Magical Hogwarts

friday, 20 august 2004

Sold out– it wasn’t a bad way to end the day. Of course, it would be better if Games weren’t only half over, with the weekend promising to be busier than the past two days had been. There was still a crowd, but the Honeydukes stall had gone dark, or as dark as something draped in candy-floss-colored tartan could go. (Honey’s tartan was a bit more subdued, traditional save for the high-slit cut of her already short skirt.)

She was already going over a mental list of what she needed to do when she got home; the tartan truffles had done well, especially because she had added a bit more variety (besides only selling her own); the cranachan fudge had been the first to sell out and it would need to set the longest. People loved Honeydukes, and people loved novelties. And Fergie had promised to help with some of the less creative things–paperwork–in exchange for dinner, which meant she would need to go pick something up from the Thistle because he had already said no to the haggis tacos she had already offered.

The floo queue was short and Honey was standing on her own hearth before she had decided what to do first. She glanced at the sofa, wanting a nap, knowing she’d have a wee energy draught instead. There was an owl on the table—the windows were open—but she didn’t want to even think about actual shop orders right now. (She didn’t recognize the owl, so what else could it be?) She’d bring the order down to Caoimhe, let her deal with it.

Honey took a few steps to the left, reaching for the wall with one hand and unlacing her boots, one by one, with the other. Fergie flooed through a few seconds later, and she looked at him with a tired smile. “Coffee?” She was moving toward the stove before he could answer, having already made up her mind.

 Fergie watched as Honey was engulfed in bright green flames and then disappeared, waited a few moments — considered whether he should have offered to do the paperwork tonight or if he should have just gone home (he was trying to be supportive, keep her company, all that little brother stuff). But he had offered, so he stepped into the fire next and stated his childhood address.

He landed in the kitchen hearth with one hand over his backside and the other holding down the front of his kilt — he wore one so infrequently that he often forgot the mechanics of magical travel and the propensity for things to fly up. He stood up straight before Honey spotted him (hopefully), and stepped out into the kitchen proper.

He blinked—thought he was about to be called out, was relieved when he wasn’t—then nodded. “Aye. Pop a wee dram in it will you?” He felt like he deserved it after a long day in the (Scottish) sun, doing customer service. His brain caught up with processing that Honey was taking her boots off and he decided to do the same, moving towards the sofa to sit— stopping when he got as far as the table and spotted Edith’s owl, Ringo.

He stroked the bird’s feathers and took the folded up piece of paper from it, opened the note and read it— His forehead furrowed in confusion—the handwriting, the seeming third person, Paul and George?—his eyes flicked to the bottom and: Charlie.

Fergie re-read from the top; teenage girls, aye, that’d be right — but at least that sounded like he was being smart, for a change. Or sort of smart — he was at Fergie and Edith’s house, but with just Edith. Fergie wanted to not be worried about that—trusting Edith more than trusting Charlie—but it was hard to ignore the unpleasant sensation that had just settled in his gut.

He pushed on with reading in an effort to distract himself from those sort of thoughts: he didn’t know what the page thing meant, and didn’t know if he wanted to find out. He half-folded the note back up and held it out to Honey; “Think this is for you,” he said, meeting her eye with one of his slightly less serious judgy faces.
 

Honey didn’t exactly feel very talkative after a full day of being social, with no real break in being on her best customer-friendly behavior since she had walked around the stalls with Charlie earlier that morning; her cheeks still hurt from smiling so much (for the customers, not Charlie). “Aye,” she said, nodding in case that wasn’t clear enough: yes, she’d pop a wee dram in the coffee. She wasn’t sure what time it was but it didn’t matter much, considering the whisky she’d had before lunch (that she never actually got around to eating).

She didn’t question it when Fergie took the order form from the owl–he owned just as much of Honeydukes as she did, technically–and didn’t really process that the owl didn’t leave to return home immediately. She busied herself with making coffee, flicking her wand lazily at the stove and coffee pot in turn. She wasn’t sure what she had up here that would be good in coffee; there was only gin on the shelf, which didn’t sound too appetizing an option. There was plenty downstairs to choose from, the liqueurs she used with chocolates, and she was about to tell Fergie as much when he spoke first.

Honey raised her eyebrows, looking from the note to her brother’s face. “No kidding.” Of course it was for her, it was her flat. Still, she was expecting something business related, not the familiar handwriting she saw once she had taken the note being offered to her. Come and get me, it said, and Honey looked toward the fireplace wondering why he didn’t just floo here, seeing how he was at Fergie’s house with another fireplace on the Floo Network. She exhaled heavily and read through the note again, not in the mood to deal with this–collecting a drunk Charlie–at all.

