promise | deli

[Dienne Orellana]

mid june 1972
after term end
diagon alley
la pequeña madrid restaurant

Dienne choked on her drink.

"You thought I was what?!"

She coughed and coughed, until eventually she could clear what felt like a litre of water that had gone down the wrong set of tubes.  "Idiot!"  She hissed.  She tossed her napkin at him from across the table.

"I was not--"

She lowered her voice to a whisper, feeling her cheeks warm with heat.  The restaurant bustled with activity, not caring about the couple at a corner table nestled right up against the window looking out at a sunny Diagon Alley.

"I was not looking at wedding dresses.  What are you, mad?!"

She grabbed her drink and drank, glowering at him over the lip.  That stupid grin.  Her mind raced backwards in time, trying to figure out when he'd seen her standing in front of Enchanted, staring into the glass display.

She'd been looking at dresses, sure, but not that kind!  And what had he been doing, spying?  She'd waited thirty minutes, meandering about Diagon Alley for the man who'd supposedly been running late.  Running late, her arse, she mentally grumbled looking at him.  Spying, more like!

The newspaper advertisement for the empty space nearby glowed like a warning sign in her head, for all that the ad was hidden deep within her bag.  He couldn't have been following her for that long, could he?  No, otherwise he'd be full of more annoying inquiries than just her interest in (jesus) bridal fashion.

"For your information," Dienne huffed.  "I was looking for a dress for my cousin's wedding."

She glared as she cut into the bread between them.  How someone could look peeved while buttering a piece of artisan bread was a mystery only known to Dienne Orellana and Elliot Ridgefield.

[Elliot Ridgefield]

He caught the napkin without even sparing a glance, Seeker reflexes kicking in, crushing it in his grip. With his other hand, he brought his glass of water to his lips and unlike his lovely girlfriend, drank it without losing a drop.

“Have I ever told you how gorgeous you look even with spit at the corner of your mouth?”

He reached over and dabbed the corner of her lips and chin with her napkin, winking at her before he fell back in his seat.

Terrible idea to tease Dienne Orellana when she had a knife in her hand, but since when did he shy away from danger?

“I’m just saying, Didi, I’m still in school. It’s pretty young for me to elope. And I didn’t get a proposal—” He raised his hands defensively, carefully balancing his glass not to slosh the water around, shrugging.

That grin made its reappearance.

(In her mind, he could only imagine her using the other end of the knife to knock his teeth out.

But she loooooved him too much to do that—

He was a confident man, indeed.)

Putting his glass back on the table, he stole a piece of bread.

“I feel like your boyfriend—” boyfriend, still so foreign a term yet so familiar, “—should be shopping that with you. And—”

He ripped a piece of bread and stuffed it in his mouth.

“—be your date.”

[Dienne Orellana]

“I’m just saying, Didi, I’m still in school. It’s pretty young for me to elope. And I didn’t get a proposal—”

Exactly as he predicted, she eyed the jagged bread knife and considered what would happen if she bent to one knee, grabbed his left hand, promised to love him forever, and just sliced--

She chose to chew a piece of bread instead of rising to his bait.

Because, yeah, she sort of needed (most of) her boyfriend intact.  The title was simultaneously right and infinitely disturbing.  Boyfriend?  That implied, like, that they were friends, first and foremost.

The same man that inspired tender enough feelings to make her subconsciously pile pieces of bread on the plate closest to him despite her scowl was the same man she'd had a disastrous cake fight with when she was twelve, and who could not get on the same page as her about torque wrenches versus Eh, good enough! six years later.  Whatever they were wasn't easily explainable beyond just a simple: gross.

"Be my date?" Dienne scoffed.  "Love, you want to be my date to what is basically a huge family reunion?  Sure, let me just parade you in front of my very conservative Abuela, Aunts, and Uncles.  Tell them all about us, especially how you--" She switched over to Spanish, ticking off her fingers some choice sentences that wobbled her scowl down into a teasing smile.

“Anyways.”  She sipped her water, tapping him with her foot, a silent message to behave.  A waiter backed out of the kitchen doors with a tray that looked suspiciously like their food.

“It’s bad enough I have to go.”  She hated parties.  The tons of people, the painful small talk, catching up on years of history with multiple people one painful social trap at a time.  A wedding was a mandatory occasion for the Orellana clan.  No exceptions, no excuses, not even if she needed to desperately get some things off the ground now that she was graduated.

“And you’re busy this summer aren’t you?”

[Elliot Ridgefield]

Consider him fluent in Spanish because he understood (and pictured) every single thing she ticked off on her fingers just by the way her mouth curled up.

“So tell me, do you plan on hiding that from your conservative relatives?” he asked, eyeing the inked butterfly on the inside of her wrist. Then, in Maddison Knight fashion, without waiting an answer, he flung his arm up, resting it against his forehead. “Wow, you don’t want me as your date and you’re hiding all evidence of me?” He balled his hand in a fist and acted out stabbing his heart. “It’s alright, I get it, I’ll crawl back into my prison and wait for the next time you allow me out in the light of day in your presence.”

He forced himself to regain his composure from the tap of her foot (how obedient—) though the amused smile never left his face as he fired off a thank you to their waiter.

