A/N: There is a reason why it's 'he' and 'she' all the way through so bear with me. Also, this is kind of AU but still fits in with next-gen canon... Enjoy!

H

If I can just finish this report before the train reaches Bath, then I will be completely work free for the rest of weekend. Except that's not going to happen. Because there's a baby screaming a couple of seats in front of me and his mother is too busy whining to her friend on the phone, and everyone else in this carriage, about how some guy at her office totally checked her out even though he's married. It's not just the incessant crying though, there's also the small fact that I can't physically breathe in this dress. Why I thought wearing this fancy dress on the train would be a good idea, I'm not totally sure.

I readjust the tight fabric across my ribs and try to focus on the article about international broomstick laws that I'm supposed to be summarising. After about ten minutes, I think I'm about to go and shut that baby up myself which is probably not the best solution to the problem so I gather up my papers, my handbag and grab my overnight bag; I'll find another seat for the remainder of the journey. I walk through a couple of carriages before I spot an empty seat that currently has a briefcase perched on it, belonging the the man in the adjacent seat.

"Excuse me," I say, trying to keep a grip on all of my papers.

"Oh, sorry," he says and puts it on the floor in between his feet.

I flop down into the seat and I'm just about to return to the thrilling case study of the Argentinian who illegally imported fifty-thousand Cleansweeps into America in the late 1970s when he speaks.

"Bride or groom?"

I look up at him and my stomach twists. "Oh, fuck."

He smirks and the corners of his mouth flick up. "Yeah, that's one way of putting it," he says.

I clear my throat and say, "Yeah, well the bride and I actually went to school together."

He nods slightly. "Oh, really? Me too."

"It really is a small world after all, right?" I eventually say.

He pauses, smiles and says, "Indeed."

I realise that I've been subconsciously moving away from him and I'm now pretty much sitting on the very edge of the seat. He's wearing his clothes for the wedding too, I presume. A dark blue suit, a grey bow-tie and a white shirt. The top button is undone.

"I'm bride and groom, really," he says. Then he looks at me as if waiting for a response. When I just nod, he continues, "I knew the bride at school but I work with the groom now."

I nod again. And we fall back into a steady silence; both of us listening to the general murmur of the other passengers and the train rolling on through the countryside. But we're speaking. His eyes are scanning my face and I'm pretty sure mine must be doing the same to him. Soft lines trace his eyes and his lips now and his hair has migrated back about an inch. And yet it's him.

When the train eventual glides to a halt in Bath station, we both get off and naturally synchronise our steps as we walk. The church is about a ten minute walk away and neither of us really speak for the first four other than an occasional: "It's a left turn here."

Then he reaches into his bag and pulls out a box of cigarettes. He holds the packet out towards me and I shake my head. So he lights his own.

D

She won't look at me. Not in the eyes. I want to shake her; spin her around and force her to just look in my face. But it's like she's scared to.

When we reach the church, she turns to me slightly and says, "I guess I'll see you around later." And then she's gone. Again.

I watch her as she passes through the hoards of guests and she ends up sitting next to that girl who was in our year at school: Lavender something-or-other. Matt finds me.

I've only been working with him for a few weeks at Nimbus but he invited me to his wedding anyway. I'm not a romantic and I'm not the greatest fan of weddings or generally big gatherings. But I knew who he was marrying: Parvati. And a part of me knew it was idiotic; what if they weren't even friends anymore? What if she had been busy that day? And yet, here I am. And there she is.

The wedding is as weddings are. I sit a couple of rows behind her. I watch her as she sings the hymns, as she smiles so widely when the bride walks down the aisle, as she wipes a tear from her eye as they say 'I do'.

The reception is in a function room at a hotel in the centre of Bath. Matt's a muggleborn and so it's a completely muggle wedding for his family's benefit. The room is covered in gold and pink from top to bottom; balloons and flowers and candles. It's a little tacky, if you ask me, but to their own I suppose.

"You never did like pink, did you?" she says. I hadn't even noticed but she's slid up to me. Clearly my distaste for the room has registered on my face.

