“Be a good girl at your mumma’s, okay?” Bristol murmured to his daughter, his body stooped down to communicate with Poppy face-to-face. They were almost identical to look at. She was beginning to show the stature of Anna in her childhood, but the small, beady eyes, dark hair and twisted smirk - all Bristol's. And he couldn't be more thrilled.

"I will, I will," she responded, rolling her eyes and chuckling. Father and daughter kissed each other on the cheek, bidding their love and Bristol gave a nod to her American nanny - a woman that looked around five hundred and forty give and, judging by the scornful look, was au fait with Ziesling alliances. Keen to wind her up (and by proxy, his wife) even further, he smirked and bowed his head deeply.

"Love you daddy," Poppy shrieked, widening her eyes and sticking out her tongue.

"Love you too, hobgoblin."

And the nanny apparated with Poppy in the blink of an eye, disappearing from Diagon Alley and England for the next fortnight. Bristol sighed. Splitting his daughter's time between Washington and London had been pretty seamless considering Anna was essentially a sociopath, but he still missed Poppy during these periods.

Hands in both pockets, the Chaser meandered in between the crowds of Diagon Alley, one hand quickly unhousing itself to ruffle hair that was already messy. Tempted to reach for a cigarette in his trouser pocket, he felt guilty in that way only fathers could - Poppy would be most disgruntled to see dear papa inhale the bad stuff, and she'd only been gone five minutes.

In a bid to curb the craving, he turned into the doorway of Alohomocha. The aroma of beans from far and wide filled his nostrils. He took a big inhale, one that conjured images of cocoa in the Slytherin common room (and one that was far less fulfilling than a fag).

"I'll have a Castelobruxo, please," Bristol quietly ordered the barista. "To go."

Cepheus had been stirring a spoon in his oversized teacup for half a minute now. A witch at the next table straightened her newspaper with murderous intent and he realised himself. Eyes guiltily dropping from staring blankly at the menu above the counter to his off white cup and saucer. It wasn’t quite as decorative as his collection of feline mugs at home further down the alley, but they didn’t exactly match Alohomocha’s aesthetic.

He’d left the office, muttering that he would catch up with people later that evening, things to do. He was still dressed in his navy suit and waistcoat, white shirt, though he’d loosened his green tie off and unbuttoned the top. A box of Claude’s favourite cat food was in a brown paper bag at his feet, along with a bottle of milk with an icing charm still on the glass to keep it cool. Small Friday evening essentials. He was mulling over his new boss, Alec Carter, and the impression they had collectively given him that day. A memory of Carter asking what a pub crawl was crossed Ceph’s mind and his shoulders shook gently with an amused titter.

The witch’s newspaper creased, and she gave him a suspect look. Cepheus gave her a friendly enough smile, fingers wrapped around the rim of the teacup, ready to enjoy lemon and ginger to restore his tired vocal chords from one too many meetings when his eyes caught a familiar face over and above the witch’s head. His smile dropped a fraction until he placed the face, and then broadened.

Ceph lifted his hand to wave, elbow of his suit jacket grazing the table, not wanting to yell across the coffee shop, nor throw his arms about like he was drowning. Had he seen him? It had been a while since they’d seen each other last. Ceph was sporting a bit of a beard, and if anything his untameable mane of hair was longer and less tamed.

“Hello!” He greeted warmly, raising his voice. The witch frowned at him, and on realising he wasn’t waving at her, gave a huff, flipped her paper back up and vanished behind it. “How are you? You’re looking… well.” He did not hide the appraising glance up and down.

Bristol sunk both of his hands into trouser pockets, shoulders back and head held high. As usual. The witch behind the bar rustled together his coffee, and the Chaser noticed her second glancing him - was it really him? He was by no means a Harry Potter of the wizarding world, yet Bristol had medium exposure within Quidditch circles. The pin-up posters were long behind him (thank Merlin), but that didn't stop the occasionally Witch Weekly article.

“How are you? You’re looking… well.”

Bristol ignored the words from across the coffee shop at first. They were presumably meant for some Diagon Alley worker from another. Yet, no response came. Out of nothing but pure interest, he turned his head to look at the direction of the noise before averting attention back to the coffee. What was taking her so long?

Bristol frowned, something seemed familiar. He looked again at the direction of the noise to see a blue-suited wizard sat at a table alone, smiling. A mop of black hair atop his head, a little facial hair. The Quidditch player narrowed his eyes, trying to grasp a name from his memory.

Then it hit him.

"Shit, Cepheus," Bristol replied, loud enough for the newspaper-twitching witch to look up and the barista to stop what she was doing. He sounded half shocked, half surprised - it had been what, over ten years? The last time they saw each other was -

Bristol slowly walked over to Ceph's table, looking down at him with a grin.