“I am busy this summer.”

He was, though he imagined Dienne might be thinking he’d be heading off to camp or replicate his last summer, spending his days at Bobby’s garage and tinkering away. And he did plan to do the latter, except only in a good handful of weeks.

No, he had something better planned. Or, truthfully, there was no plan per say, but the seed of an idea that had planted itself in his mind by the end of term and the more days passed, the more it bloomed, blossomed into a concrete idea, something he needed to achieve, to accomplish, for them.

“With you.”

He didn’t make a move for his food. Instead, Elliot leaned forward and caught Dienne’s wrist, his thumb gently rubbing against the delicate lines there. His hazel found her brown, as they always did.

“You’re traveling with me.”

[Dienne Orellana]

Despite her resume listing Animagus by age seventeen, and several patents drafted with her name on them, ready to be submitted to the Ministry, Dienne Orellana blinked stupidly at those hazel eyes.

"You're travelling?"

[Elliot Ridgefield]

For someone so smart, she sure had selective hearing.

"We're travelling."

[Dienne Orellana]

"Where?!"

Both of her hands turned upwards, nearly dislodging the clasp of his hand around her butterfly mark.  Her expression, incredulous, clearly unable to fathom going anywhere beyond the four walls that surrounded them.

[Elliot Ridgefield]

He matched her disbelieving expression with one of pleasure, breathing out a laugh.

“Wherever you want, love.”

His hand slipped to hers, his thumb brushing her knuckles, a move she often did on his battered and scarred ones.

“We have the trip to California; the one Tim got me for my birthday. But I thought we could visit round Europe first.”

His eyes softened as he looked at her.

“I just want to spend this summer with you.”

Because this would be the last time they would see each other in a while. The first time in six years—minus that year, they didn’t talk about that one anymore—they wouldn’t be continuously in each other’s presence; the first time he wouldn’t loom over her shoulder and say something annoying on the daily that would have her turn around and insult him; the first time he would drag himself to the Hospital Wing and not see her there when he needed her most; the first time he would have to force himself to open a book without her using very persuasive methods to get him to study.

He dreaded it, that time to come.

And he knew she did, too.

[Dienne Orellana]

For a moment, she gaped like a fish.  A real beautiful expression on her face: speechless, mouth opening and closing dumbfounded as she raced ahead digesting the idea he’d dropped right into her lap.  Dienne Orellana had not exactly been avoiding thinking about some particulars about her curly haired companion as she neared graduation, but she’d certainly pushed all thought of logistics and (their, we, us) futures out of her head—the very definition of avoidance, some lower functioning beings might argue.  With how things had developed in the last year plus between them, she had finally realized how tiresome what ifs and anxious thoughts were, and pushed them all aside to focus on the short term present.

“I do too.”  Embarrassment—another emotion that came easier and easier these days—at her quick reply made her look down at their food.

The answer itself was easy.

The reality of it was a bundle of mass confusion for her.  Dienne was a planner.  She needed to research, make lists, have a firm path to march down to maximize efficiency.  To avoid wasting their time, boring each other, making a disaster of anything, messing up.  A tinge of panic flashed.  What was she going to do about her new, erm, job?  The apartment she’d applied for?  She pushed those thoughts aside, stubbornly refusing to let them dim the opportunity blooming before the couple.

She squeezed his hand.  Her lips twisted as she narrowed her eyes at him.  “You wretch.  You couldn’t have told me this mad idea weeks ago?“  She shook her flustered head and slid one hand free to pick up her fork.

“How soon did you want to go?  … This weekend?”  A wild option thrown back at him, payback to surprising her, done in a dry, even voice.  The handful of days between then and today weren’t many.

She speared a croquette and arched a challenging eyebrow at him.

pre-adventure
a cottage in alfriston

Be persuaded into spending a night over because of a suspiciously cheerful invitation from Maddison and Elliot after Timothy had gone to visit Charlene, and she hadn’t even remembered dropping to bed after a chaotic, unhinged night of celebrating.  ‘Congratulations on graduating!’ had clearly just been the excuse waiting in the wings.  She wasn’t entirely clear on who had knocked out the Christmas decorations from their place in the hallway closet (probably Mads, on some mad quest wailing for his man to come back home), nor why she was vaguely sensing that she shouldn’t wrap anything with curling ribbon for at least the next decade.

Regret came on strong in the morning when hard work still waited, one day closer to their drafted departure.  Tired and in need of sustenance—or possibly just a memory charm—Dienne had been unusually clumsy in the garage that day.

It was amazing just how much oil went into an oil change.  It spread impressively far when a tired witch tripped over the canister (compounding her point that he was a disorganized slob in his own mechanical domain) and fell to her knees with a splat, upturning six quarts of oil onto her person.

“Stop laughing.”

Where was her damn wand?  Hell, where was his?

Honestly, his room was such a cluster. 

Spend one (actual permission granted) night over at Alfriston, and her belongings had been consumed by the void of Elliot’s room.

She swatted away his hands, shimmying out of his slippery hold.  She flashed him a quelling look at his grin at the mess seeping through the front of her shirt, and strode into his room.  She side stepped piles of clothes about his room, dripping noxious oil, searching for the magical tools that would be way better for the environment than a shower.