She refolded the note and looked back at Fergie, realizing now that he had made that judgey face because she’d had a letter from Charlie. She needed Fergie’s help with the accounts, though, so she stopped herself before picking a fight. “I told him I’d be done after eight,” she said instead, asking in a roundabout way if it was alright if they ignored the collection request, left him alone with Edith for a little while.

The coffee starting bubbling and Honey dropped the note on the bench as she turned to take the pot off the burner.

 Fergie’s features barely drew into a frown at her response – he didn’t really have the energy to explain that he recognised his girlfriend’s owl, that he wouldn’t normally help himself to her post (especially right in front of her). He watched her read the note, comprehension dawning on her face (sort of) as she looked at the fireplace, and he followed her gaze as if he was expecting the fireplace to give them an answer.

He brought his attention back to his sister and was relieved that she at least looked unimpressed with her boyfriend (och) too. “Did ye, aye?” Fergie was quick to reply, eye roll and all. It only occurred to him afterwards that he was mildly surprised they made plans, let alone plans to hang out with each other after work – seemed entirely too normal, and not because Charlie didn’t technically work.

“Stunned he can wait that long,” Fergie added under his breath, moving to pull a chair at the table out and take his boots off finally. As he did so, he tried to focus on how nice it felt to free his feet rather than the fact that Charlie was steaming and alone with an also-steaming Edith. He certainly wasn’t going to voice any of his concerns – for all of their sakes (but mostly his own). He didn’t think Charlie would do anything bad, like that, but he had to be a charmer on some level to have had the luck with women he had had (his sister was a debatable inclusion). Surely Edith was too smart to fall for any of that – nevermind that she’d fallen for whatever he’d charmed her with.

Perhaps instead of worrying about hypothetical (or not) scenarios he could reassure himself with the fact that Charlie was making some sort of effort (with Honey, not Edith – but her too, by extension, he supposed). “All going well then?” he ventured as Honey tinkered with the coffee, unsure what response he’d really prefer to get.
 

Did she? “Aye,” she replied, just as quickly and with an eye roll of her own.

Honey glared–not good naturedly–over her shoulder at her brother, as he made a dig at Charlie that Fergie probably hadn’t meant for her to hear. Sure, she was surprised that he hadn’t flooed here when deciding to leave the Games–and she might be offended that he didn’t once she wasn’t so exhausted–but she was ready for Ferg to get over it. Them.

“We don't have to spend every second together,” she said, rather defensively. She hoped that was an obvious hint toward him and Edith, who had bought a house together after how many months of dating? Six? Honey had been dating Charlie for three months now, and she couldn’t even begin to imagine living with or spending every second with Charlie– besides what a nightmare it would surely be.

She hmphed and turned back to the coffee, pulling a couple mugs from the shelf and pouring them each a cup, leaving room for their wee drams. She was dumping in her spoonfuls of sugar when Fergie asked if all was going well. “Aye,” she said again, her back still turned, assuming he was asking about Charlie, assuming he wouldn’t want any elaboration.

But he had never asked before, so maybe– Honey turned to hand Fergie his coffee, then leaned back against the counter, not trusting herself to stand up again if she joined him at the table. “Are ye actually asking?”

 He had started it with that comment about Charlie’s infamous appetite, but he still didn’t think he deserved that (Edith definitely didn’t). “We don’t spend every second together,” he snipped back, before he could convince himself not to take the bait. “I go to work, same as you,” he pointed out, not bothering to add that his going to work involved an actual commute, so there was no opportunity to sneak back upstairs— and he didn’t want to think about that.

Aye. He took that to mean it was going well, or well by whatever standards the pair of them had. Fergie figured that was the end of that conversation then (at least he could say he’d made an effort), and took his coffee from Honey. He took a sip and flicked his attention up to her face as he lowered the mug, supporting it with the fingertips from his other hand, elbow resting on the table. He supposed he hadn’t really been asking, but there was a burning curiosity despite himself – mostly borne from a desire to protect his sister from another prat.

“Aye,” he said, “I am.” He really wanted that dram, now, but wasn’t sure it was an appropriate moment to say so or to make a move towards getting it. He had another sip of coffee – sans whisky – and braced himself. “Are ye gonna tell mum and dad?” He realised he was asking not when, but if, but that seemed warranted given the circumstances.