I look down at her and she finally meets my eyes. "It's more the gold," I say and she laughs. Her eyes are still the colour of coffee a split second after you pour the milk in.

"Can I get you a drink?" she asks, gesturing over to the rows of champagne glasses covering a nearby table.

"No thanks," I say. She raises her eyebrows and I smile. "I don't drink." Any more, I finish in my head.

She reaches over and takes one for herself. "So," she says and takes a sip, "you smoke but you don't drink?"

I shrug. "Well, I shouldn't do that either, but who's perfect?"

She holds my gaze. "Who's perfect?" she repeats. For a few moments she just stands there, her glass halfway to her lips. I want to do something, say something but at the same time, I don't want to break her from her thought. Then she blinks. "So, uh, you said you worked with Max?"

"Matt," I correct.

"Right. Matt, of course it's Matt."

"Yeah, quite recently, actually," I say, for lack of anything better.

"Oh, really?" she says, clearly in the same position. "So, uh, where is that?"

"Nimbus."

"Oh, really?"

I smile. "You already said that."

She laughs slightly but her eyes aren't in it.

H

Later in the evening, most people take to the dancefloor and the DJ's playing the Macarena just so everyone knows that this is a most classy affair. I've caught up with everyone here; filled them in on the juicy details of my life and heard about how their husband has recently been promoted or fired and how their children have been born or flown the nest. I'm considering heading upstairs to my room; my train tomorrow is leaving at ten o'clock and I was wondering about going to the new art gallery in the centre of town beforehand. So I'm crossing the room, heading towards the lifts when a voice stops me.

"Leaving so soon?" he asks.

"I'd rather leave before that old man has a heart attack dancing to the Spice Girls," I tell him and shrug.

He holds out his hand. "Not one dance?"

I pause and then I take it. "One."

We walk on to the dancefloor and I'm suddenly all too concious of how hot and moist my hand feels in his. I surreptitiously wipe the other one on the back of my dress.

"You came alone," he says, as he twirls me under his arm.

"So did you," I say. "I wasn't going to come at all."

"Why not?" he asks.

"Well, I didn't actually get invited till last week," I say. "Someone pulled out after they'd already booked the catering for a certain number of people, I think."

"And you're incredibly busy?" he asks.

"That," I say, "and I have a history with one of the other guests."

"A history?" he smirks. "History's great; all those old warlocks cursing the balls off one another."

"Well," I step towards him even as I'm saying it, "maybe it's history for a reason."

His mouth is so close that I feel his breath when he speaks. It brushes against my ear. "And you think it was this 'history' that stopped her inviting you in the first place?"

"She swears she was going to invite me anyway," I say. "But I'm not so sure."

"And why's that?"

"Even when we were close, we weren't exactly close."

"You and Paravti?"

"Yes."

Then the song ends and I'm going to break away from him and head upstairs. But then the opening chords of 'Livin' On a Prayer' begin and he pulls me closer.

"There's no way you're leaving now," he says and he spins me around.

We dance for a minute, maybe less, without speaking. I hear other guests screaming out the chorus but cutting through all their voices comes his. It's softer, scratchier but it's so steady.

"She said, 'You've got to hold on, to what we've got. It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not. We've got each other and that's a lot.'," he sings and he's looking straight into my eyes.

I clear my throat slightly. "Besides I haven't seen any of these people in about five years; they were my ex-husband's friends really."

"And that's why a pretty girl like you is heading to bed at nine o'clock alone?" he says.

"Most likely," I say. "That or I have a nasty case of food poisoning and I'm about to vomit everywhere."

"You probably got it from those prawns," he says.

"Probably," I say.

"So, why are you here then? Because you definitely didn't come for the food."

"Well, I asked myself the same question as I was getting on the train. And I could only come up with two reasons," I tell him.

"Which were?"

"One, curiosity."

"Or nosiness," he laughs. "But understandable. The other?"

"The other's that I knew I probably shouldn't," I say.

"You're telling me you're troubled?" he asks.