There.  A battered, old looking chest at the foot of his bed.  Something was stuck under one corner, causing the lid not to latch.  She knelt to push the lid up, making dark fabric flop back inside.

“I’ve been looking for this shirt!”  Dienne exclaimed in surprise, picking up a shirt she hadn’t seen for months out.  Miraculously beneath it, sitting right atop an old set of Batman pajamas and a ragged book on Transfiguration, were two wands.

Dienne grabbed one, sat back on her heels, and swirled a silent Scourgify over herself with a relieved sigh.  “God, why were these in here?”  She asked him, shoving the chest lid higher so it fell against his mattress.

[Elliot Ridgefield]

For all his flaws and weaknesses, Elliot could never complain about Maddison Knight not being a gracious host. The man knew how to receive his guests and how to make a night entertaining, which should be a given considering he was a known musician, but there was more to it. As the hours ticked by and the bottles opened, he wondered if Mads magical capabilities weren’t magic per say (watch him try to cast a basic Reparo), like it belonged to a wizard, but something more like social prowess, the minute skill of organizing amazing celebrations.

He questioned all of it when he woke with a pounding headache, with a bow tied around him, his room more upside-down than it had ever been, and somehow, glitter in his sheets. Despite his harsh awakening, it seemed a quick remedy to his night of debauchery was a cranky and tired Dienne, trying to work through exactly the same headache and loose memories.

“I don’t know, but I think I have a vague recollection of you telling me that we were playing Hide and Seek with the wands,” he drawled, sitting on the floor next to her, his legs crossed.

Placing his arms on the chest, Elliot peered inside. He rarely opened this now that he spent most of his year at the castle. He remembered spending hours as a child beside it, when he was still too fearful of everything going on around him, finding some comfort in toys Tim had prepped for his arrival. He shuffled through its contents, another one of his messy spots.

“I reckon I could still wear these,” he said, pointing at the Batman pajamas he could very well not fit in anymore. The Transfiguration textbook looking barely used, save for a Commutati caeruleus he’d scribbled on the first page after the cover, and a tucked note containing a drawing of a blue hairy potato and Dienne’s signature scribbled at the bottom. The small smile on his face spread some more as he found comic books, a Batman one he remembered being read to him in a Hospital Wing bed.

Elliot stayed quiet for a bit, looking at his chest, his treasure cove of prized possessions and memories tucked safely in the back of his mind. He finally turned his head towards Dienne and as if by reflex, moved to tuck a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail behind her ear.

“There’s still place in this chest for more memories.”

[Dienne Orellana]

summer 1972
pre-adventure

"There's still place in this chest for more memories."

Dienne studied him as his hand retracted, feeling his fingertips against her cheek as that familiar curl of hair wrapped around her ear.

"Sentimental."

She smiled at him.

Call him a violent, anger prone nutcase.  Call him a madman.  Call him an adrenaline freak, a foolhardy idiot, someone meant to spiral out of control and burn up, and not be able to linger over the ashes they left in their wake.  A man made to ruin and be ruined by.  Call him whatever names possible, so long as the soppy moron remained hers.

Dienne shifted to her knees and brought her hands up, tucking her wand between her teeth.  Another grin flashed as her shirt pulled up with her movement, exhaustion never stopping the wicked gleam that wanted to inspire similar in those hazel hues.  Her fingers touched the clasp behind her neck and twisted until the chain came loose, pooling warm metal against her chest.

She fished out the half broken screwdriver bit from so long ago.  It was a pendulum, meant to guide someone to what they wanted most.  "I don't want you to keep memories of me."  She kissed the screwdriver bit, eyes on him as the chain dangled between her fingers.

"I want you to make memories with me."

She dropped the chain into a stack of folded up papers.  The metal slid in between their folds and disappeared into the chest among notes traded back and forth years ago, including a simple sketch of his annoying smile.

"So that you'll find me."  She answered the unasked question simply.

She pressed a hand to his chest and leaned forward, brushing her lips in a kiss against his ear.

"Promise?"

early october 1972

The garage was a mess.  Every tool box was disorganized, ever drawer upturned, every cabinet wrenched open.  She was on some row of days at the shop, steadily productionizing her inventions, and yet every day she was behind.  Half finished with chores, half done with errands, never fully rested or full from a meal.

It felt like she always had something in her hand, only to lose it moments later.

Not for the first time, Dienne reached for her pendulum and groped at bare skin instead.

There would always be a beat.

A pang.

A swallow.  A breath.

And then she'd will herself to go looking for what was missing for just a little longer.

summer 1972
an adventure in belgium

It had been a terrible hotel.  A terrible one.  Cheap.  Small.  Cramped.  A dead cockroach in the bathroom.  A stank, musty smell emitting from the walls, like something had died inside.

They were better off sleeping in the car.

And yet the only thing she could remember was his arms wrapped around her, and that fresh scent enveloping her as she pressed against his neck, legs intertwined, drifting off into a deep, luxurious sleep.

late september 1972

Dienne woke to the sound of rain landing on her apartment roof.  The skylight glinted dull grey overhead, matching the fog clouding the windows, obscuring the view of Diagon Alley.

She was cold.

