What Christmas? This?

The slamming of doors spooked a lingering dove off of the chimney stack and sent snow sprawling down the roof tiles, tumbling onto the head and shoulders of the young man who emerged from the cottage tucked into the northern echelons of Scotland, smothered in snow. Boot marks imprinted themselves into the whiteness and scuffed at the purity of the snow that had only been studded by the feet of curious birds or the like up until that point. No human had ventured out into the pale wilderness and his father’s shouts and hollers behind him told Baldric Wood that he was foolish to do so. That didn’t make him turn around, though. He didn’t as much as grant Oliver a glance: he just kept walking.

Eventually, he found his method and his way, flooing from the house of an elderly witch a quarter mile down what he supposed was still the country line if the misshapen half-fences and white hedgerows were any indication. After swallowing a few mouthfuls of hot tea he tumbled through the fireplace into that of his best friend’s, sending soot splaying over the carpet in the sitting room of the small flat that Baird McLaggen and his wife, Sonia, had fixed up themselves for their first Christmas as husband and wife. Baldric’s own letter hadn’t come and thus it was into Sonia and Baird’s arm that he tumbled, his tears coming scalding and fast. They, at times, were his only family, it seemed. His only family at all.

The McLaggens fed him up, filling him with minced pies and silly other Christmas things. Hot spiced cider warmed his insides. A shower and a change of clothes followed and from there he moved on again, arm-in-arm with his friends who, themselves, wanted a night out together. Their home was quaint and warm but they like Baldric saw no use for the pretences of domesticity and needed some excitement and life in their lives. So, it was to Diagon Alley that the three went, delving into the tobacco and alcohol filled air inside of Eli’s which intoxicated them as much as the drinks in their hands did.

Eventually, when time wore on and his friends went home. As much as he wanted to be, Baldric wasn’t yet done and wandered up towards the Leaky Cauldron where he knew he wouldn’t be served but he would be given at the very least a Butterbeer to help him sober up somewhat. The pub itself was bright and warm and decorated richly in the décor that the holiday season prescribed. Unfazed by it, Baldric moved towards the bar and ordered his drink, taking it with a half-smile after the exchange of payment and change. Then he turned towards the rest of the pub and went in search of a seat.

Sliding into one of the arm chairs near the fire, Baldric leaned his head against the wing and sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, his fingers sliding up underneath his glasses to pull at his eyes. He didn’t feel very enamoured with the world in the bright light of the pub. It was stark just how wrong it had been to run away, regardless of his anger. He wouldn’t go home tonight, though. He’d flew back to Sonia and Baird’s and kip on the couch until morning. Then perhaps he’d wander home with his tail between his legs. He didn’t know which he preferred – hiding, out of reach of his father of dancing in plain sight.

Neither, if he was honest – and the Butterbeer wasn’t making that choice easier.

It couldn't be said that Bentley was a stranger to pubs - on the contrary, he often could be found within one on the weekends when his friends (few, though they were) convinced him to go out drinking with them. He had never managed to get smashed enough to follow in their footsteps and bring someone home with him as they did. Instead, he took ages to down whatever drink he decided to dive into. Where alcohol made some people into criers, or where some became the giggling drunk, liquor actually made Ben open his mouth for once and allowed him a decent chat.

Because he was well aware of this after so many years of discovering this trait in himself, his intake was dramatically lower than those around him. He never wanted to find himself at the point where he would be willing to talk about his past, his new "parents," or his problems. No, he was content enough to handle all of his issues on his own. If anyone ever tried to fix him, Ben was fairly certain he would go mad. He didn't need people trying to get to know him.

On this cold, white winter night, though, Bentley was avoiding the Ashfords and work, even refraining from his typical stress-relieving methods of smoking, reading, or catching up on the latest news in Quidditch. The deal he had been working so hard for had suddenly been washed down the drain thanks to an incompetent employee (who had, afterwords, been sacked with haste) and Bentley couldn't remember the last time he had been so furious. That deal would have immediately skyrocketed AEP's income, and the company could have easily been helped. That was his job, after all, and he was damn good at it, if he did say so himself. The CEO seemed to think so as well, he joked without amusement.

