Magical Hogwarts

september 2005 // london & caerphilly

Fflur shifted the god awful pink blazer to the left, confident she could rule that one out. The next suit along was black, as were the rest of them, so that made things–picking one to borrow–easier. Now to just narrow it down– she sipped her drink, shifted another suit to the left, absentmindedly nodding along to the record–Pulp’s His N Hers–she had left playing downstairs. She figured she’d have to start trying things on to be able to narrow it down, so after another large sip of her vodka soda, she bent her knees to set her glass by her feet.

She straightened up and reached for the jacket with the velvet lapels–less flashy than she was expecting, honestly–and maneuvered it off the hanger and onto herself. Checking her reflection, Fflur raised an eyebrow as she did up one of the buttons, turned to look at her profile, smoothed the fabric down as she faced forward again. “Nope,” she decided after another second, shrugging the jacket off. Rinse, repeat, with the next one.

She was trying on one with subtle striping when she heard Charlie behind her– Can I help you?. Fflur turned, undoing the button of her jacket. “Yeah, actually.” She wasn’t ashamed to be caught out– she was wearing a borrowed t-shirt, had been ‘borrowing’ things for years; that certainly wasn’t going to change once she started living with him and had better access. She gathered up her drink before glancing at Charlie again. “Come to a party with me,” she said, not bothering to phrase it like a question. She nodded once to his question; yes, now. “Couple hours.”

And it was less party and more gala. The quidditch one, more specifically, and her first one in ten years. Eleven? Either way, she waited until Charlie said yes before providing him any further clarification. “It’s a work thing,” she said–and it technically was a work thing, with her new Prophet gig–as she set her glass down again so she could shrug off the jacket, put it back in its place. “I’d rather not go alone.” The like a loser she left unsaid.

“It’ll be fun,” she said, tapping the side of her nose knowingly, because she doubted those party favors had changed since she had last attended.

@Charlie Baker

Charlie could hear Pulp quietly radiating from his house whilst walking up the lane outside, but the volume was that much louder once he’d opened his front door. He closed it behind him quickly in an attempt to seal the noise inside, lest he receive a complaint from an uptight neighbour. Fflur had had free run of his home the two months he’d been away, and he suspected it had gone much like this – excessively loud music, smoking his stash, drinking all of his booze. It was like having a teenager, but he wasn’t about to scold her for it – she kept the place clean (ish), she’d gone through a breakup, quit (lost? He wasn’t sure if she’d told him the truth) her job, technically been made homeless… What sort of friend would he be if he didn’t let her sort her shit out in peace while he was out of the country?

He’d moved into the lounge to turn the volume down just enough to not warrant noise control, then headed up the stairs upon noting she wasn’t downstairs. He didn’t need to poke his head in the spare room to see she wasn’t in it, she was in his room, wearing his clothes. “Can I help you?” he asked above the music, leaning in the doorway to his own bedroom. The suit jacket was obviously his, but it took her turning around before he noticed she was wearing one of his t-shirts too (add borrowing his clothes to the list).

A solitary eyebrow rose, curious where that yeah, actually was going until she invited him to a party (not what he’d been expecting). “Now?” He pretended to think about it; “Yeah, alright.” He’d been back in the country two days but this tour had been less of a party-of-many-stops and had felt more like an actual job. 

But it was a work thing. Charlie frowned, confused for a minute (a professor party?) before he remembered she was at the Prophet now. He opened his mouth to rescind his acceptance—the last party he wanted to go to was one full of journos—but she cut across him. He sighed, still reluctant, then watched as Fflur gestured at her nose. Realisation dawned and his lips pulled into a smirk. “Alright, fine.”

He pushed off the doorframe and stepped further into the room. “Take it there’s a dress code?” he queried, nodding at the section of his wardrobe she was perusing.

Alright, fine, he said, needing no more convincing (though what could possibly be more convincing than a night out with her, she didn’t know). Still, she’d been ready to do everything short of begging him to go with her– she’d rather just not go than be that desperate. She grinned and offered a quick, “Tidy,” before turning back to the wardrobe.