A sneeze made her jerk and sit up.  A cramp immediately told her she'd moved too soon, too quickly, for a morning.

Dienne swung her legs over the bed and looked back at the sheets.  One half rumpled, the other side practically untouched, due to the size of the bed she'd been gifted.  She brushed her fingers over the sheets and shivered.

The weather was getting so cool, so quickly.

summer 1972
an adventure in barcelona, spain

"What are you so nervous about?"

She reached up to tweak his collar straight, and grinned at him beneath her lashes.  The clock ticked thirty minutes until they needed to be at the venue.

"You said you wanted to be my date."

She just hadn't said when or where exactly, until the event had been literally thrust upon them as they meandered into the city her father's family had been raised in.

"Relax."

She laid her hands flat on his shoulders.  Her palms lay above the sparrows marked on his skin, hidden by layers of clothes.

"There's just, oh, two hundred family members here tonight."

She grinned.

14 october 1972
masquerade ball
hogsmeade village

She wasn't dressed up for the Harvest Moon Festival.  It was arguable if she was even celebrating or just a bystander.  Hay stuck to her ponytail that she hadn't noticed.  Her pants were dirty from climbing around fixing the carriages, and her clothes were wet from incidents with the apple bobbing and pumpkin bowling.  She was a sweaty, tired mess, and volunteering because she'd been asked to did nothing to alleviate the stress of rent and bills to pay.

Seeing him had startled her.

"I can't dance right now," she hedged, brushing at her pants and shirt absently, fidgeting with her collar that had suddenly grown warm as she grew conscious of a questionable smear on her boots.  Why was she noticing that?  Since when did she care about how she looked, when she was covered in muck most days anyway?

The heavy air of cinnamon, apple, and baked goods, competed with what she swore was her own awful perfume from grit, stress, and hard work.  She bit her lip and looked at him.  "Later?"

She grabbed his sleeve before he could turn away.  "Midnight," she promised recklessly.

summer 1972
an adventure in bordeaux, france

Wine.  Sour.  Bold.  Light.  Fruity.  Earthy.  Sparkling.  Floral.  Rich.  Bitter.

They toasted eachother in earnest at the beginning.  Then the toasts became more absurd as they became unable to distinguish light-bodied from full-bodied.  There were toasts for family, then friends, professors, random strangers.  The tattoo artist.  The man who sold bagels in Alfriston.  The car mechanic Dienne had grown up with.

Silly memories of a bright time.

"I--" she stumbled, trying to muffle her laughter between shushes at him to do the same.  "--love--" She collapsed onto one of the arm chairs occupying a tight corner of their motel room.  Arm chair over large bed, yet another terrible yet not so terrible hotel room.

"--your hair.  You know that?"  Dienne giggled helplessly, as if she'd ingested giggling potion, as she tugged at his curls.

"Seriously.  It's so, so--!"

Dienne put her palms on either side of his face and pressed, squishing, studying those eyes, that face, so seriously at a late night hour of utter hilarity.

"--fluffy.  S'not fair."  Dienne huffed into his face--hints of cherry, wood, rose--with an indignant sputter.  "So f--flu--fluffy."  A sniff.  A stutter.  A sloppy, affectionate kiss between those two palms.

midnight, end of 12 december 1972
diagon alley

The red liquid trembled in the glass.  She tried to clutch it with her free hand, cursing the thin stem that made it hard to grab, and flexed the fingers of her bad hand again.  Her wand stayed inside its sheath at her forearm, an asset and a barrier all discovered at once.

Dienne heard the midnight hecklers in the empty Diagon Alley below, and thought a dozen curses to herself.  Something ugly sat inside her stomach, furling out, batting at the linings, making any pressure feel worse.  She tried to tip the glass to her mouth for a sip, but with a gasp, her grip faltered, and the glass fell to the ground, shattering into shards and red liquid.

[Elliot Ridgefield]

early august, 1972
santa monica pier, california

“Didi! Shit, sorry—”

He sidestepped a guy holding five corn dogs and he pursed his lips to stifle a laugh. A woman with a string bikini that barely held anything together looked him over and he quickly snapped his head away. A kid ran between his legs, causing him to trip and almost land face first on the wooden beams.

“Didi!” he shouted again, barely audible over the brouhaha of the busy pier.

He didn’t know how he’d lost track of her. One second, she’d been by his side, the next, the tide of people had taken her. He searched frantically for her, head whipping left and right, standing on the tips of his toes to look over the sea of Americans crowding the place.

Finally, by the beach where men double his size worked out, he spotted her head of brown hair.

“Jesus, Didi. I finally found you.”

She didn’t glance at him, only pointed at a beautiful car, its red paint shining in the California sun.

Of course, she’d gone off to look at a piece of machinery. He should have known he’d find her here.

early october, 1972

He walked out of the duelling block with barely a scratch on him. His lips split in that self-satisfied grin she knew and—though she would never admit—loved. It faltered slightly when hazel didn’t find the magnetic pull of brown.

His fingers fished for the onyx stone around his neck. Instead of its reassuring pull, the necklace always knowing where to go to, he found it cold.

She wasn’t here.

He’d forgotten, for a split second.