After having bundled himself up sufficiently, Bentley chose to waste his evening at the Leaky even though he knew full well that he - in all probability - wouldn't come out of it feeling any better or even with any interesting stories to tell if he ever let himself. His perch at the bar became tedious more quickly than he cared to admit, so Bentley nodded subtly to the bartender and plucked his glass of scotch off of the counter.

With the opening of the pub's doors every few minutes, Bentley had quickly realized how horribly positioned he was. Every opening meant a burst of cold air that he didn't appreciate. He was one who preferred to be inside in the winter. He rather hated winter, actually. Christmas had never been something he cared about or participated in, and he found that snow bothered him to no end. All it managed was to get his socks wet and freeze his toes. Instead, Ben preferred to stay inside, maybe glance out at the snow every now and then, and put a fire on to warm his house and pretend it wasn't cold at all. Thus, his feet sent him, immediately, in the direction of the fireplace.

Although he registered the younger man's presence in the other arm chair, Bentley hardly found it in him to care, as he usually would. Instead, his eyes watched the first for a minute before he downed a good portion of the drink and glanced over at the other chair. He certainly looked a little trashed, whoever he was, Bentley mused. At the rate Ben was drinking, though, he would probably be in the same position in no time. He was probably nearly there anyway.

He couldn't say why he chose right then to become talkative, but something about the male to his right caught his attention. Maybe it was the alcohol causing all of this. Or maybe it was just that Bentley recognized the look in the eyes of the young man, and it made him curious. "Rough night?" He asked in his usual low, heavily accented voice.

Bentley caught sight of the butterbeer in the guy's hand and figured that the Leaky hadn't provided whatever drink had caused his seemingly-off demeanor. If the boy's day had been as bad as Bentley's had, he had a feeling the drink was well-earned, and Ben wasn't about to patronize him.

Largely, the bar was quiet. The majority of people were pacified either by good food or copious amounts of beer. An occasional ruckus broke rank from the silence from the far corner of the room in the shade of the stairs that took weary travellers or intoxicated patrons up to the rooms they’d charge on their tabs and wince at the following Friday when payday came trundling round. There, a game of cards was taking place – rummy or poker or something of the like – and with every raucous win, accompanying it was the woe of loss and the tinkle of coins could be heard as they exchanged hands and pockets and purses. Other than that, silence reigned.

Beside the fire, as the clock on the mantelpiece ticked ever closer to the new day, Baldric Wood could feel the alcohol abate a little. The heat coming off of the hearth did little to quell his fatigue and renew him a sense of bright vigour. Instead his head stayed lulled against the wings of the Queen Anne armchair. His features were illuminated by the orange glow of the fire and in that light it could properly be observed just how fatigued he actually was. It was an internal fatigue, too, spiritual rather than physical. His body would go on and persist. Whether his heart and soul could would be another matter altogether. But he wouldn’t go home tonight. He couldn’t.

Blinking a little, Baldric brought his hand up to rub at his face. He dropped his palm against his knee and twisted his eyes around to look at the person across from him just as said person spoke, his voice tinged with a deep, southern accent. It was precociously English, as though he’d just walked out of Chelsea or Westminster and had somehow stumbled into the Leaky Cauldron. Stupefied for a moment, Baldric failed to comprehend the simple joining of words into a question before sitting up a little, something in the back of his mind scorning the man across from him for his voice.

“Could say that,” Baldric conceded, clearing his throat, steadying his scotch brogue which rumbled warm in his chest, caught by the whisky he’d consumed earlier that evening.

Baldric leaned down and set his bottle of Butterbeer on the floor before drawing his legs up, curling them behind him in the arm chair. He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling frustrate on the roots of his dirty blonde locks before cracking a smile at his desperately posh counterpart.

“Could be worse,” Baldric conceded. “It could’ve actually been Christmas Day. This place would’ve been closed. What would I have done then, I wonder?” Baldric chuckled humourlessly before sighing, pulling at a stray piece of thread from his jumper, his fingers looking for something to do.

“Baldric,” he introduced himself finally, extending his hand to the man. “Baldric Wood..”

Bentley lifted his eyebrows at the younger man when he replied. Considering how lost most people his age got when they went out drinking, he seemed to be doing fairly well. But at the same time, it was unusual for someone his age to go out drinking alone, if Bentley had supposed the right age for him. Late teens, he'd say. Probably a Hogwarts student by the look of him. During the Christmas season, Bentley was one of the few who spent time in a pub on his own. Granted, this year it wouldn't be as likely once he headed over to the Ashford's for their holiday get-together. The couple had no children of their own so he feared they would be a little over the top about the whole thing.

