that said: I come in peace, I still can’t be around you, but–god damn, please don’t look at me like that.

"I got your owl," Harlan explained because he knew that he ought to. He was the one, after all, that had drawn a line in the sand– they couldn't be friends. And he stood by that. Certain kinds of people needed to stay in certain kinds of boxes. He made his way toward the front counter less tentatively than he had imagined on the entirety of his journey to Hogsmeade. "I had to–" With a breath, he paused. "–well, I don't know..." Finally, a confession.

He had no fucking clue what he was doing there.

But he knew he had to be there (in all of his sanctimony), as if saving the Glacial Snowflakes might save Arya, too.

Harlan raised his hands, and Honey raised her eyebrows.

He got her owl. She watched him trying to explain himself, trying to make it abundantly clear that he hadn’t stopped in because he really wanted to be there. He hadn’t wanted to see her, wasn’t changing his mind about not wanting to be friends, nothing like that at all. She didn’t like that she wanted there to be a reason.

She blinked twice and slipped her hands into the front pocket of her apron as he approached the counter, took a breath when he did. Harlan didn’t know, he said, and Honey just barely nodded. “Okay,” she said, her voice quiet. Thoughtful, almost– as if she could really think about anything else. At least they agreed on something: she didn’t know either.

Honey took another step forward, the counter the only thing between them. She figured the safest thing to say–safe, not making a fool out of herself this time–was what she had already said in the owl. “I just–” she started, tempted to tell him nothing, that she didn’t know, the usual, but she finished the thought with a small frown: “thought you’d like to know they were discontinuing them.” And then there would be exactly zero reasons left for him to ever be in Honeydukes again, which would probably bother him less than she hoped it would.

Harlan approached the counter but stayed a half step back– ironic, given how he’d been for most of their (non-relationship) relationship. They were together for a time, of course, but in hindsight, he wasn’t sure that he’d ever allowed himself to get as close as he knew was possible. Not truly. Arya flashed in his mind again– but, maybe she was just top of mind.

He ran a hand down the buttons of his coat to keep them busy. Seeing Honey so close felt strangely foreign- he would never admit that he’d seen her face in the Prophet every now and again. He stopped himself from clearing his throat to fill the quiet space between them when she eventually continued her thought.

She thought he would want to know.

“I did,” Of course, he did– and genuinely. The thank you was implied (he would get there eventually, he figured). “You can stop that, though, yeah?” He knew it was a family business, and there were many factors at play, but surely there was something that Honey could do? His voice was smaller, almost as if to hide the fact that he was asking her for something, after everything. Especially that.

Fuck, he hoped that she wouldn't make him beg.

Honey had sent that note thinking he would want to know, and he did. So much so, that he was able to bring himself past the point of stepping into Honeydukes again. She hadn’t needed another reminder that he wouldn’t be here for any other (Honey-related) reason, but there it was.

But then he asked if she could stop it. Her first thought was that he was talking about her, thinking about him–it wouldn’t have been hard to guess that she was, nor too far off base–but he was talking about the sweets. Of course. “Erm–” she started, then stopped. Was there something she could do? She hadn’t been thinking about it like that; she had thought Harlan would just buy up the remaining stock of snowflakes, which, for him, would come with the added bonus of never having to come here again.

She blinked, thinking about business after her brief second of whatever that was. “Maybe?” she said after another second, making it sound like a question because she was mostly unsure she could do anything. She didn’t think she could stop it stop it– it was a tiny operation; they made and sold that one thing (and maybe it really was that time consuming, making every snowflake unique); they wanted to retire. It wasn’t like Glacial Snowflakes were one of her best sellers so she hadn’t been too fussed about it.

But– “I could see if they’d want to sell,” she said before she could stop herself or think better of offering to take this on after thinking about it for all of five seconds (without talking to her technical co-owner, too) or step through the implications of purchasing an entire brand on Honeydukes’ behalf.

Despite himself, Harlan was aware of his chest as it rose and fell in anticipation. Honey didn't have an immediate answer as far as the Glacial Snowflakes were concerned. The fear in him that was dormant for years and not at all related to the sweet– that any loose tie he had left to Arya might come undone– was painfully present. Maybe? He exhaled as his palms ventured to the counter between them. It wasn't that he was expecting the help, but then again–

The gaze that he held intent on Honey flickered briefly to his knuckles. "That's okay, no, really, it's–" He began as guilt washed over him in a wave. Who the fuck was he to even ask something like that? And why was he there? He shook his head to himself when Honey spoke again.

She could see if they would want to sell. Harlan didn't avert his gaze. Instead his eyes fell into a question: what, and why? "You don't have to do that, Honey," He said eventually. "I was just–" Nostalgic, greedy, fucking desperate? "I didn't know what to do," He figured there was a duality to things he was saying, even if he would never admit it.