The corner of his mouth twitched but he regained composure, kept the smile that lost some of its fervor on his face. He walked towards the Hospital Wing where he also had to remind himself she wouldn’t be found.

july 1972
paris, france

When they finally walked all the way to the Eiffel Tower, rain poured down on them. People covered their heads with newspapers or whatever they had on hand, racing towards the nearest trees to try and escape the onslaught.

Elliot and Dienne simply looked at each other and smiled.

Taking her hand, he lifted it above her head (and now, unlike years prior, he didn’t have to push himself on the tip of his shoes to manage that), giving her a twirl. The sheet of rain slowly intensified but the couple danced unbothered, even when water soaked through their shoes, even when she had to push his curls away from his face so he could see, even if they would be soaking wet walking all the way back to the hotel.

In the midst of their dance, a flash of light erupted. Only after the rain settled that the photographer would approach the pair and hand them the polaroid; a man with his arm around his lover, her hand on his shoulder, fingers intertwined, the rare smile on her face reserved for him, the amorous look in his eyes just for her.

the mascaraed ball, 1972
hogsmeade village

She was beautiful.

She always was, but even more when she seemed in her element, her clothes tarnished from hard work and determination he knew she set in every project she overcame today. The smell of candied apples stuck to her, and he almost made a joke then about her taste—

”I can’t dance right now.”

The words sliced through him, but he forced the smile to stay on his face, even if the light dimmed in his eyes. It’s okay was lost on his tongue.

”Midnight,” she vowed, the weight on his arm a promise.

His smile finally lost its strength.

Even with his new badge and years a practice, even he couldn’t sneak back into Hogwarts that late.

“I can’t,” he forced his voice not to waver.

august 1972
home, alfriston

Tim and Mads had sat them down on the couch and forced them (or rather, one specific individual did) to recount their whole trip. Thanks to Tim’s benevolence, they slipped in his room some time later, exhaustion seeping from them.

But he didn’t head for the bed. He took Dienne’s hand, dragged her towards the chest and pulled her down to the ground. From his bag, he retrieved every postcard, every photograph, every keychain, every souvenir they’d taken from all their locations. He pulled her in his lap, going through every single one of them, the moon’s glow their only source of light.

“Remember?” he muttered in the dark, pressing soft kisses to her shoulder.

”That was a week ago,” she would say. Or a month. Or two weeks. Or three days ago.

Remember? he would repeat even when she looked at him funny.

Remember, all these memories we made together?

Our promise.

late november 1972
hogswart

Elliot dragged his feet into the common room and collapsed in his bed. Beside him, Danny snored away, bed rumpled, sheets cast aside, mouth open wide, absolutely no worries.

Duelling semi-finalist. Quidditch captain with his first win of the season. Head Boy. Soon-to-be graduate with NEWTS on the horizon.

He was tired.

Still dressed in his clothes, he nuzzled his face in his pillow and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to take him away.

On his bedside table, the ink pot remained open though the quill had fallen to the ground. Next to it, a piece of parchment still waiting to be completed.

The letter, his reply to Dienne’s last owl, had been there for five days, untouched.

summer 1972
barcelona, spain

“I think they liked me,” his voice quiet in the dark room.

He shouldn’t be in her room. Merlin knew he would be six feet under if Ben Sr. happened to check on his daughter in the middle of the night. But he couldn’t shake the image of the very tipsy Quidditch referee with a delicately placed hand on his wife’s body on the dancefloor. Nothing to worry about, then.

“I reckon your aunties wanted to intimidate me, but I think I won them over. What do you—”

He looked at Dienne, her breath steady and quiet, eyes closed, her face half-hidden in the crook of his neck. He brushed her hair away, still styled from the way she had coifed them for the wedding. His arms tightened around her and held her close, protectively.

He pressed a delicate kiss to her forehead, his silent confession.

last hogsmeade weekend before the holidays
hogwarts

He stared at her letter.

He stared at it longer than he should have considering the little text it had.

She couldn’t come.

He tried to swallow to ease the knot in his throat.

december 13, 1972
00:01

She forgot.

december 20, 1972
home, alfriston

Reckon I should see your place, don’t you think?

The first owl since their last, before his birthday.

[Dienne Orellana]

late june 1972

Her fingers combed his hair, brushing the unruly curls gently away from his sleeping face.  The soft light of the moon filtered in through the hotel curtains along with the soft yellow of the streetlights somewhere below.  Her lips curled up as she watched his brow scrunch and his face turned more into his pillow with a sharp huff.  Distantly, she could hear cars speeding by on the rain-slick roads, heading home in the middle of the night.  Someone on their floor padded in the hallway, going into a different room, the door shutting with a solid thud in the otherwise calm hotel.  The alarm clock on his side read single digits for the hour in solid, bright red dots.

She knew she needed to sleep.  They had an agenda for tomorrow, for the week.  Places to go, things to do, adventures to make.  She was the list maker after all, collecting pamphlets in every city and perusing maps whenever he drove, determined to optimize, to make efficient, to always move forward.  She needed to shut her eyes and rest, but as always, her mind wouldn't cease.

