Not-So-Sweet Reminders

Claire sometimes had receptions where she and the more promising members of her Patrol were supposed to meet with the Ministry donors that had helped keep her division afloat and doing well. She was expected to dress more feminine, ditching the blazers and slacks she wore at work for a dress and heels. Of course, it would take a lot for Claire in professional dress to not appear feminine, but she looked restrained in the perfectly tailored jackets, the sharp angles of her pants making her seem much more intimidating than the donors wanted to see her. A dress made her sweet and approachable, and it made brunch significantly more civil.

In truth, Claire hated these meetings, these mixers. It was all horribly political, and though she had made a career of politics, it did not mean that sycophantry was any more pleasant. She paraded her best men before the donors as though they were trick ponies, smiled as she explained how many men’s lives she had condemned to prison, and talked much more about the champagne than actual policy. It was so horribly fake and she hated them all, herself the most, but it had to be done, so she did it, and she did it well, damn it.

Today, a Cuffe cousin, some married-in fool, had the horrible distaste to try to relate to her. He would have no clue the pain he inflicted on the strong woman, because people seemed not to notice her insincere smiles, as she often masked them by quickly lifting her champagne flute to her lips. No, Cousin Cuffe thought himself terribly endearing, bringing up the summer before Claire’s seventh year, when she was (as he said it) in the ‘prime of her youth.’

“I doubt you’ll remember, Ms Bishop, but I’ve met you before.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, it was at one of those parties, you know the ones – if they weren’t thrown by a Rookwood, they were thrown by someone related to them, whether it were a Malfoy or a Gibbon or – anyway. It was the first time I had seen you there and you took everyone’s breath away. You looked stunning.”

“Well thank you, Gregory-“

“And, of course, it didn’t help that you were on the arm of Robin Ivanov. Oh, you two were spectacular, my late wife was obsessed. Even though all eyes were on you, the most handsome couple, your eyes strayed nowhere else. How is Ivanov? Still stirring up trouble?” He laughed heartily.

Cold eyes were lightened by the shine of champagne, but no inner warmth gave them the appearance of having a soul lurking beneath. She took a drink, no smile necessary. “Quite the contrary. I’ve heard he’s become quite the domestic.”

Cuffe laughed. “I’m sure he still finds a way to cause mischief. He was notorious!”

Claire could not smile. Could not laugh. She stared at him, reaching up and running a finger along her neck with a fixed stare as she waited for him to stop laughing, for his comment was wildly funny. He stopped, realizing she did not share in his mirth, and her fingers fluttered to tighten around the champagne glass again. She ticked her head, a blonde curtain folding on her shoulder. “Oh, he certainly is, Mr Cuffe.”

“Actually, it’s Cartw-“

She turned. Brunch was over.

Now she walked into one of the small magical restaurants that littered the area around the Ministry, there for the convenience of the employees. She plopped into a seat and dropped her elbows onto the bar, dropping her eyes into the heels of her hands. The bartender had to ask her three times before he could understand which cocktail she was ordering. And when it was recieved, she slid it beneath the blonde curtain and sucked it up through a straw, keeping the outside world away from her.

As the morning slipped into noon, a certain Mr. Stewart adjusted his tie and stepped out into the ministry as a whole. His eyes shifted from locale to locale, wondering which convenient restaurant he would visit tonight. He checked his watch... and was hit with a pang of depression. It still ticked the way it had on the night he...

Nash sighed. He was definitely drinking tonight. But drinking this close to the ministry would mean that he would have to avoid simply drowning in his sorrows. He could not imagine a more tedious way to drink, but he was Nash Stewart, and the Nash Stewart will always play the role of the proper socialite. No matter how much it hurt.

Nash entered the bar, smiling and waving to all the patrons that looked at him. His beam was infectious, thankfully, but he took a seat next to the most morose person in the room. Surely she would not pry into his wounds if he did not dig into hers.

"A shot of your finest, if you'd please," he smiled, amicably inviting the bartender to select his poison. The bartender shook their head, giving him a shot glass of strange, translucent liquor. He snatched it off the table with a sad little smile and downed it down in a single gulp.

Stewart shuddered, feeling the flame of the drink pierce down his esophagus and send a numbing coolness up his spine. "Another!" he coughed as he pulled out his wallet, casting a sideways glance at his blond neighbor. "And um... just put her tab on mine," he added, feeling a kindred spirit lurking behind that waterfall of gold.

Claire had broken ties with Robin Ivanov so she could find a life without him. But it seemed her life without him required admitting his existence back onto her radar, even admitting him into her life as a... brother-in-law. No matter how many times she rolled the words over in her head, unable to speak them into existence with her lips and teeth, they didn't sound at all okay. They were unacceptable, jarring, and somehow completely wrong. No one should ever be related to their first love - no one that didn't go to therapy, anyway.

It was a good thing she had a therapist, then.

She heard a voice next to her and she tilted her head, glancing through the blonde curtain at a man next to her. Oh gosh. Where was her poise, her composure, her restraint? Was this man buying her a drink because she looked vulnerable enough to be taken in, or pitiful enough to deserve charity? Either way, this was definitely not the attention she wanted, nor the attention that was going to help her clamber out of her funk. She sat up, her hair falling onto her shoulders, out of her eyes, and she looked to the man next to her.

The expression on his gave a third option. It seemed he was just genuinely trying to commiserate with her. She opened her mouth to argue, but no argument came. A sigh escaped instead, and her eyes drooped a little bit with the acceptance of this not-unpleasant fate. "Thank you," she breathed, offering a small smile. She reached up and brushed her hair behind her ears. "It's just one of those days, huh."

There was no need for words at this point. She had read him as well as he had read her. If her words were any indication, then at least they could serve as drinking companions for the evening. Nash Stewart wrapped his fingers about the shot glass the bartender had offered him, raising it up to offer Claire a glass-clinking salute- the sorrower's salute, as one of his partners had put it. There was perhaps a social need for it. It would show to the rest of the room that he was not one of the usual rabble, but a man of stature and respect.

But really, Nash simply wanted to establish that he would not ask about her life unless she pried into his. The last thing he needed was to unfold like a paper, his life words to be read. God, that would be one way to lose everything- just unravel, lose that face he had worked so hard to construct. Nash kept his back straight, a slight smile on his face, but his eyes seemed to say all he wanted to say- join me in this most forgettable celebration of pain.

And perhaps more drinks. Everything is better with more whiskey in the gullet.
"Aye. One of those days."