Something was quite wrong, Ben decided as the bloke shifted and tugged on his hair. The smile didn't really prove anything, but the words that went with it explained a lot. Even if it didn't give the story, Bentley could guess that this fellow wasn't preparing for a pleasant Christmas.

“I take it that home isn't a viable option at this point?” Bentley asked, attempting to keep his tone gentle instead of curious as he really was. He took a rather large drink from his glass before reaching a hand out to take the proffered one.

“Bentley Pierson.” He replied, tempted to tack on his new name. Something about having a family made him actually rather proud of his name. And yet, he had gone through so many meetings to keep his own name if only to remind himself that he had to get to where he was mostly on his own. His handshake was firm as usual – something he had learned easily through his dealings with business partners – as he passed a smile in return for the one he had been granted earlier.

For someone who so rarely offered any greeting, nonetheless information about himself, Bentley couldn't fathom what it was about this guy that had him so intent on chatting. A voice in the back of his head prodded at him, reminding him of other times like this, when something about the man he was talking to made him both curious and interested in the person in question. That almost never happened, if he was being honest. Distance was his greatest weapon as well as his promise of safety. Aside from the Ashfords, Bentley had essentially no desire to become close to those around him. Not in a familial way at least.

“I'd wager you've been at it for hours then?” Ben asked after a moment, unsure where to take the conversation from there. He had a feeling that Baldric had been on the town for a good while. If he had been alone the lot of that time, Ben had a feeling he would need a chat of some kind, and wasn't quite sure he was up for that. He would need more alcohol if he was actually going to attempt to be civil and have a decent conversation. That in mind, he lifted the glass again and watched Baldric over the rim.

Home.

The last outpost in Baldric’s world.

“Not a viable option.”

Bentley Pierson had made himself known in a rather casual, almost tentative manner, and Baldric wanted to hit him for it. He would’ve settled for hurling his Butterbeer at the other man – he didn’t want to drink it anyway – but chivalry reminded him not to treat people like that so he left the Butterbeer on the floor. He lolled his head back against the wing of the chair and sighed, throwing his arm up uselessly, almost in greeting but not exactly. It wasn’t really anything, actually. Just, muscle spasm.

Exhaling, Baldric let his eyes close a little but reopened them at the sound of the man speaking. He smiled a little, a half-hearted little twitch of his mouth, and shrugged a shoulder before closing his eyes once more. He laughed, then, a small chuckle that rumbled through his chest before he opened his eyes once more, his stare a little stronger but no less clouded with fatigue.

“A few hours. Tired now, though. The Butterbeer doesn’t help sobriety. I have a few sheckles left for a room tonight. It’ll do. Care to join me? Sure I could wrangle a cheese board. You look as lonely as me, mate. Just with better legs.”

Despite himself, regardless of whether it was a good idea or not, Baldric slowly made to move. Yes, indeed, he was right about his legs which went one way and his mind the other as he ended up slumped back into the arm chair. Ridiculously, he laughed again and shook his head, wincing not a moment later in regret of doing so.

“Gotta say… forgetting all of this stranger-danger nonsense… nice to meet you, Ben.”

Baldric’s smile was impish but lopsided, as though his mouth was going to fall from his face any moment. Again he tried for his feet but he fell once more and hung his head in defeat, his eyes revealed from behind his lids but not particularly responsive and certainly dulled in the light. He was beyond fatigue. Of course, he’d persist for the sake of something to eat, something to mop up the Firewhisky in his gut.

If he could concentrate too, it would help. Talking was a good thing.

“Help?” Baldric asked weakly.

Ben frowned slightly at Baldric's response but didn't say anything about it. It wouldn't do to upset or insult someone who was as drunk as he seemed to be. No, indeed, that didn't seem a good idea. Instead he watched with curiosity as the young man seemed to be having issues with moving about as he wanted to. A part of him wanted to laugh, which was strange for him in general. As he moved to take another gulp, Baldric spoke again and Ben thought he was going to choke on his drink.

He wanted Bentley to do what? Eyebrows practically up to his hairline, he eyed the other man cautiously. “Maybe you should try a water.” Bentley suggested slowly, words hard to push from his lips. “Or bread or something.” What was it the bloke had said about his legs?