Dienne curled in closer to the sleeping man.  Her fingers trailed along his hair, to the curve of his cheek, down his neck, across his shoulder.  Her lips brushed against his folded arm in silent affection.  That familiar scent surrounded her, mixing with the scent of shared soap and sweet heat lingering on their clothes.  Her lips whispered a path up his arm to his shoulder as her palms explored, wandered, rediscovered.

He stirred as her teeth nipped at his ear.  "Good morning."  The blatant lie of a greeting fell in a breath across his lips as she bent towards him.  Do you want to keep dreaming? she teased with her touch.

She knew she needed to sleep.  But she loved being awake.  Being awake meant reality was better than any of her imagination, than any of her ideas and busy thoughts.  When their fingers intertwined, when the moonlight glowed in his eyes as he looked up at her, when even in darkness she could find him, ache for him, greedily draw him closer, she never wanted sleep to reach them.

summer 1972 memories.

A thick blanket tossed over both of their shoulders.  Cold sand seeping into their rumpled clothing.  A paper cup full of tiny pasta stars floating in a cozy, warm broth, given to a sheepish boy explaining to compassionate nonnas about his normally robust girlfriend not feeling well.  Sipping soup between sniffles as she curled into his arms, burying her feet in the sand against his, feeling his soft chuckles vibrate against her back.  A cool breeze ruffling through their thin clothes, coating them in a mist of saltwater from the gentle waves of the sea before them.  Her sigh as he nuzzled into her shoulder, brushing kisses against her shirt before pressing his cheek to her hot neck, checking her temperature.  The early morning rays casting pinks and light blues over that swaying ocean, turning their skin pale gold.


A fogged up car.  Peals of laughter and grumbling.  A finger, tracing words onto first one window, then another, then another, and a hand swiping the phrases clear with exasperated eye rolls.  And the fog returning again with dawn's rays, cutting through the grey mist and morning dew surrounding the world.


Them both hating parties, regardless if weddings were supposed to be happy celebrations.  Wallflowers, cornerflowers, tied together, one side out of desperation to not be left to the mad inquiries of the aunties, the other oddly protective yet amused.  Her being so tall with heels that it was almost comical, and yet when they were pressured onto the dance floor together, they still fit together.  The smell of cologne on him, her nails--not quite manicured, still as chipped and broken as ever from her bad habits--laid against his suit, his hand sliding against the silk of her dress at her waist.  I'm proud of you, murmured against his cheek, and the familiar feel of his smug smirk curling up in response.  Later, sitting at a table by themselves as the celebration continued on but their world seemed to close into a bubble just for them.  Her fingers running under his shirt collar, straightening it, urging him closer.  His jacket cocooning her, her heels kicked off under his chair.  Three words this time, that tasted like fine wine and the overly sweet wedding cake he'd made them eat.


Sitting on the curb of a cobblestone road outside of a premiere French restaurant.  Brown eyes glaring sharply at hazel.  Cursing and grumbling, emphatic gesturing at rugged jeans and wrinkled button ups, and then pointing through glass windows at black tie ensemble and glittering patrons within.  Deep sighs and Dienne Orellana wondering, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, the same question that everyone who knew Elliot Ridgefield has wondered at one point.  But then that face, the exaggerated pout on those lips, the teasing apologies and no sense of shame.  Her lips could only stay pressed in a firm line for so long until they were breached by sweet chocolate and the tang of a fresh strawberry, graciously provided by sympathetic waitstaff from the too classy restaurant.  She glared even as she let herself be dragged beside him.


Beautiful, operatic singing on a gondola ride.

Not so beautiful, definitely not operatic, nowhere close to harmonizing singing on a gondola ride.

Pushing him off of a gondola ride.

And getting dragged into the water herself.


Remember, all these memories we made together?

I remember.

august 1972
last trip

Her notebook was getting so full.  Lists, notes, pamphlets, sketches.  Postcards, receipts, newspaper clippings, magazine pages, everything was in her notebooks.  It didn't stop her from continuing to fill every margin, every clear inch of space with her thoughts, their memories of the summer.

Her legs were folded up against the small table of their hotel room, the notebook in her lap as she curled in the wooden chair nestled against the curtains.  Her pencil made quick, decisive strokes on an empty page as she glanced from it to the profile tucked just out from the blankets, ruffled, sleeping, dead to the world.  Her lips couldn't stop their perpetual curl, the muscles getting softer every year that she exercised that warm, affectionate smile.

When she finished, she reached for her coffee and curled it against her sketch.  She let the steam of the mug redden her cheeks as she studied her drawing, then back at the slumbering man.  A pleased yet embarrassed expression crossed her face as she recalled more sketches she had, hidden away for him not to find.  She sipped her coffee in a quick, silent prayer, muffling a soft laugh.  With a satisfied nod, she shut the leather bound notebook and stacked it on the table.

A soft tap sounded on the window glass behind her.  Dienne turned in surprise.  On the window railing, a small owl fluffed its feathers.  It peered at her somewhat annoyed, then pecked at the glass again, as if demanding entrance or death.

When she let the temperamental owl into the hotel room, it dropped a parcel with a blue ribbon wrapped around it into her lap.

They were a set of keys.

Im omnia paratus - Prepared for all things.  The words were stamped onto the leather thong the keys dangled from.  Fresh iron, the hint of oil and potions, and a sense of magic tingled up her palm to her arm the longer she held the keys.

