Magical Hogwarts

 Charlie sounded relieved, so they... agreed? If they both wanted the same thing–choosing to not improve the gene pool–then why was he getting mad at her? It couldn’t all be about her not telling him– wait; should she be offended he didn’t want her to have his baby? No, that was a legitimately crazy line of thinking. They were in agreement and she shouldn’t be looking for reasons to argue with him. (One would present itself soon enough, surely.) She assumed they were agreeing, anyway. She was basing everything off of that one noise he had made because he still hadn’t bothered to say anything.

Charlie apologized then, and Honey didn’t ask why. She had said she would have told him–in case that was why he was mad, covering all the options–and then that. She didn’t say anything else, but maybe she should have; Charlie offered to do something, anything, if Honey needed it, and aye, maybe she should have said something before he had the chance to offer.

He caught her eye before she could respond. Honey closed her mouth, gave it another thought. She needed exactly nothing from him–he had already done enough, hadn’t he?--but this didn’t seem like the right moment to go all Independent Woman on him. “Dunno if there’s anything to do.” Not yet, anyway. She just really didn’t want him to offer to go to the hospital with her again. She didn’t think she could tell him no again.

“I just–” she started and stopped, as if she had just thought of something she needed from him and was just trying to figure out how to ask it. “Need to get to my appointment.” She attempted a smile but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Can meet you at mine, after.” At least she didn’t offer to pick him up from his front stoop again.

 

The way she was looking at him—or at least, the way he was perceiving it—was almost making him regret offering, but she put him out of his misery soon enough – there mightn’t be anything to do. Charlie nodded once, smally, and inhaled (sans cigarette, almost forgotten about between his fingers) again rather than explain he meant, like, pick up some lunch or whatever, as much as the more serious things she could potentially need from him if this turned out the way they were both hoping it wouldn’t (right?).

His line of sight had drifted just slightly—more in line with her earring than her eyes—but his attention flicked back when she spoke again. The appointment, right. “Right,” he said, reading into that smile than he probably ought to, returning with one that was just as weak.

There was a slight reassurance in the offer to meet back at hers afterwards, at least. It took him another moment to realise that was probably more to do with the plumbing van beside them than the situation but whatever the reason, he was glad he’d be finding out one way or another sooner rather than later. “Yeah,” he agreed. “How long do you think it’ll take?”

He tapped the ash from his cigarette and had a drag of it. “I can grab us some lunch, if you want?” If he had to have another meal from on of the two (two) pubs in Hogsmeade he thought he’d go on hunger strike. And, selfishly, he wanted to occupy himself with something else to do whilst she was at the hospital. “Pret?”

 Charlie would be at her flat, after, so add that to the list of reasons she didn’t want to be pregnant– not because she couldn’t stand him in her space (she was getting used to that) but because being pregnant (and freaking out about it, naturally) would be a lot easier without Charlie around. She swallowed, shrugged one shoulder. “An hour?” That was how long she figured it would take before, when she had been trying to ditch him on his doorstep.

He offered to grab lunch, as if the stress of the situation (or the situation itself) hadn’t completely ruined her appetite. “Yeah,” she agreed anyway, then added a, “Sure,” when he suggested Pret, which was probably the last thing she would have picked. Somehow they managed to make a ham and cheese sandwich sound pretentious and she hadn’t appreciated the look when she ordered a BLT, no L or T, but she didn’t have the energy needed to push back, get him to pick up lunch from somewhere else.

Honey touched Charlie’s closest knee with the tips of her fingers, tentative–there had been minimal contact during this conversation and it had been obviously missing–before she rested her whole hand there. “I’m just gonna–” go, for fuck’s sake. But she didn’t finish the thought, instead squeezing her hand gently as she stood up, apparating quickly so she could get it over with.

…

An hour was plenty of time to get inside her head, convince herself that she and Charlie weren’t on the same page, that the weirdness of the conversation had been there because he had been less relieved about her am not keeping it choice than he had let on. So, she hadn’t figured out how to talk to him about it by the time she had reappeared on her hearth. There was a fire in the fireplace, and Honey stepped away from it quickly, the sudden warmth more uncomfortable than cozy.

Charlie was still there–she had almost convinced herself he wouldn’t be, but maybe that was more wishful thinking–and he stood up as Honey looked from him to the glass in his hand, to the bottle on the table. She pushed her hair over her shoulder as she moved to join him by the sofa. “Am not pregnant,” she said, her hand outstretched for his glass.