Baldric's laugh surprised Bentley almost as much as the realization that he hadn't turned down the suggestion that he share a room with the young man. Was he serious about that? A request for help brought Ben out of his head and back to the poor guy having trouble getting out of his chair. Setting his drink down, the twenty-two year old stood and extended his arms for Baldric to take hold of and hoist himself out of the chair.

Deciding he could afford buying another drink if he wanted one, Bentley let the glass stay on the table he'd set it on – perchance someone else would want it. What was he on about? Clearly he'd had more to drink than he thought. Otherwise, why would he be taking this guy over to the owner and requesting a room and food for him? And paying with his own money, besides? Deciding he needed some kind of explanation for himself, Bentley pointed out silently that the lad had only a bit of money left according to his earlier comments.

“C'mon, then.” He muttered, starting them up the stairs and passing a thankful nod to the landlord. He needed to get Baldric seated so he didn't have him so very close, where the smell of alcohol mixed with whatever that other scent was – maybe it was just the boy himself – seemed particularly interesting as Bentley's mind tried to focus on something – anything – to keep from asking himself what he was doing. It was a little late for that.

Reaching the room, he pushed the door open with a bit of effort and finally found himself in front of a desk, bed, and nightstand. Bentley stiffened for a moment before starting towards the bed with the intention of letting Baldric flop onto it or take a seat on the edge of it.

When Baldric fully came to he found that they were in a room with all of the trappings that the Leaky Cauldron could spare. He reached up to rub at his eyes and dropped himself contentedly onto the four poster bed, managing to nudge his shoes off of his feet before crawling up the bed a little. With a sigh of relief, Baldric turned onto his back and stared up at the top of the bed before looking over at Bentley with a half-smile on his face. He sat up after a moment or two and tugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the floor with his shoes before pulling himself up onto his feet once more with the poster of the bed.

Baldric nodded towards the cabinet across from the bed. It was old and shabby but he knew exactly what was inside. The pub didn’t keep very good rooms but kept them well stocked with the alcohol that its patrons loved. The mirror overtop, mounted at an awkward angle on the wall, was misty and dirty but Baldric didn’t care. He didn’t want to imagine what he looked like anyway. For some reason though, he did want Bentley to think he wasn’t just a simple drunk who’d had a poor day and needed someone to talk to. He most definitely was but he wanted to keep some of his prideful bravado.

Though, something in the back of his mind seemed to remind him he’d already lost that.

“There should be a bottle of red in there,” Baldric informed Bentley, elaboration coming finally. “Or some whisky.”

The cheeseboard that Baldric had wanted arrived with a pop on the table and the Gryffindor grinned before wandering over to the corner of the room to grab the other chair. He moved it, surprisingly lithely, over to the table and sat down at it, kicking out the other chair for Bentley, with a satisfied smile on his face. There was every kind of cheese you wanted and just as many crackers.

“C’mon, love. Sit down. Have something to eat.”

Bentley looked about the room as Baldric started making himself comfortable, contemplating if he was due to leave. Maybe his new acquaintance hadn't really meant his words; it would be easier for Ben that way. He wouldn't have to think. A nagging voice suggested that he would have been thinking about the young man anyway. He told the voice to shove off.

At the mention of drinking further, Bentley started seriously questioning this lad's judgement. But then, didn't wine go well with cheese? At least in staying he could ensure that the man ate something rather than simply downing more liquor. He turned to the drawers, plucked the bottle of red out of one, then turned to see Baldric sitting down at the table.

He took the chair he was offered, deciding he ought not be surprised by anything after this night, but poured up a glass each and leaned back in his chair to test the cheese closest to him. His lips curled up into a smile as he followed the slice with his wine. Yes, he supposed, they did go well together. The idea of drinking wine in such a room as the one he found himself in was a bit strange, though. Bentley took a larger drink after looking over at Baldric again and finding himself far too interested in small things about him. The way he sat or moved, even while drunk.

He forced himself to focus on the cracker he'd picked up before finally speaking. “So, are we to eat in silence? Or would you like to actually know something about the person we're sitting with?”