Benji's note was short and crisp.  His handwriting was neat and tight, a testament to days working for the Ministry now.  His small owl pecked at the leftover crumbs on Dienne's plate then tried wrestling out the croissant still in the brown paper bag that she'd left wrapped up on the counter.

Dienne swatted at the bird absently as she read her brother's note.  A pulse started at her throat, nervous yet excited.  Over in the bed, the sheets rustled.

'It's done, Dienne.  Are you ready?'

20 december 1972
diagon alley

Reckon I should see your place, don’t you think?

A pulse started her throat.  She swallowed against the lump there.  The parchment crinkled under her tight squeeze.  She hurried to unsqueeze her fingers, flexing her hand, feeling less pain in the nerves compared to just days ago, and smoothed the parchment flat on her dining table again.

See her place?

Panic.  Excitement.  Nerves.  Guilt.  Fear.  Shame.  Sadness.  Need.  And love.  Overwhelming love.

A kaleidoscope of feelings overwhelmed Dienne at the short note, scared her, made her get up quickly from the table and trip over one of the stools as she hurried across her apartment.

One would never suspect an inventor's garage to exist below the apartment she lived in now.  It was huge.  Larger than it had been when she'd signed the lease over the summer before leaving to explore Europe and California.  The apartment was full of the cozy miracles an older brother, who'd made good money for a long enough time and had offered to prepare everything for the travel bound girl, could make happen in so short a timeframe as a memorable summer.  The tiny, cramped living space that could barely fit a bed and a stove in the summer had blossomed into a living space suitable for a Diagon Alley store owner.

It was comfortable.

Currently, Dienne thought it was messy.

She forced down every emotion she could feel bubbling in her stomach as she swept through the apartment, picking up used dishes, stacks of opened books, notes, and sketches all over the place.  She scooped up a haphazard pile of laundry teetering on the couch.  She hastily punched the cushions, ignoring a head-sized indent, clearly indicating where her head fell when she chose to sleep on the first surface she could find entering her apartment from the stairs rather than in her bed.  She eyed the long dining room table where the owl pecked at her half eaten breakfast sandwich.  Dirty dishes went into the kitchen, which wasn't as large as the rest of the apartment, but suitable enough to be cornered and kissed thoroughly by someone she loved or interrogated by a group of nosy aunts.  The back hallway revealed a small office space with a floor to ceiling in-wall bookcase that was already filled to the brim with Dienne's favorites.  Tucked on the bottom row were a set of well used, familiar notebooks, several years worth, containing secrets and dreams held for so long.  Her desk was a riotous mess of paperwork, bills, and ideas, the tiny couch scrammed into that space just as overwhelmed as the girl who shut the door quickly with an alarmed glance.

See her place?

Dienne stopped halfway up the stairs to her bedroom.  The loft bedroom overlooked the flat.  The big windows showed the corner of Diagon Alley where she lived.  Not in a spot popular enough to be trafficked heavily, but not so dark as Knockturn Alley to warrant sketchy customers.  Today, the weather was chilly, misty, and grey, casting the Alley in a sheen of vapor as pedestrians navigated the streets below her.

Dienne clutched the railing, heart beating in her chest.  Her hands spasmed, but she ignored them, feeling instead the rattling thrum in her veins of what was to come.

She looked at her bed.  At the messy blues, whites, and blacks, of the favorite books still stacked on end tables with barely any inch to put anything else on those surfaces.  At the messy sheets that she hadn't slept in in days, choosing to nap in the garage office instead just dozens of feet below.  At the pullout couch for guests also covered in her laundry, since she'd been too busy to pay attention to basic chores.  Too busy to do chores.  Too busy to have a life.  Too busy to celebrate, too busy to send wishes, too busy, too sad, too pathetic.  Obviously, she had bigger priorities, and it showed everywhere.

The owl hooted impatiently from the table.  She jerked, and looked at it, releasing she still had his note in her fist, and she hadn't written anything back.

Those feelings bubbled up again.  In her belly, up her ribs, into her throat, making her eyes burn.  She sat down on stairs, hard.  Thoughts, the useless, whirling kind, filled her head, as they always did.

Why should he want to see her?

That vicious, nasty voice inside her head battered her with ruthless answers.  It roared at her, tattooing dread up her insides, insulting the stupidity of what she wrote back to him:  Okay.

august 1972
last trip

The weeks of travelling wherever together, of exploring anything and just being free, were coming to an end.  She'd known her time with him was limited ever since she graduated from Hogwarts.  That was reality:  he'd go back into his last year in the fall, and she'd try to make her way in the world.  It was time to rip the band-aid off, to face reality, for everything to be over

Despite knowing what was coming, knowing her reaction, knowing his, she had to be the one to do it.  Dienne had to be the serious one, the one who overthought everything, the one who had to ruin their happiness.

She asked for them to go home.

20 december 1972
diagon alley
late night

"Good night Dienne!" Her three part timers chorused.  Dienne looked up, tiredly amused at how much like little ducklings they all looked.  "Night."  She waved them off, and they left as a group out of the side door. 