"How, how have you been man?" Half-puzzled, half-surprised. "I've not seen you for time."

“No, you haven’t.” Cepheus agreed, with an edge of suggestion. “Enough to give a man a complex.” His smile was more a suggestive smirk at this, but it evened out into an approachable, easy smile.

Bristol was surprised to see him, or was it more that he was surprised Ceph would greet him after so many years. Their lives had gone in separate directions from one night. Bristol had stopped being just Andie’s classmate, and then stopped being anything in their lives just like that. He’d gone to pursue his career, his dream, as any sane individual would do. His progress was written in newspaper column inches and caught in photographs splashed over the back page of the Daily Prophet. He’d gone everywhere, and Ceph was still in the same place, but happy all the same.

“Good,” he replied to Bristol’s question, "still working at the Ministry, but Division Head these days.” His bright eyes were fixed to Bristol’s face, approving of all he saw there. The boy had aged well as a man.

“And you - I have read more than I have heard from Andie and others. The American big break paid off. I’m really, really glad for you mate.” He leaned back, chair creaking a little with the change in position. Gods, that sounded worse aloud than it had in his head, almost as if he were jealous. Would it be rude to insist he sat down? He could see the barista at the counter turning Bristol’s drink into something he could take away, rather than a mug. He probably had people to see, a girlfriend to meet.

“You know, I saw a post just the other day for Mildred and the Mandrakes.” Ceph remarked, feeling as if the conversation might stall uncomfortably and be ended by the call for Bristol’s drink. "Reunion gig. Made me think of you.” He fingered the handle of his teacup. “We never did get there.”

“Enough to give a man a complex.”

Bristol froze momentarily. It was like he was having a flashback to the Battle of Hogwarts, all repressed, all buried. Except this was far less grim. He remembered hands grasping at one another in Ceph's small flat.

"Ministry work is reliable man," he replied, voice uncharacteristically quiet. "Reliable, and all that." Reliable. What a response. Bristol dug his fists into his pockets, suddenly as nervous as the eighteen year old back at The Three Broomsticks all those years ago. Still, his face had the pretense of a man semi-confident about himself - mouth twisted in a half-smirk, eyes beady and narrow.

"The Quidditch is going pretty well," Bristol said, clearing his voice a little. This was more familiar ground. Quidditch. He knew Quidditch. "I mean, I was in Washington for years before coming back, then everything has been going pretty swell at Tutshill. Gloucestershire ain't London but, only one apparate away."

Wow. Just when Bristol thought he couldn't get any duller. Nerves danced on the end of his tongue, and the usually cocky Bristol stood on the spot like an awkward teenager at a family reunion.

And then Ceph mentioned Mildred and the Mandrakes. This man's memory was quite something, and Bristol let out a small, genuine laugh.

"Merlin, I haven't listened to them in years. I think I had about four t-shirts of there's, you've probably still got it ly-" Bristol stopped himself, replacing words with a quick, awkward smile. Not a grin. A smirk. But a smile, one of those shouldn't have said that smiles. Bristol had never told anyone what had happened between them that evening, and he couldn't help but think Cepheus had done the same. Nobody had ever asked. Nobody had ever assumed. Nobody had ever even suspected it.

His hand lingered on the back of the chair. "So, erm..." He looked towards the ending, tongue on the edge of his lip in thought. Say something. Anything. "What's new? You still live round here?"

Reliable. Owch. True though.

Cepheus watched Bristol explain about America and moving back with a soft, respectful expression. He didn’t resent the other man’s success, he had the talent and deserved happiness. He just couldn’t help some days but look back on that sweaty night in the Leaky Cauldron and the drinks that followed it elsewhere and wonder what if. What if Bristol hadn’t been going to America for his big break.

“… you’ve probably still got it…” Collins stopped himself mid-sentence. Ceph’s expression undoubtedly read that the t-shirt was precisely the reason for his long-term memory. He’d let his hand linger on Bristol’s chest at the bar of the Leaky Cauldron, over the design, and he’d lustfully helped to strip the younger, fitter man of it some time later. The memory tinted Ceph’s cheeks with colour.

“I do,” Cepheus confirmed, trying hard not to think back to pressing Bristol to the door with hungry, breathless kisses, “better flat, bought one of my own. Above Floriblunders.” He offered Bristol an easier smile. “Just me and the cat-“ shit, why had he said that, he might as well add ‘lonely, loveless and gods you’re even hotter than you were when we last f…’ “protecting Beings of Britain on a budget. Not as flashy as flying, but I like to make a difference.” He licked his lips, a little nervous of presenting himself as boring, and hoping Bristol didn’t take that as a suggestion his career was morally unimportant.

“You caught up with Andie, lately?” He asked, if only for an excuse to deflect from himself, never quite at ease on that subject in the presence of a man who was at home in a Prophet feature photo.