 

An hour. Great. An hour wasn’t that long but definitely longer than pissing on a muggle pregnancy test would take, surely – but then he imagined the type of hospital test might be a bit more definitive— And now that he was thinking about it, who was to say she hadn’t already done a preliminary test at home, hence the appointment— And wasn’t that prospect more terrifying? He daren’t ask.

Honey sounded thoroughly interested in food, but he supposed he wasn’t really that hungry – more nauseous than anything, with all of the whatever swirling around in his gut, but he knew he’d be hungry eventually and he’d regret not taking the opportunity to buy normal food whilst he was down here. Honey didn’t tell him what she wanted him to order, and it took him thinking about it to remember that she had only ever just ordered a bacon sandwich (“no lettuce or tomato”) whenever they’d gone to Pret, and he could just buy some bacon and cook her one at home to save himself the embarrassment of ordering it alone—

Honey squeezed his knee and got to her feet, and Charlie stood up after her. She met his eye and then disappeared with a quiet pop. He checked the street quickly—the windows of the house opposite, specifically—then let himself into his front door.

…

He had a very fake, very distracted, one-sided conversation with the plumber, grabbed two books at random, and then went to the nearest Pret a Manger on autopilot. Overpriced sandwiches bought, he’d considered getting Honey something else to cheer her up, should the worst eventuate, but all he could think about that wasn’t alcoholic was cake or chocolate, and she literally made those for a living— And he didn’t want to tempt fate.

In Honey’s flat above the shop Charlie had been unable to relax, sitting awkwardly stiff on the settee rather than reclining into it with his feet hanging over the arm like he usually did. He’d tried reading both books, but kept getting stuck on a line and going on a mental tangent of what if (would they have to raise a child here? He couldn’t live without modern conveniences, this week had taught him that much; Would their relationship survive a baby? Would he become the estranged dad who just paid child support?), and had promptly given up on that. The flat was already clean, thanks to his prior boredom, so: whisky.

The fire in the kitchen hearth roared and then settled down again distinctively, and Charlie immediately got to his feet, as if looking at all relaxed would get him in trouble— He met Honey’s eyes, less glazed than his, and watched her gaze drop (he didn’t correlate that it was to the glass in his hand) and—

Relief visibly washed over him and his fingers loosened on the glass as Honey took it from him – the first drink she’d accepted from him in a week, he realised belatedly. His lips parted, then he hesitated – he’d thought about what might be safe to say, in either scenario, but hadn’t been confident about any of his options, so he nodded, because his brain wasn’t engaging properly (shock, and whisky), and then he said “Good,” quietly, and wet his lips, which were drier than usual. “That’s good,” he said, again, and then tried to catch her eye and confirm that this was in fact good, and what she wanted, and that she wasn’t about to get emotional about it.

 Charlie let her have his drink, and she finished what was in the glass in two swallows. She was thrilled with the situation–not being pregnant–even if it wasn’t obvious, too busy with replaying their earlier conversation (again) in some sort of effort to anticipate his reaction …whenever he decided to have one, that is. Honey wasn’t going to say anything first (because she already had) and– good, he said. It was good. Maybe she should have said something else because that wasn’t too much to go on. At least he seemed (sort of?) relieved about it all. There had to be a not-awkward way to have this conversation, but they weren’t about to figure out how.

She nodded after catching his eye, adding an, “Aye,” after a few more seconds. She lowered the glass to her side, holding it loosely around the rim, then moved to grab the bottle of whisky and sit in the comfy chair next to the sofa where Charlie had been sitting.

Honey was unsure what kind of mood she was in, never mind Charlie. Obviously, she wasn’t planning for a future with him; she wasn’t in the habit of planning futures with men, ever. Except when she had done so with Will (his fitting into quaint village life a little too easily was maybe the main reason she had broken up with him). And Harlan. But fuck, planning for a future or not, it wasn’t like she was planning for one without him specifically, either.

Except– he kind of was, wasn’t he? The first thing he had assumed in all of this was that it couldn’t have been his, and she had lied and said that was why she hadn’t been telling him, knowing he would jump straight to that conclusion. She had thought they were past all that, that they had embarrassed themselves enough with their feelings to at least not waste each other's time. “Are you just–” she glanced up to look at him again after realizing she had been staring at a decades old tea ring on the table– “Waiting for me to fuck someone else?” She stopped herself, at least, before she could say he’d be waiting forever because (past precedent aside) she shouldn’t have to reassure her boyfriend she wasn’t going to cheat on him, especially when that boyfriend was Charlie.
 

