Emmylou avoided the bowl of complementary snacks. She knew the fabled perils of such freebies, how they were slyly seasoned by the unwashed hands of approximately fifty percent of the good patrons ordering pints. There had been some exposé in the Prophet years ago. Her dad had read it to her, all wide eyes and drama, informing her exactly why she should never go to pubs (for anything but chips with her sisters). And Lou, at least for the moment (while she wasn’t drinking alcohol with a dash orange juice that George certainly hadn’t provided), cared enough to instead pay for a lunch that involved a mountain of greasy chips roughly in the shape of the food pyramid. Or a food pyramid. They arrived looking beautiful, paired with a butterbeer whose beauty could only be described as Certainly Not Coffee. She hadn’t realized how unimpressive coffee could be until pulling her two-hundredth or so shot of espresso for healers on the night shift. (Some of the healers still remained impressive.)

Today was a day off, thank Merlin. She could catch up with her friends, finally. Maybe that orange-juice-evading cousin of hers. Working certainly gave her some perspective. She appreciated the simple, weathered barstool as if it were a cushioned armchair-- being able to sit down had become exceptionally attractive. And all those years spent in History of Magic class wanting to do anything but! Ha. (To be fair, the desks at Hogwarts had made tempting beds in rare moments of not paying attention.)

She lifted her glass and took a sip, not minding the foamy bit at the top. “I think this is the best butterbeer I have ever tasted in my life,” she informed the person beside her. It might have been exactly like any other butterbeer, technically, but that was only technically.

Life outside of school was a pain in Mathieu’s arse. He’d yet to find a place of his own in London (so was still majorly couch crashing at his sister’s flat) and his jerk of a coach had him conditioning and practicing every day of the week. Mathieu was easily the most undisciplined of the seven member team, so it was no surprise that he was seated in the Leaky Cauldron, stuffing his face with a pile of golden, delicious, and greasy chips.

He sat at the bar; washing down the fried potatoes with copious amounts of alcohol and grunting in appreciation for the talented cooks that managed to procure such delicious treats. He was totally engrossed in stuffing his face so when the voice spoke near his left side, the young playboy barely registered the sound. He grunted in response, and then swallowed hard – forcing the mouthful of potatoes down his gullet. “Huh?” He asked, finally taking a moment to look toward who was interrupting his feasting to talk about butterbeer.

Mathieu had never found a taste for the brute drink - then again, Mathieu didn’t like much that didn’t have alcohol in it. When his eyes landed on the witch, the first thing he registered was that she wasn’t too distant in age from him. The second thing he registered was that she was rather cute; then again, there weren’t many people that Mathieu didn’t think was cute… given enough of a buzz, that is. He flashed the witch a dazzling smile, but cut the action short, because it probably would have ruined the effect if he had food dangling in his teeth. “Uh, bonjour,” he said a bit stupidly, “I’m Mathieu,” He wiped his greasy hand on his pants leg and offered it to the lady beside him to shake.

It wasn’t the unprettiest profile Lou could be talking to in the Leaky Cauldron in the middle of a week. “It tastes better when you’ve been working all week and finally get a moment to enjoy it,” she elaborated. Maybe that was one of those growing up points of view that earnest, successful types (like parents) held. She shook it quickly. “It’s still great when you’re being lazy,” she added, wanting to make herself clear. Couldn’t forget that. It was her day off, and she wouldn’t trade it for a regular, rushed lunch break just to see if the butterbeer tasted better. She probably wouldn’t have time to sit at the bar and sip one during a normal shift, anyway.

He was about the same age, but he certainly hadn’t been in school with her (Lou deciphered now that he’d turned toward her properly and she had bothered to really look at the person she was talking to). And there was something there in his voice that confirmed it. Maybe it was just the bonjour.

“Hi,” she returned the exchange belatedly (or at least after the vocal pondering on butterbeer), naturally choosing English over French. She took his hand, not really minding the prospect of trace amounts of chips-- who didn’t love chips?-- and introduced herself right back. “Lou. Is it your day off as well, then?” Maybe he worked nights. Maybe he was traveling. Who knew? Well, he’d tell her (she thought so, at least). Stories went well with butterbeer.

The team had had the young lad working day and night conditioning for upcoming matches. The one downfall to being a sports celebrity was knowing that it was so much work. Had someone explained that fact to the Vaillancourt male before he took the job, he might have hesitated for a second or two. Sadly, he hadn’t, and was scheduled for even more conditioning, practicing, and mock games throughout the rest of the week, and would be playing in a game against that cheeky women team in only twelve days. It didn’t really endear him to women… but then again… not much could turn Mathieu away from the ladies.

“Oui,” He replied, “Though I’d argue that these chips would taste just as wonderful no matter the time of day or night,” He pulled his hand back toward his side, and lifted his glass once again to his lips. A slight blush appeared on his cheeks – a sure sign that this hadn’t been Mathieu’s first drink of the evening.

“I play Quidditch,” His slight French accent came out only on the last word, and he shook his head to try and return to proper English speech. “I keep for the Tutshill Tornados. I have practice in a couple hours, but I don’t mind skipping it… that is… if I’ve got good reason to,” Mathieu glanced toward the pretty witch sitting beside him and gave her a seductive wink.

Damn the wine.

“I’ll give you that,” she agreed, and picked up a chip of her own. “Unless you’re plastered. They’re definitely better when you’re plastered.” She smiled— at the chip, to be precise-- and plopped it into her mouth. Her gaze quickly returned to her new acquaintance.

A quidditch player. Her life was like a magnet for them. (She wasn’t complaining.) “No way, you’re Vaillancourt. I heard all about you when you got signed.” Lou’s old friend the Wireless was mightily abused by the young woman, who routinely lazed around yelling at it as it commentated games, repeated the same song too often, or buzzed with the latest news on her favorite (and least favorite) players. She had no particular opinion on this one— careerwise-- but she liked some of the Tornadoes players, and knew he was in good company.

He was a brazen one, too. “Skipping, huh?” She raised a brow at the not-too-subtle proposition, reaching for another chip. Half of her former dorm mates and all of her former quidditch mates would be after her with hexes to switch places. And anyone in the bar, sober or plastered, couldn’t tell her that the young prodigy getting pleasantly flushed on wine before he had to go work wasn’t a winner in the face department. “I don’t know,” she said, with a gleeful smile. “You lot are playing the Harpies in your next match. You might want to go to practice.” She finished the chip and raised her butterbeer again. She thought of Edmund, their off-and-on whirlwind, and decided to carry on discussing the Harpies-- for the moment. “Do you think they’ll replace Weasley— Potter?” The entire wizarding U.K. knew that she was heavily pregnant. “Maybe the hormones will make her more determined.”