Magical Hogwarts

3 may 2005

Honey stared at her brother across the table, blinking and looking back toward the bar once it was clear he wasn’t going to make eye contact with her. It was the last night of their parents’ visit—they had come over to help with the shop, what with Caoimhe being away and the Battle anniversary thing happening in the village the previous day—which meant a family dinner at the Unicorn and Thistle. She had initially been a bit offended that Charlie hadn’t been invited, but now that dinner was over she was honestly relieved he hadn’t been there. It had been a very weird dinner, and for once it hadn’t been Honey’s fault.

Their parents had gone back to the flat (presumably to have some time alone to talk) and Edith had gone off to take care of the dug (presumably to not be around the Flumes while they figured their shit out), so the party was down to Honey and Fergie. It hadn’t been hard, at least, to convince Isla—the server, not their mum—to bring them a whole bottle of Scotch rather than needing to come back every five minutes for their refills. Honey shifted, her back against the wall, her legs stretched out down the length of the booth’s bench. She rested her arm on the table, her hand wrapped firmly around her glass.

“Suppose we don’t need to be telling anyone,” she said, taking a drink after another second. She set her glass down before turning her head to look at her brother. She figured he might not want people to know that Adrastos Rosier was almost definitely their grandfather— and whatever other family tree implications that little fact brought with it. Honey didn’t really want to think about it. She finished what was in her glass, then reached for the bottle.

@Fergie Flume

He lowered his gaze to his glass, letting go of the crystal to sluggishly move his hand across the table, grasp the bottle of whisky and top himself up, then Honey’s glass. He didn’t bother putting the cork back in, figuring they were likely to finish what was left in the bottle before they headed home – she to the flat with their parents, he back to his dog and fiance.

Fergie had half-expected a more biting comment from Honey, now that their parents had left them alone, but this wasn’t his fault – well, telling them was, he supposed, and he’d second-guessed his decision multiple times, but he couldn’t have kept it to himself even if he had thought that would be the right thing to do. They deserved to know, their dad deserved to know.

“No,” he agreed, lifting his glass to his lips and drinking it like one might drink water. He looked at Honey finally, wondering what she saw now, looking at him – an undeniable likeness to their assumed grandfather, down to the streak of grey-white hair above his left eye; the photograph was tucked back in the folder, so that they didn’t have to keep staring the truth in the (literal) face.

“Wouldnae do anybody any good,” he continued, trying to ignore the sinking feeling that he hadn’t done his family any good in sharing this information. But if Edith’s journalist friend had found this, he couldn’t imagine it would stay tucked away forever.  “But,” he inhaled deeply, exhaling in a sigh, “at least we know, so if…” he trailed off, hoping to believe that if he didn’t say it out loud it wouldn’t come to pass – that it would stay a secret between them.

Honey poured herself a refill, then looked at her brother. He was looking at her, too, so she lowered her feet to the floor as she turned toward him, the table. “No,” she agreed quickly. It wouldn’t do anybody any good, least of all the Flumes. And what about the shop? She couldn’t imagine telling Grace, Charlie– actually, she could, and the imagined conversations didn’t end well. Honey brought her glass to her lips with one hand, pushed the bottle toward her Fergie with the other.

But? Honey didn’t think there was really a ‘but’ to this situation, but Fergie continued: at least they knew, so if… Honey had no clue where he was going with that, didn’t bother asking. She shrugged, either agreeing or not, and had another drink. She was unsure of the exact picture she had come up with when thinking of their grandfather, but it was someone like her dad, just a muggle version. Because they all thought he’d been a muggle. Not a Rosier. Honey glanced at the folder, then drew her eyes back up to meet Fergie’s.

He’d inherited the physical similarities–that photograph was so eerie–so what did that leave for Honey? (She could only put off thinking about herself for so long.) She asked the first question to come to mind. “Is this why I was in Slytherin?” She had gone into the sorting assuming she’d be put in Hufflepuff like her dad–she remembered telling this to Grace on the boat, because she wasn’t delusional enough to think she belonged in Ravenclaw like her mum–because these things seemed to run in the family. But then– Slytherin, and she figured she must be special somehow, a one-of-a-kind Flume. She reached for the bottle again as she finished her glass.