Honey rolled her eyes. I go to work same as you, she mouthed, repeating Fergie silently, her back still turned to him.

She sipped her coffee, watching him over the rim of her mug. He looked like he was regretting asking now, if he actually had been asking, or caught out because he hadn’t been. But he said he was, so– she took another sip, considering what she could tell him that wouldn’t set him off, push Charlie further out of his favor.

Fergie asked first: was she planning to tell their parents. “Aye. ‘Course.” She thought she sounded sure of herself, more sure than she actually felt. “It’s been–” she paused to count the time again– “Three months.” She probably should be telling them soon, before they found out some other way. “Mum already doesn’t like him,” she added, mostly to her coffee– she didn’t need to see Fergie’s face to know he agreed with her. And Honey had tried to ignore that, had been mostly successful so far, but she wasn’t looking forward to needing to tell her mum why she was dating him, why she liked him, because she hadn’t yet figured it out for herself.

She sighed, meeting Fergie’s eye again. “Whisky’s downstairs.” She pushed off the counter and headed downstairs, nudging her brother’s arm with the back of her hand as she passed by him. She was on the next-to-last step when she spotted Caoimhe coming out of the kitchen. “Heading home?” They had shortened the shop hours since Honey wasn’t going to be around, but Caoimhe wasn’t looking at her–she had been expecting it, or a smile, or something to show she was pleased to be leaving earlier than usual–looking past her, instead. Honey smirked softly and walked past her–”Have a good night.”--to leave her to ogle Fergie in peace.

Honey left her coffee on the closest oak table and moved to the pantry, grabbing two bottles–whisky and amaretto–and heading back to the kitchen. She set them down on either side of her mug as Fergie entered the kitchen behind her. She looked back over her shoulder– “Caoimhe alright?”

 Fergie couldn’t help his eyebrows from rising. He’d sort of assumed she’d ‘delay’ telling them, which he suspected was really a case of wanting to avoid telling them anything, but the last couple of wizards she’d been seriously dating (by her standards, anyway) hadn’t exactly been low-profile, average blokes, and so it was bound to get to them eventually, with the way their mum bought Witch Weekly (despite regularly complaining that it was “rubbish”) – perhaps Honey had finally learnt she might be better getting ahead of it all. Then again, not much she’d be able to tell their mum that’d bring her around to Charlie Baker.

But three months. Was that all? It felt longer, for some reason – probably just a hazard of his sister dating one of his pals. Honey voiced her concern (what else could it be?) that their mother was already anti-Charlie, and Fergie made a face that showed he agreed— Then he caught Honey’s eye and pressed his lips together apologetically. He parted his lips, about to say something in Charlie’s defence (Merlin knew what), but Honey cut over him. He nodded and got to his feet in the second after she pushed off from the counter.

He briefly considered putting his boots back on, but that required more effort than he felt he cared to expend; in his kilt hose he followed his sister down the stairs. He paused, a few steps above Honey, when he spotted Caoimhe – staring up at him. Honey left them alone and he almost called after her not to, but—

Fergie entered the kitchen a few moments later. He shot Honey a dark look. “Aye.” They had never talked about it, but he had begun to suspect at some point that Honey had put two and two together – he just didn’t know how close to four she had gotten. There was a lingering guilt hanging over things, and an even more prominent lingering awkwardness whenever they had to interact – he was already overthinking what he had (hadn’t) said, and the bell over the front door tinkled to rub it all in.

He reached for the whisky and begin pouring into his mug.

 

Aye, he said, and Honey raised one eyebrow (as if she knew more than thought she did) before she turned back to her coffee, relaxing and rolling her eyes once she thought it was safe.

Fergie joined her at the table just as she finished topping up her coffee with a generous serve of amaretto– she’d save the whisky for after coffee, most likely. She took a long sip, both hands wrapped around her mug, bringing some much needed warmth back to her fingers. It was only after that first sip that she noticed Caoimhe had cleared the kitchen–it was her job, but whatever–of the disarray Honey had left behind that morning. That was one thing checked off the list, then.

Honey left Fergie alone for a minute, fetching the mostly current account book from the hardly used office off the kitchen. It was a thick, leather-bound book, and she set it down with a soft thud on the table; the quill and ink followed along in the air behind her and landed much more gracefully beside the book.

“It’s not fair Mum’s never been on you about that,” she said once she had her coffee in her hands again, not bothering to specify what she meant by that. “Your perfect relationships make mine all look bad.” Never mind that was mostly Honey’s fault.