Fflur was mid suit-shift when Charlie asked about the dress code. She nodded, back still to him, shifting one more suit to the side. “Fancy dress,” she said, slipping the jacket off the hanger and turning back around; she wanted to see his face for the next part: “I’m fancy and you’re in a dress.” Not really, but he still owed her for making her wear a dress at his wedding. Obviously he wouldn’t be going in a dress; she doubted there were any in-house anyway. Fflur certainly didn’t own any.

“I don’t have any dress robes, so–” she went on as she shrugged on the jacket, tugging at the lapels before turning to look in the mirror again. She liked the cut of this one, and she didn’t need to check the label to know it was silk (because she hadn’t outgrown her champagne tastes despite her grape juice budget). She did up the button, nodded once to her reflection. This was the one.

She unbuttoned the jacket but left it on, reached for the hanger that still held the suit’s pants, grabbed her glass with her other hand. “I’m gonna borrow this,” she said, holding out what was left in her glass–a bargaining chip–as she walked over to him. “Portkey’s in two hours.”

At first he thought she was genuine when she said fancy dress—it wouldn’t be her first time claiming that dressing up as him counted as a costume—but he understood a moment later, after her not-really-a-threat (he’d never live that down, especially given he didn’t even make that marriage last a year).

“Right.” She didn’t have dress robes – neither did he, so suits (his, for the pair of them) it was. He let his gaze roam over her from behind as she checked her reflection in the mirror, though she was still dressed casually from the waist down so he couldn’t quite envision the same result he imagined she was picturing (unless this was, in fact, the look).

Fflur turned to face him and Charlie took the glass from her when offered—vodka soda, heavy on the vodka judging by the smell—and glanced up from it to meet her eyes. “I figured,” he replied, then nodded once when she told him the portkey was in a couple of hours. “That enough time for you to sort out your barnet?” he said, using his free hand to ruffle her hair as he stepped past her into the wardrobe to decide what he was going to wear now that she’d reduced his options by one.

…

Charlie had picked a suit whilst finishing Fflur’s vodka, grabbed himself a beer for the shower, drank a couple (four) more while Fflur sorted her face out, then they’d made the short walk to the portkey to transport them to Wales. The beers were starting to have more of an effect just as they hit the red carpet — the red carpet he hadn’t been prepared for.

He pulled Fflur in close by the hand on her waist to talk to her out of the corner of his mouth, not-scowling in the direction of the flashing lights blinding him; “You didn’t think to tell me it was the fucking Quidditch gala?”

Fflur slapped Charlie’s away from her hair, though there was hardly any chance he’d done anything to actually harm her look. “Well, now it’s not,” enough time, she meant, as if she was actually going to do anything to it besides what she had already done, the usual. (She had, at least, had her dark roots seen to the week before.) She rolled her eyes (mostly good naturedly) as she left Charlie alone in his bedroom, tossing her newly acquired trousers on the bed in the spare room on her way to go make another drink.

…

It was weird to be back in Caerphilly, no less weird to be there with Charlie, but she was happy she wasn’t alone, at least. He could have been a bit less grumpy, but Fflur supposed that was her fault for not giving him all (or any of) the details about the party. Gala. Whatever.

Fflur wrapped her arm around Charlie’s waist as he did the same to her. She angled herself toward him, leaning in to get her ear closer to his mouth to better hear him, then grinned as she pulled back. “No, I did,” she said, meaning that she had thought to tell him, not that she actually had. She widened the angle again, looking forward for a few seconds for the photos; she had really enjoyed this part of her quidditch career, anyway, and was pleased to see that she hadn’t completely forgotten everything. She turned her head to Charlie again, still smiling when she told him: “That’s why I didn’t tell you.” He wouldn’t have come, and he’d probably leave if she were anyone else.

They moved down to the next mark, and Fflur readjusted her grip on Charlie, looked down at herself to make sure everything was still contained in her borrowed suit jacket–she hadn’t borrowed (or worn) a shirt under the jacket–and tugged on the button to make the slightest adjustment. She could tell (even before she lifted her head to look) where Charlie’s attentions had gone–checking her for a wardrobe malfunction like any good friend would–as if he hadn’t got that out of his system when he first saw her back at the house.

“Eye’s up, mate,” she said with a laugh and a sharp squeeze to his side.