 

Honey agreed—barely—and Charlie looked around dumbly for another glass, then decided not to bother, following her back towards the living area and— She sat in the armchair, effectively signalling that she wanted space, and he hesitated over whether he ought to retake his seat on the settee or if he should just fuck off now— But he couldn’t really (no drunk apparating, no functioning plumbing – both weak excuses but he’d take them), so he sat down slowly,  perched even stiffer than he had been prior to her arrival.

Charlie’s head turned towards her when she spoke and he stared at Honey, unblinking, until she finished her question. His brow furrowed and he said “No,” quickly – too quickly, and then let his mouth hang ajar as he tried to work out how to explain himself and his earlier outburst, but: “No, I just—”  It was her, it was him. Them. They’d both been (rightfully) concerned about their ability to do this. At some point the romantic in him had convinced himself the reason they’d always ended up cheating (on other people) was because there was something special (ugh) about them but the pessimist in him didn’t think romance was really… real. (He had to be romantic sometimes, make a living out of it.)

“I don’t know,” he said after another moment – quieter, not quite defeated but not really sounding very hopeful. “I don’t want—” you to, he was going to say, but this was as much about him as it was her, wasn’t it? And what was it she had said when they’d last tried to talk about their feelings? “We don’t have a good track record for it,” he left the you said unsaid. His eyes darted to the bottle of whisky, the glass in her hands, then up to her face. He wet his lips. “I’m sorry,” he apologised. “I didn’t mean it,” he continued. “It was just the way you said ‘maybe’— I’m,” insecure a whiny voice in his head told him, but he definitely wasn’t about to admit to that. He couldn’t think of an appropriate synonym right now that didn’t make him sound equally pathetic, either.

He looked straight ahead, at the far wall, and his right knee bounced haphazardly. “I haven’t,” he added, as if he needed to clarify (past precedence said he did).

 No, he said, which sounded completely believable. She didn’t want to watch his face as he worked through whatever he was trying to say, glanced at his hands instead. No, he said again, as if it would be more believable the second time. (It wasn’t.) Just as mature, Honey didn’t try to fill the silence, either.

He didn’t know, which sounded different, almost believable. Honey exhaled and looked up at him again– for fuck’s sake. Why had she even bothered asking? This was going to get them nowhere. They had been doing well (enough) not talking about it (or anything close to it) and while they weren’t really talking about it now–

Charlie threw her own words back at her: we don’t have a good track record for it. She held his gaze; he knew that when she had first said that, it had been more about him than herself (even though it did definitely apply to her, too). She watched his gaze drop to the whisky, then shift to the glass in her hand, the one she made no move to hand back.

Maybe she should say something, but all she really wanted was– an apology. It was far less satisfying than she thought it would be, but at least she was taking her level of defensiveness down a notch (maybe two), not immediately telling him that he meant it when he said it. Or, in a shocking turn of events, he could blame her for it all, for saying ‘maybe’ so much. Well, she wasn’t about to apologize for that; she’d like to see him try to tell someone he might be pregnant, see how easy it was.

She looked down at the dregs in her glass, weighing the awkwardness of the situation if she got a refill now, but remaining motionless won out. Honey glanced up at Charlie’s I haven’t and she opened her mouth, saying, “Charlie, I–” before she had thought through what she even wanted to say. Could she honestly say she didn’t think he had? Maybe. (There was that word again.) Of the two of them, she figured it would be him, or hoped it would be so she could prove some twisted point to herself, but she didn’t think she was waiting around or expecting him to fuck it up.

And if she was, she was going to pretend she wasn’t, because that was easier than admitting to anything else.

She was still unsure what to say, or she knew but was unsure how. She stood up, hand outstretched to offer the glass to Charlie. She sat down again–next to him, this time–and pulled the bottle toward her, hesitating–stalling–and pouring the refill slowly. “I’m trying,” she said finally, emphasizing the word like she had so often before, though never in the context of trying with Charlie. “Just not as hard as with–” she stopped before mentioning anyone else, realizing it might have come off like she wasn’t putting as much effort into this as she had before. “I mean, it’s easier,” she amended, still not looking at him. “Now,” she finished, letting  him fill in the rest, the with you that was too embarrassing to add after the morning they had.
 

Honey hadn’t put him out of his misery and interjected at any point when he was doing such a great job of trying to explain himself, so he was mildly surprised when she finally did say something – though it was only to get as far as his name. Groundbreaking.