"I didn't realize they weren't making them," Well, discontinuing certainly implied they were gone for good but selfishly he hoped that Honey's letter had meant that Honeydukes was no longer carrying them, for one reason or another. "Have you got many left?" His eyes flickered with a quiet mischief, narrowing on her.

Honey kept her eyes on Harlan’s face–the eye contact was more comfortable than it should have been–as he placed his palms on the counter, but she glanced at them when he did the same. She was quickly fixated on them, his fingers splayed– she glanced back up when he spoke again, already backtracking the few words he had said.

She offered to see if they would sell, and after thinking about it for two more seconds, it wasn’t the most far-fetched idea. She ran a sweetshop, after all. She didn’t sell a lot of Snowflakes here, and she was pretty sure Honeydukes was the main retailer, so she wouldn’t have to make too many for inventory reasons– never mind that Harlan would only want one box, once a year. So she was doing it for business reasons, not Harlan, right? Either way she was talking herself into it.

Harlan was still looking at her, not saying anything right away, and she held his gaze, trying to channel some I’m not doing this for you energy in his direction. She kept her face on the serious side, hoping that might help her get her point across.

But he was telling her no. Honey frowned, but she didn’t look away. He didn’t know what to do, he said, and she nodded once. “I know,” she said. She really thought she did. Thought she knew him well enough.

He went on to say that he didn’t know they weren’t making them, and Honey nodded again. “I just found out.” And when she did, she turned right around and sent a note to Harlan. But there it was: did she have many left? He was going to buy her out then never come round again. Honey swallowed before answering him. “Not many,” she said. “Five boxes.” So maybe he’d have to come back in five years–once he had run out–on the off chance that they had started making them again, that she had started selling them again.

“You could see if they’d sell to you,” she suggested quietly. The recipe, the technique, though she wasn’t expecting him to know how to use either.

Harlan gauged the shift in her expression– a frown?– she'd never been easy to read, beyond surface level.

Pot met kettle.

Part of him figured that Honey ought to have been relieved that he was absolving her from the ownership he'd inadvertently placed. Glacial-fucking-snowflakes were not her burden to bear, even if her family shop had carried them for years. Even if, once upon a time, they meant so much to him. Even if they served as the catalyst for their own meeting all those years ago. The duality of it all wasn't lost on him.

And all of it was selfish.

Harlan's knuckles were flush where he gripped the counter. He noticed belatedly, paused, then stood up straight again. Composure. Despite his every effort there was a sentimentality between them, to Honey, that he couldn't shake. "Five?" He repeated breathily, his face torn between amusement and utter despair that somehow matched the sinking feeling in his chest. Only five left. "Am I allowed to ask for a whiskey?" He caught her eye casually at first, then with more seriousness.

He needed it.

Harlan stood up straight, and Honey blinked, not taking her eyes off of his. He didn’t like her answer, her only having five boxes. They were the reason they had met, and they would be the reason she wouldn’t see him again. She swallowed, nodding when he asked for confirmation. “Aye,” she said, not reassuring him that she could, at least, count to five.

His next question caught her off guard, but only because she had been expecting him to ask if he could buy those five boxes, if she could let him know if she heard anything to suggest they might not be discontinued after all. But he asked for a whiskey, or rather, if he was allowed to ask for one. “Aye,” she said again, nodding after another second. He was allowed to ask. She supposed she was allowed to say no. And failing that, she supposed that she should tell him to wait there while she went upstairs to get a bottle, bring it back down to him.

“It’s upstairs,” she said, stepping around the counter while still looking at him. She watched him, trying to gauge his reaction, try to read his mind and figure out what he was getting at by asking for a whisky in the first place. But that–whatever it was that might have meant he would follow her upstairs without her having to ask–wasn’t them anymore. “Let me grab it,” she said after another second, turning around to take the stairs up to her flat.

Whisky and glasses in hand, she headed back down–purposefully not looking in the mirror on her way out because that wasn’t what this was about–and set them on the counter, though she stayed on Harlan’s side. It was another silent moment of her pouring them each a glass–maybe a little more full than one should on a Monday–and sliding one toward him. “Sorry.” She gripped her glass as she glanced up at him. “If I’d known sooner…” she trailed off, not sure what she might be able to offer if there had been more time. Six, maybe seven boxes.

As soon as he asked, he regretted it. Well, he figured he should have, anyway.

Honey made her way around him and Harlan averted his gaze long enough to eventually watch her make her way up he all-too-familiar stair case. His gaze lingered on her, then ventured toward the even more familiar home that she was making her way toward. What would have felt salacious was laden with nostalgia, and the what-ifs of it all

Harlan was quick to remind himself that he wasn't afforded the luxury of those thoughts anymore.

