Old friends didn’t need to greet each other properly. Conversations melted into each other and ignored whatever lumps of time separated them.
“A pre-bev?” Darren was apparently utterly unflapped by the bottle of sherry that Beck had by now all but thrust up his nose, possibly because a pair of neon pink glasses were almost entirely obstructing his vision. When he pushed them up onto his forehead to see more clearly, he had, apparently, more pressing concerns, “Why is it empty?”
Beck was pleased to note that Operation Banter had begun early.
“-first things first,” She pointed at the shades, which didn’t even have lenses, but horizontal bars of plastic, and were, without doubt, the single most hideous thing she had ever clapped eyes upon, “Those are revolting.”
“See, if you were glorious Muggleborn master race, you’d know that these are trendy.”
“Muggles used to be cool, man,” said Beck, and held out the bottle with one hand, the other empty but expectantly outstretched, “Swap.”
Darren, smirking, handed over the offending article and took the bottle. As Beck put the shades, which had inexplicably exchanged lenses for strips of plastic, on with a playful wince, he pulled a second pair of disgusting glasses - this time consisting of one luminous green visor - from his jacket and pushed them expertly up the bridge of his nose.
“Came prepared.”
Of course he had.
“What’s this, then?” asked Darren, casually tossing the bottle from side to side. Sometimes, Beck forgot her best friend was muggleborn.
“This, my mugglesome friend, is our portkey,” (Darren immediately held it more securely) “And these are fucking ludicrous. I can’t see anything.”
“Oh, the thing O’Leary set up. Was it just lying around? Where did you get it?”
“I see nobody ever told you that Hufflepuffs are very good finders,” Beck tried to roll her eyes dramatically, but behind the glasses, the effort was completely wasted, “Balanced upside down on a fence or something.”
“Well, it’s better than Apparating,” Said Darren, and, when Beck briefly lifted her visor to shoot him a challenging look, he hastily added: “Probably. I’d rather take the Eurotunnel.”
“Same,” said Beck, glumly, although their reasons were rather different. Darren was basically shit at all modes of wizarding transport, while Beck, who had grown up knowing them as the absolute definition of tedium, was utterly boggled by muggles’ ingenuity; she understood what a train was; she understood what a tunnel was; and she understood that between England and France there lay a wide strip of water. Fusing all three was genius, and even more so when achieved without magic.
Oh. Oh god. A familiar face appeared over Darren’s shoulder, maybe fifty metres away. It was a smug face. A smug face with a Winning Smile. The kind of face that Beck would have liked to punch if she weren’t the epitome of peaceable femininity.
“Don’t look now, but walking dragon scrotum at six o’clock.”
Darren looked nonplussed and tilted his head quizzically until an all-too-familiar voice called out to them: “Goooooooooooood afternoon,” It was the unmistakably charming tones of one William Lawrence, former prefect for Hufflepuff, duellist extraordinaire, and all-round gobshite. It continued to baffle Beck that Darren could happily tolerate Will in upwards of medium doses - possibly connected to the fact that the two hadn’t spent seven years in the same house.
“The man of the hour!” Darren and Will both clapped a hand against the other’s and pulled it into a grotesque manhug. Will thumped Darren heartily on the back with his spare hand, who would probably have returned the gesture if he weren’t holding an empty bottle of booze. Remembering that he had it, Darren pushed the thing into Will’s hands once they were done with their bromantic ritual, “Here - you’ll know what to do with this better than I do.”
“A-ha. You found it then. Good stuff,” Will nodded approvingly, since, after all, his approval was one of the wizarding world’s most valuable commodities.
“That was actually me,” said Beck, smiling sweetly, determined at least to make an effort. It was going to need some effort.
“Hufflepuffs are good finders,” parroted Darren.
“They must have made an exception in my case,” said Will, “I was just coming out to pick it up but it looks like you beat me to it.”
There was a moment of silence, which Darren, like a hero, shattered before it frosted over entirely.
“See, this is why I hang out with you guys. Like a parasite. Literally a Muggleborn stereotype.”
“Aww, don’t beat yourself up, Darren. You’re not really a muggleborn,” snarked Beck, snarkily, glad of the opportunity to snark innocently. Will chuckled. The prick.
“Oh, do excuse me,” said Will, suddenly, and ferreted in his pockets for a second, before flashing a Winning Smile, “I seem to have forgotten my dreadful eyewear.”
What he’d not forgotten, was to wear a tie, in a perfect windsor knot. Or to do his hair. All the important things for travelling. Next to Beck, in a baggy hoodie and jeans that belied her natural curves and Darren, who was unironically rocking the ironic tourist look, Will looked the picture of an overgrown schoolboy who hadn’t quite realised that he wasn’t a prefect anymore. The only thing that really distinguished him from double Charms on a Monday morning was the Hufflepuff emblem on his Hogwarts robes.
“They’re not dreadful!” Darren, scandalised, lunged, and pushed his green sunglasses onto Will’s face - Will, who was still holding the portkey, was powerless to resist, “If you’d ever gone to Tee In The Park you’d know.”
“I’ve had tea in a park...?”
“Then you should know,” Darren nodded seriously; Beck disguised a violent snort as a coughing fit, “So moving swiftly on before you lot insult my swag more, how do the three of us use this Portkey? Do we, like, hold on to it?”
“Don’t you kno-” said Will, immediately, before cutting himself off. Beck wasn’t sure if she was grateful or disappointed that her foul glare was hidden behind a series of horizontal, pink strips of plastic. Will continued, quickly, “Basically, that’s about right. Think an apparition timebomb. At four exactly, assuming they’ve set it up properly, anybody touching it - swoosh,” he flicked his fingers dramatically.
“Swoosh. That’s a fancy magic term, I take it.”
“Yeah, like Flitwick taught us in first year: swoosh and flick,” confirmed Beck, and swooshed and flicked with an imaginary wand.
“Four o’clock, yeah? We’ve got time to kill in Craperdyfi Passage,” Darren turned to Beck, “You know in Muggle schools whenever they do trips they’re usually hammered before they get to the place.”
“Then let us honour your fine traditions,” said Beck, and bowed her head solemnly.
“No Head Boy duties anymore,” said Darren to Will, “You in?”
“Hang on, I’ve got my prefect badge somewhere…” Will repeated the same joke as before, pretending to search himself for something that wasn’t there - though Beck found it funnier this time, as there was a decent probability of him actually having it, “Nope. Can’t find it. Pub it is. Just not the Crippled Kipper.”
“Right. I reckon we’ve got an hour and twenty minutes. That’s three butterbeers if we put some effort in,” Beck said, authoritatively, and added, “Or, if you’re Darren, enough time for a half and to throw up on an Aberdyfi seagull.”
Darren was not a good drinker. Darren’s most useful spell at Hogwarts had been evanesco. Darren had once attempted to compete with Beck to do a line of pumpkin-flavoured rum shots only to give up halfway through because much of it was coming back out through his nose. Darren knew what he was.
“See, one day I’m going to find a place that serves vodka ‘n’ cokes as well as firewhisky and we’ll see who has the last laugh.”