Charlie parted his lips to wet them but stopped short of flicking his tongue out when Honey shifted, then rose to her feet. He looked up at her, not sure what to expect, and it showed when his eyebrows rose softly in response to the glass held out for him to take; he did take it, slowly, and watched her as she sat beside him. The refill seemed like a peace offering, or a truce, or whatever; his shoulders relaxed slightly.

She was trying... He waited for the rest of the sentence and then realised that was it. He was trying too, but he didn’t get as far as telling her so before Honey continued talking, and Charlie frowned, understanding where the rest of that sentence was going (with Harlan, presumably). He had silently assumed he’d forever come second to the other man, but did she have to make it so bloody obvi— Oh. His eyes sought out hers, but she was avoiding him for whatever reason – the feelings, probably. And it was only the whisky he’d drunk so far that was allowing him to be so bold. He hadn’t had any more since she’d topped up the glass— now didn’t seem the moment to do so. He wet his lips instead, then admitted “Yeah, me too,” as it dawned upon him that this—them—was easier for him too, and that he was trying too, and that he wasn’t trying as hard, too.

His gaze was still centred on Honey’s face, and, briefly, he considered kissing her. He brought the glass to his mouth instead and took a long sip before handing it off to her. He glanced away, at the books he’d abandoned on the coffee table. There was a secondary relief that took him a minute longer to identify and spread throughout his core; the realisation that this—the potential pregnancy—was why she had been off with him for the last few days, not because she didn’t like him anymore. And that she was trying, and it was easier.

He exhaled through his nostrils softly and turned his head back to Honey, quickly reaching to cup her jaw with his hand and gently force her to face him. He pulled her closer and leaned in to press his lips to hers.

Honey wished she was holding something, had something to do with her hands. Instead, she clasped them together, holding them still between her knees, and she looked at them, thumbs sliding back and forth, one over the other. She didn’t want to see Charlie’s expression as he worked through what she had said, nor did she want to dwell on it too much, the implications of it. How true it was.

But him, too. She didn’t ask him to clarify if he meant it just like she had, that he was trying and that it was easier now. With her. For the most part, she felt like she didn’t need to ask. She tilted her chin slowly into a nod, still not looking at him; that simplified things, the lack of eye contact.

Charlie took a drink–she could see him enough to tell–and Honey lifted a hand from her lap, silently asking for a turn. She took a long sip, closing her eyes as she waited that beat before swallowing. She counted to three as she inhaled, then exhaled, trying to clear her mind of the details surrounding their morning, what sort of twisted relationship milestone this might turn out to be– only to create more room for other intrusive thoughts, like what she ought to be doing downstairs instead.

Honey opened her eyes, blinking twice, as Charlie turned her head to look at him. She had exactly one second to get her mind off work and drag it back upstairs. He pulled her closer and she closed her eyes again. It wasn’t the type of kiss she was particularly used to; she didn’t typically need this sort of cheering up or consoling or whatever, tried not to get to the point of needing any of that where anyone could see her. But it was the type of kiss she wanted, and she leaned into it, bringing her hand up to touch the side of his neck, trace his jawline with the pad of her thumb.

“Sorry,” she breathed after a moment, still close enough for her lips to brush his as she spoke. She pulled back a little, enough to not go cross-eyed if she tried to look at him. “For not telling you.” She met his eye, figuring the clarification was needed; there were a few things she could have been apologizing for.”I–” she started, and stopped, not sure how honest she wanted to be, though she probably couldn’t make things any worse, so: “Was hoping there’d be nothing to tell.”

Honey kissed him back and Charlie leant into her touch, tilting his head to deepen the kiss – but simultaneously keep it soft, and slow; different to their usual, and not necessarily intentional, more subconscious – but it felt like just the right pace for everything that had happened in the space of this morning—

She broke them apart gently and her ‘sorry’ had Charlie staring at her expectantly – but, it wasn’t the bad kind of apology (the “this is too much” kind) and he inhaled, filling his lungs and nodding once. “Yeah.” He wet his lips, stalling, thinking. Was he secretly glad that they had gone through that? Together? Yes. “At least we both…” know now, he trailed off – meaning about the baby (or lack thereof), and that they were both finding this easier.

He didn’t want to labour over it, but if there was any time to reassure Honey about his intentions, now seemed like the opportune moment. “I know we’re not… you know,” he said vaguely – in theory this had been a good idea, but the practice of verbally defining their relationship suddenly felt like a lot. “Ferg and Edith,” he pivoted, in an attempt to sum up the ‘vibe’ (cottage in the countryside, a dog, marriage and kids on the horizon) without diminishing anything about their own relationship.