He cleared his throat as Honey descended.

"Aye," He teased, reaching for the already poured whiskey. The back of his fingers brushed hers and every-god damn-part of him fought the electricity felt in the touch. Honey apologized and it sounded like a foreign language. The two of them, together, had never been good with accountability, or apologies.

"You have nothing to apologize for," Harlan said after he took a mouthful. Just because Glacial Snowflakes in some serendipitous moment brought the two of them together– via Arya, fuck– it didn't bind the two of them together. In fact, any tether he had to Honey was long gone, despite himself, and whatever sentimentality struck him with the whiskey.

Aye, he said, and Honey smirked softly, rolling her eyes after another couple seconds. She ignored the very briefest of touches— or tried to, anyway. Maybe that was what prompted her apology, trying to think about something else, get back to the issue at hand. The snowflakes.

He told her she had nothing to apologize for. Honey sipped her whisky and shrugged. “Aye.” She lowered her glass, licked a stray drop of liquid from her lip. “Maybe so.” Harlan was right–she had nothing to be sorry for–but what else was there to say? She had another sip of whisky before setting her glass on the counter, letting go of it to maybe try to temper how quickly she was knocking it back.

Honey sighed, drumming her fingers on the countertop. “I guess it was either that,” she flicked her gaze up to meet his, “Or ask how you’re doing.” She picked up her glass again and turned to lean back against the counter, looking out at her shop. “But we’re not friends,” she reminded him with a one-armed shrug. She didn’t bother reminding him that she thought they could be.

Harlan watched with careful interest as Honey danced around a substantial question– on brand, he thought, as if he hadn't been guilty of that himself, when it came to her– his eyes narrowed on her.

"Hm," He eventually hummed the thought from deep in his throat, setting down his glass. The burn of the whisky hit him in the chest and gave a jolt that he hadn't been expecting (despite knowing it well). Maybe it was the company, the place, the everything of it all that got to him. "Are those the only two options?" Apologizing or asking how he was? Then again...

His gaze softened, briefly, then refocused, his hand gripped the glass.

"How are you?" Harlan ventured, avoiding the usual line of questioning as far as it came to Honey; how was business? Maybe it was an olive branch, maybe not. More than anything he knew that he wasn't ready to leave it there. "As a acquaintance, of course," He teased, both her and himself.

Honey raised an eyebrow at Harlan’s noncommittal noise, turned her head to look at him. “No,” she said, answering his next question. Those weren’t the only two options, but nothing else really worked for them, either. They had last seen each other at Steenie’s wedding, dancing to that song, Harlan putting off trying to be friends for a few years. Maybe, he had said– and they had left plenty else unsaid.

She sipped her whisky, turning to rest her hip against the counter and look at Harlan properly in time for him to ask how she was. She raised both eyebrows this time, then smiled when he clarified: he was only asking as an acquaintance.

“Well,” she started, setting her glass down. “As an acquaintance–” she shrugged lightly–  “I’m great.” And that much was true: things were generally going well. Her family life–no one was currently upset or disappointed with her (that she knew of)--and her dating life–things with Charlie were easier than she had expected–and her business life–business would bounce back from the Valentine’s that blizzard had ruined. Of those three areas, the most acquaintance-appropriate one was business (though she hadn’t failed to notice that he didn’t specifically ask her how’s business).

She held up one paint-splotched arm, bent at the elbow. “Easter’s coming up,” she said, glancing from her forearm to Harlan. “Chocolate eggs,” she added, lowering her arm again. “And as an acquaintance,” she continued, “Did you hear about the Portree match?” She asked with a knowing grin. She’d been wearing Portree pink since Saturday, when her team had beat the Griffins.

A rare occurrence, Honey's response wasn't sarcastic— she was great— a pit grew in his chest like a moldy peach. There was so much left unsaid between the two of them and it festered, cultivating his reaction that was both happy and morbidly nostalgic. As opposed to words (and on brand), he nodded sagely as an immediate response.

What else was there to say that someone was doing great? Fucking phenomenal.

He couldn't handle that in small talk, let alone in the kind of conversation held with someone he once shared so much with.

Was anyone ever really that great? Full stop? Surely not.

"Easter, right," Harlan breathed a response that very clearly indicated he wasn't actually paying attention. Talking holidays and formalities— between them— was like an alternate universe. They never had practical conversations. Harlan sucked in a deep breath as she moved topic to Portee. "Hmm," He teased, "Hadn't heard about it,

"Remind me Portee's rank again?" Harlan spoke from over the lip of his drink with a smirk.