What a stupid question. For one so often in charge of conversations – due to the fact that, if he ever had a conversation, it was by his own choosing – he felt entirely at a loss. He wasn't even the drunk one. Shaking off his idiocy, Ben swallowed the bit of cracker and cheese sandwich he'd made for himself before deciding to just start talking and see if he was stopped.

“If I had to guess, I'd say you're of the Hogwarts-attending variety. I was a Slytherin, but I didn't really get on with my dorm-mates very well. Surprisingly, I stuck to Gryffindors most days. Except on the pitch, of course. Rivalries couldn't include being friends with another House Team.” What the was he on about? Bentley downed more wine. It really was horrible, this not being good with people thing. The irrational part of him suggested that the fuzzy feeling was a good thing. That it was right on target for him to be on his way to being just as drunk as Baldric. Why else would his conversation topic ideas be restricted to Hogwarts and Quidditch?

At Ben’s words it occurred to Baldric that it quite possibly was prudent to find out about the man he was sat across from. In fact, aside from his name and the fact that he was vaguely tall, quite strong and had a ridiculous accent – which was all very good information – he knew absolutely sod all. Now, a sober Baldric would’ve been terrified and would’ve been out through the door (or window) as quick as his jauntily long legs could spring him. As it was, drunk Baldric was a lot more like his friends and found he didn’t really care who this man was. He was his cheese friend.

Baldric grinned doggedly at the idea that Slytherin Ben used to hang out with Gryffindors. It occurred then that, clearly, that penchant hadn’t really been adjusted much and Baldric puffed out his chest in mock-pride before picking up his glass of wine, taking a swig before placing a cut of cheese on his tongue. He set the glass down again and leant forward, reaching idly into the back pocket of his jeans to produce a well sat on packet of cigarettes. He tossed it onto the table, gesturing for Bentley to take one before sitting back in his chair.

“Gryffindor.” He declared in a grunting fashion that made him sound more like a caveman than a chivalric knight. He had only just prevented himself from slapping his chest but he was beyond that level of development, thank goodness. There was some helping him.

“But is that it, then? That’s all we need to know to trust each other? You could be a Death Eater. I could be a Death Eater. Shall I poke you with my wand and find out? You could poke me with your wand too if you want. It’s fine. I don’t mind. Everyone needs a good prodding occasionally. Sometimes you’ve got an itch you need scratching. Mmm.”

Baldric nodded as if he knew exactly what he was talking about (big hint: he didn’t) and took another mouthful of wine.

“We’ll play a game then. I’ll tell you something – you tell me. Okay… I am 99.9% sure I fully hate my father now. You.”

There really was no helping it. Bentley actually chuckled at Baldric's replies, knowing full well that it wasn't actually funny and wasn't at all like him. And yet, there he was, drinking his wine and having a laugh. How strange. The other man wasn't too far off in a guess that Bentley could be a Death Eater. He worked with them on occasion. That wasn't to say he was up for joining their cause. He would rather sit on the sidelines and use them to his advantage. That's what he did, really. Use people. It wasn't the nicest of hobbies, but he had been doing it for as long as he could remember. It's how he got ahead.

One to smoke only conversationally, Ben hesitated only a moment before taking the offered cigarette and turning it over in his hands. He hadn't thought, before picking it up, on if Baldric would be taking one as well, or how he would light it. It really didn't matter, though, as he was sure he could just use some spell. The small bit of him that was a gentleman suggested he wait to see if the Gryffindor would take up one for himself.

Ben wanted to suggest that his new friend(?) have more to eat, as his sentences were making little to no sense. Thanks to one of his more immature co-workers, Bentley definitely didn't hear the statements as Baldric had likely intended them. Two years of being around Jon had meant that Ben's mind often took things, turned them upside down, and dropped them into the gutter. He could hear what his friend would say, like the man was standing over his shoulder and saying it in his ear, accent and all. Does that bloke know what he's saying? He's goin' on about doin' it.

A game. That he could handle. It took his mind off of the Gryffindor sitting next to him, at least marginally. He had to keep a bit of his mind on himself rather than the fact that the alcohol was starting to get to him and that he was now going over the words that had flashed into his mind for the second or third time.

“I never had a father, but I sort of have one as of today. And a mum too, for that matter.” Ben offered in return, not feeling as awkward about his words as he should have, or would have with someone else. At least in this room he didn't have to wonder if it would get back to his co-workers that he actually cared and wasn't just the boss's (new) son.