The redhead put distance between himself and the Ministry of Magic, knowing that if he didn’t then he’d forget to go home for Christmas. He’d already been the worst son in the world in forgetting his own mother’s birthday. Avoiding acknowledgement of his negligence probably hadn’t done anything for any of the wounds that might have been caused by his absence. Hugo Weasley was determined to make up for it with Christmas. The neatly wrapped presents in his flat attested to as much.
His decision to leave early (although, in truth, Hugo’s idea of early was vastly different to everyone else’s) from work was partially in that reformative vein. He had taken a long, easy walk into central London and had been taking eager advantage of the late night shopping afforded to the Muggles. He was well-laden by the time he started to walk towards an apparition point.
With the street lights twinkling overhead, Hugo made his way to the park. His scarf was fluttering out behind him as he walked, his hair was mussed, and his cheeks were red with exertion but for the first time in a very long time, indeed, he almost looked happy. Almost. It might have just been the sense of a job well done. But who knows, really?
Whatever happiness he might or might not have possessed, it was most certainly driven from him – but only replaced by shock – when he barrelled into someone who emerged from the park, catching him utterly by surprise.
Doing well to keep hold of his bags, the Weasley man shrunk back from the woman who had collided with him and watched through bleary eyes as she reached down to retrieve her clutch. Instinct made him reproach himself. He should have helped. Next time, he promised himself – and her.
And there would be a next time, too.
There was always a next time for him and Yvette.
Her present. Small and almost insignificant if it hadn’t been for the significance of them. He’d bought that first. Out of habit more than anything else. It was wrapped and had been living under the small fir tree he’d bought and decorated for weeks now. He had never thought he’d give it to her. Not for a moment. Now, seeing her, he knew he would have to. So of course, there would be a next time.
“Yvette.”
He knew that this part was where he was supposed to smile. James would have smiled. Or at the very least done something oddly charming – emphasis on the ‘oddly.’ Hugo merely stood there, his posture ramrod straight. Only his scarf moved – continuing to waft intermittently in the breeze, the sticky-out bits of his hair twitching occasionally along with it.
“How have you been?”
That was inept, he chastised himself. He always wanted to find something more meaningful to say when it came to Yvette. But after all these years what was there left to say? Well, there was plenty, really. But what was there left that Hugo felt strong enough to say?
“You look beautiful… but, um ... are you warm enough, though? I could transfigure you a heavier jacket, if you’d like.”
And so could she, if she wanted, Hugo reminded himself, his lips turning down at the sides in a faint mirror of that realisation.
by Yvette Tungsten-Wells Mon Dec 19, 2016 9:54 pm