 

Fergie had as much of a gulp as the temperature of his whisky-coffee allowed, and in the time he had done so Honey had left the kitchen. She returned a moment later with the accounts book, and he eyed it with a look that suggested he was regretting offering to do this tonight – not because of Caoimhe, or Honey, or anything Honey was insinuating about Caoimhe—

Nevermind, take that back. Now it was because of whatever Honey was insinuating – so much for it just being a suspicion that she knew something. Fergie shot his sister a look and took a seat anyway. “That’s because Mum doesnae know about it,” he said as he pulled the book closer and opened it to a random page, before flipping through to the most recently used one. “Nor is she going to,” he added, glancing up at Honey again. He still wasn’t sure how much Honey knew, but if she didn’t ask he wasn’t going to volunteer information.

He paused, feeling guilty about being the favourite child when it came to relationships – and prospective grandchildren, which was all either of their parents seemed to care about lately. “My relationships aren’t perfect,” he said in a more sympathetic tone. “Mum just… doesn’t think you’re serious,” he ventured cautiously.

“And let’s be honest, you’re no.” He wasn’t taking a dig at Charlie here, either – he was referring to all of her romantic partners, official boyfriends or not. He had thought the Janice thing was serious, for a hot minute, but the logistics of Honey working out with a muggle were improbable at best. He couldn’t see Charlie moving to Hogsmeade in a hurry either, but at least he could get into the village. If things with Harlan Bellamy hadn’t gone south, Fergie thought Honey might’ve made an effort to be serious there – but they had, and she hadn’t. Will… Well, Will was the most obvious serious boyfriend she’d ever had, but Fergie suspected that was exactly why they had broken up.

Honey rolled her eyes, somewhat good-naturedly. The only reason mum didn’t know was because she had been gone, hadn’t been around to see the obvious. But that–the eye roll–was as good as Honey saying she wouldn’t be telling Mum, either (because she was a good sister, usually).

She was still going to complain about him being perfect, though, even after his claim that he–or his relationships–weren’t so. As if he hadn’t just bought a house with his girlfriend, with some crystal clear intentions–the extra space–there. But there was no time to point that out; Fergie had already moved on to telling her that their mum didn’t think she was serious. Honey opened her mouth to argue, got one noise of disapproval out before she closed her mouth, thinking better of it. He was right, anyway, not that she wasn’t serious, but that Mum had opinions. She didn’t know what, at this point, she could do to make her change her mind. Stop dating Charlie, probably– though she didn’t know about that yet, not really.

Fergie didn’t even try to be on her side, immediately agreeing with their mother. “Aye, tell me how you really feel,” she said, sipping her coffee to keep her from saying anything else. That was easier than saying she was trying, anyway–she wasn’t ready to admit that things with Charlie were that serious–or that she had been trying with Harlan– she had only admitted to herself (and Grace) after the fact how serious that had turned out to be. And things with Will had been approaching serious, which spooked her out of the whole thing, and–

Honey sighed, moving to take a seat next to her brother, dragging the bottle of amaretto with her. “Am working on it,” she said, halfway between something quiet and something insistent. She assumed he would prefer her not working on it with Charlie, but Fergie was going to need to work on getting over it.

 

“Och, come on.” He hadn’t meant it nastily – not his fault if she was going to take it that way. “Am no having a go.” He’d leave that to their mum.

Honey took the seat beside him and Fergie pulled the book closer by another inch, picking up a stack of loose parchment that had been shoved in between the pages unceremoniously. He paused, hands aloft, and looked at her incredulously. “With Charlie?” He shot her another look that said Aye, alright.

Affronted, he distracted himself (or tried to) by straightening the supplier receipts and order forms out where the edges had been dogeared or the entire slip folded in half, then proceeded to try and put them in a date order—”You know you can get nice folders to put these in so they don’t get wrecked,” he told her in a grumble, envisioning some of the fancy plastic wallets he’d seen in a muggle stationery shop. They might protect the paper from splatters of chocolate and whatever else, too—

But she was working on it, Merlin help him. Fergie reached for his coffee and sipped at it. “Really?” he asked as he returned the mug to the table, his tone more considered than it had been a moment before.

Honey tipped more amaretto into her coffee, nearly filling her mug to the brim, because the direction the conversation was headed in seemed to call for it. She didn’t mean to set the bottle down so heavily, but Fergie’s shrill Charlie? was all the reason she needed to give it a good thunk, her head jerking up to meet his eye. “No, my other boyfriend,” she snapped, hoping he hated hearing her talk about Charlie as any sort of boyfriend, even just one of many.