Dienne watched them go for a moment and shook her head.  Insane that she was eighteen, almost nineteen, had a shop, had workers.  She was barely qualified to live by herself, and yet she was responsible for atleast part time livelihoods and maintaining a business.

She looked around at her business from the service desk.  She shoved a hand through the Muggle deterring curtains separating the main garage from the back, and peered into the back area.  It was a smaller garage that faced a somewhat suspicious Muggle alleyway.  It had previously been a garage for a used car repair shop some thirty odd years ago that had gone under disrepair, and used by questionable groups of individuals until Dienne had gotten the keys to the place.  Dienne had fixed up the broken glass and doors, charmed and proteted the entryway from undesirabels, and turned the dark, damaged space into a reasonably clean, reasonably Muggle friendly space for locals to stop by for mechanical repairs.  While she had some curiosity seekers stop by, she kept most of her hardware overflow in storage or on display in that area while her main business picked up.

Dienne studied the dark space for a moment, before letting her hand drop and turning to face her main garage.

Contradicting the outside depth of the building, the main garage was clearly magically expanded.  Once a two car garage, it was easily the size of a four car, with large double wide garage dors against the back wall.  A familiar classic red sports car was parked permanently in one garage space, covered in a clean cloth.  All throughout the shop, inventions lay:  decorating the shelves, sitting atop workstations production in the making, hanging from the ceiling or displayed in the windows.  A prototype broom, scale size.  An old sewing machine.  A microwave that could speed up potions time.  A vanishing chamber with shared intellectual property, filed on the patent with an old friend.  Toy airplanes.  Dolls that could be animated with a spell.  Tools, potions kits, everything that once used to live inside a shed in her family home, had been migrated to this new space.  The garage was a whirlwind of mechanical supplies and magical, turning nonsense into something functional, worth selling, worth buying for a greater customer base.

Dienne stared at the empty garage for a long moment.  Her eyes roamed over the familiar objects, then traveled to the stairs that would lead up to her apartment.  Too soon?  Too late?  Did she have... too much hope?  The voice whispered cruel I told you so's, laughing at the tiny flame of hope in her stomach.

She walked out through the same door her employees walked out of.  Outside of the double wide garage doors, a surprising sight lay:  Diagon Alley.  Though on an off alley corner not on the main street, even at the late hour, there were still a variety of witches and wizards walking past, figuring out their last minute Christmas shopping.  Dienne studied them for a moment.  Squinted out at the street lights, looking, searching for that familiar silhouette, if it came, and scolding the hopeful leap in her heart.  She was the one who hadn't reached out in time.  She was the stupid one who would reap what she'd sown, if he came.

She turned away from the Alley and faced her garage.  A simple sign at the right corner was brightly illuminated by her store light, and further emphasized by the lights inside the garage space that she'd just left. 

Painted in black letters on a white sign:  "Welcome to Oil & Rain: offering custom solutions since 1972."

Below that was a smaller plaque:  "Owner:  Dienne Orellana."

august 1972
last trip

"Surprise."  She swiped at the tears streaming down her face, nearly scratching her skin with the crupled parchment in her palm.  Weakly, she gestured at the decorated apartment around them.  At the garage they'd both walked through to get there.

"I meant...  I mean to surprise you with the shop, umm, downstairs.  To show you that I... got a great deal on a lease and, umm."  She sniffed.  She couldn't find her words.  "That this... That this would be where my store would be, with my apartment up here."

"If you wanted to come find me, I'd be here."  Her tears weren't stopping, no matter how much she rubbed.  "That I'd always be here even after..."  After he left, graduated, wanted her out of his life, wanted someone different.

"But it looks like I'm the one surprised instead.  From everyone."  She hiccuped a laugh, shaking her head with a trembling smile.  "This is definitely more than I expected.  It was just supposed to be small, easy, but now I can..." Offer him something better. she drifted off in a mumble.

Benji's note drifted to the ground with her numb fingers.  The words pressed into her mind, a brand, erasing every insecurity she'd felt, every nervous tremor she'd had about her future to come.  The unknown steps forward, away from all she knew, loved, felt safe with.

"Dienne -- Consider this renovation an investment from your friends and family.  I've seen your business plans.  They're solid.  Trust me, I work for the Ministry; I've seen way worse succeed.

You've been planning this for years.  You've got a real chance to succeed here.  Take advantage of it.  You don't have to work hard all by yourself.  Remember that you're not alone.  Ask for the help you need to stay happy.  Hell, start demanding it.

I think you'll be surprised by the answers you'll get.

I love you, little sister.  I'm proud of you.
- Benji

P.S. - You're hosting a party for me next month, though.  That sweet apartment has to have atleast one party in it!  I consider it my payment for having to tell everyone for you while you and lover boy were on honeymoon.  Sickening."

Dienne Orellana drew in a brave breath.  Once upon a time, she'd wished to be in any house but Gryffindor.  But in Gryffindor, she'd learned to be courageous, brave, honorable.  She'd grown into a more whole person, brave enough to believe in others, to have faith, to love.

Those watery brown eyes gazed at Elliot, braced for the worst, hoping to stay awake through the dream, dreading what was to come yet filled with disbelieving happiness, a silent plea.

"When I said I wanted to go home... What I meant to say... or really ask is..."

"Would you come home with me, Elliot?"