“But I wouldn’t just— leave.” He still had one hand on her thigh from when they had been snogging, and the other was resting along the back of the settee. He dropped his gaze to assist in powering through with what it was he was really trying to say without stumbling: “I’m not just shagging you, I’m your boyfriend.” He looked up now, making eye contact.

Charlie didn’t read into Honey not wanting to tell him anything at all, and that was fine with her.

“Yeah,” she said quietly, nodding without really thinking when he said they both. They both what, agreed about not wanting her to be pregnant? Aye, that was good, but it was never going to come up again. Except she didn’t think she had completely ruled it out—her dad did have a point about keeping the shop in the family—so maybe she was just ruling it out with Charlie. It would be a lot easier to think about Charlie or not-Charlie or future Charlie without him in her personal space, but now didn’t seem like the right time to ask him when he was going home. So she just wouldn’t think about it. She echoed his, “Yeah,” and swiped her thumb along his jawline one more time before dropping her hand to her lap, holding the whisky glass with both hands.

Honey looked up when he spoke again. They weren’t— he didn’t finish the thought, again, so she made a couple guesses. He didn’t think they were parent material, or long term, or— Ferg and Edith. Domestic, she figured. Clearly heading toward something despite all of Honey’s opinions about it. And she and Charlie weren’t that. But just because they weren’t heading toward something, that didn’t mean this wasn’t— she couldn’t think of the right word. It was fun (99% of the time) and she liked Charlie (99% of the time) and wasn’t it better and easier because there weren’t the expectations that it was all going to be something.

He wouldn’t just leave, he said, and Honey knew he wasn’t talking about going home after this long weekend. She didn’t think she had thought of him like this before. Reliable? That wasn’t the right word for it. But boyfriend— that was better. Charlie met her eye and she swallowed hard, processing how that made her feel, without having to think too hard about her feelings. He was turning out to be a better boyfriend than she had expected and while she had had low expectations, it was still a nice revelation. She wasn’t worried about him thinking too far into the future; clearly he had never considered much of one with her because of the morning they had just had, and that was more reassuring than offensive.

She didn’t want to dwell on it too much, so she smirked softly, tucking all those feelings away; they couldn’t stay too long being like this. “Obsessed,” she breathed, waiting a beat before leaning in again, picking up where they had left off a couple minutes ago.

But she hadn’t come down from her maybe pregnant panic yet and she still had a business to run— she pulled back after a few minutes. “I— need to work but do you want to eat lunch downstairs?” Because she wasn’t ready to be alone with her thoughts.

Honey was quiet, but the lack of sound didn’t hold the same uncomfortable weight as it had before they’d spent a couple of minutes snogging – it was a calmer sort of stillness. Charlie’s eyes flicked back and forth across her face a few times until he zoned in on the smirk on her lips – small, but still a smirk. He reciprocated the expression, relaxing into a soft grin as she leant in towards him again.

Kissing was easier than talking any more, and nicer than letting the silence drag on, and definitely better than just changing the subject— but he also felt like that was all they could–should, possibly–do; doing anything more just felt… off, considering (too celebratory or too close to feelings, he wasn’t sure which).

Honey broke them apart again and Charlie licked his lips, nodding once to show his awareness of her needing to work, of all of this having happened in the space of a (long) morning— and the invitation to eat lunch with her was better than leaving him alone up here with his thoughts (time enough for that later), and he hadn’t eaten his sandwich yet either (had started on the whisky on a relatively empty stomach). He smiled, “Yeah.” There was a pause before he got to his feet and offered her his hand, tugging her up gently and letting his fingertips keep loose contact with hers as he led them to the kitchen to collect the paper carrier bag.


[ out ]

Charlie nodded, so Honey did the same, keeping alive the tradition of being able to have a conversation with each other. But he added a yeah and Honey offered him a small smile, careful to not do too much lest she make it seem like they were having a Moment.

She let him help her up onto her feet, then followed him to her flat’s kitchen, rolling her eyes (good naturedly) at the Pret bag (only because Charlie couldn’t see her). So maybe there was room for a small moment, what a little bit of hand holding might afford them. Besides, it wasn’t like they would carry this on any farther than the landing outside her front door.

Honey reached for the bottle of whisky and held it by the neck, dropping Charlie’s hand so she could grab the door to the shop.

[ end ]