She stood up, the sound of the wooden chair dragging along the stone floor, unsure what she was going to do but sure she needed to step away from Fergie for a minute or two. He was on about folders now, and Honey rolled her eyes, her back turned to him as she searched the kitchen for something to work on, her mug held tightly in her left hand. “You can get nice folders to put these in.” It wasn’t a very helpful suggestion, but at least she had stopped herself before she could go on to tell him she did everything with only half the ownership without complaint (usually)  so he could manage to do this one thing without criticizing her in the process–

Honey spotted a slab of fudge–cranachan with a raspberry ribbon throughout–and poked its tray with her wand so it would follow her back to the table. She didn’t take up her seat beside Fergie again, instead standing across from him so she could get the proper leverage needed to slice the fudge and not because she was being immature and trying to make a point. She took a long sip of her drink before setting her mug down to get to work, keep her hands (and mind) busy.

Really? he asked, and Honey threw the question back at him, assuming they were going to argue about accountancy folders. “Really, what?” She let another second pass before she looked up; his expression wasn’t totally right for more bickering. “Oh.” The other thing. Charlie. Working on it. “Really.” She paused to give him the chance to say something else (probably judgey) but maybe he was already getting over himself– she couldn’t let that get too far, of course. “But if ye’d rather we go back to sneaking around...” she offered, trailing off and leaving it up to him to figure out the true implications of sneaking around, or just keeping Fergie in the dark about everything, which had always ended so well for them in the past.

Her other boyfriend, how hilarious. But Merlin help him, boyfriend – she was actually calling him that now? He knew for the majority of the population just calling your significant other boyfriend or girlfriend—like a normal person—wasn’t a big deal, but hearing it come from Honey felt weightier.

He had evidently touched a nerve. Fergie looked up at Honey warily (he also decided that he would get nice folders but he wasn’t going to say so now, out of spite – or what little he possessed). Honey levitated a slab of fudge over to the table. Fergie peered at it out of the corner of his eyes and saw it was the cranachan one (one of his favourites). He hoped the force with which she was slicing through it wasn’t an indication of his likelihood in being allowed to taste test a piece—

But he had probably ruined that for himself. His eyes went rounder when Honey snapped at him, but she seemed to realise he was being more sincere than judgy (for a change). He kept his eyes on his sister’s when she repeated his Really back at him, careful not to frown or otherwise reveal any displeasure that she had decided to try with Charlie, of all people.

Fergie frowned and shook his head. “Don’t be daft,” he said, waving his hand dismissively and focusing back on the paperwork for approximately three seconds before a waft of raspberry hit his nose and he looked at the fudge longingly. He sighed. “Edith doesnae mind him,” he admitted; it was as close as he was going to get—tonight, anyway—to being complimentary. He (Fergie) didn’t mind him (Charlie) either when he (Charlie) wasn’t shagging his (Fergie’s) sister, but it seemed like that was going to continue for the foreseeable and while he wasn’t planning on ever being happy about it, he could try and not be unhappy about it.

Honey spotted Fergie eyeing the fudge, so she cut another slice, and then another, without offering him one. Unlike her brother, she had plenty of spite.

Edith didn’t mind him–Charlie–though. Honey pressed her lips together, attempting to not say the first thing that came to mind, that she honestly didn’t care if Fergie’s girlfriend liked him or not. Instead, she went with a slightly softer: “For yer sake, probably.” Charlie was, after all, Fergie’s friend before Fergie’s sister’s boyfriend. She had no idea if she was right or not; except for that one time Charlie had said Edith was alright, they hadn’t talked about her much outside the context of her and Fergie’s relationship going far too fast.

They were both English, so they had that in common. And, Honey remembered finally, he was literally in Edith’s (and Fergie’s) house now, presumably drunk, so hopefully, genuinely, she didn’t mind him.

She set the knife on the table beside the tray, figuring she would look half as upset without it in her hand. Keeping eye contact with Fergie, Honey gripped the edge of the table with either hand. “Ye have to think Am serious before Mum will,” she said, because as soon as their mother knew, she would be asking Fergie about him; it would be nice if he didn’t add more fuel to the gossip fire Witch Weekly kept going.

“Dunno what proof yer expecting,” she added, picking up her wand to make a small plate appear under a slice of fudge and float across the table, more of a bribe than a peace offering.