"Troubled? Probably," I say.

And then the song's coming to an end. I feel disappointed even though I should feel relieved. I can head upstairs to my bed and to my pyjamas and maybe even read over that report one more time before I go to sleep.

Then a voice speaks over the intercom, "Attention all single women! Parvati is about to throw the bridal bouquet; please make your way towards the stage."

He lets go of me. "I won't stand in your way," he says. I know that he's willing me to head over there and join the excited looking crowd but I just stay standing where I am. "Isn't that your cue?"

I pause. "I'm not single," I say. And then I hold out my hand so he can see the rings.

He stares at it for a moment and then he says, "You got remarried?"

"Yeah," I say as he holds my hand and looks closer down at it. "Nine months."

"Wow," he says, and he's still staring at it like maybe he can burn it away with his eyes.

"It's just a ring, gold, round," I tell him and pull my hand away.

D

I let go of her hand straight away.

"So did your husband come with you today?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "He couldn't make it. He had to babysit his godson."

She's starting to walk away from the dancefloor towards the bar so I follow. "What does he do for a living?"

She frowns at me slightly and then says, "He's an auror, actually. We're living in London." She reaches into her bag and pulls out some money. "One bloody Mary, please," she asks the bartender. Then she turns back to me. "Tell me, are you married now?"

"No, not at the moment," I say.

"And, uh, there's no one at all?" she asks, paying for her drink.

"There's someone but it's not serious, not really," I tell her. It's not a complete lie or the complete truth. We've been together for about a year now but there's just not all that much there. "In my opinion, when it gets too serious, it's over."

She takes her drink and sips it gently. "You really believe that?"

I consider it. "From experience, yes." She tilts her head. "What?"

She sighs but she's smiling. "I just know... your kind."

"I have a kind?"

"Everyone has a kind."

"I'm not sure I like that," I say.

"So, your girlfriend, uh, where is she?" she asks, looking out towards the dancefloor.

"She's not here, she has an exam tomorrow," I say.

"An exam? What like an OWL?" she laughs.

I roll my eyes but find myself laughing too. "University. She's training to be a healer."

"Oh? So she's a little older than fifteen."

"Tori's nineteen next week actually."

"Tori?" she says

"That's her name," I say.

"Yeah, I gathered. Is 'Tori' short for anything?" she asks, emphasising the word.

"Astoria," I tell her. "I think you knew her sister Daphne?"

She nods. "Pretty girl, I seem to remember."

"She is," I say. And then I regret it a little.

"Astoria the healer," she says.

"And does you," I pause, "husband have a name?"

She bites her lip and then takes a long sip of her drink. "Ronald- Ron," she says finally.

"Ronald Ron," I say. And something inside me says that I should have known; I wish I had never asked.

I pull a cigarette out of my pocket and light it.

She mock-gasps, "What would Astoria the healer say?"

"She hates it, of course she does," I say, and take a long drag. "But she is in Oxford and I love cigarettes."

"You know you can't smoke in here, right?" she laughs.

"Well I guess we better head outside, then," I say. She smiles and we head out through the open door by the bar.

Even from outside, you can hear the music thumping from inside. I inhale the crisp night air deeply and take another drag. She's watching me closely and I can almost feel the disapproval radiating from her.

"I'm trying to quit," I tell her.

"I didn't say anything!" she cries, shaking her head.

I laugh. "It's not so much what you said as what you radiated."

It's November and the temperature has dropped so low that our breath comes out in cloudy swirls. She shivers slightly and wraps her bare arms around herself.

"You know," she says, "when they make dresses like these they should really take in to consideration that they will, you know, actually be worn outside."

And before I realise what I'm actually doing, I'm pulling off my jacket and handing it out to her. She looks at it questioningly as if to ask me whether I'm sure. "Take it, please. It'll just be awkward if I have to put it back on."

She laughs and wraps it around her shoulders. The blue of my jacket clashes with her pink dress but somehow she still looks perfect.

"What?" she asks. She's smiling and the yellow lamp above us is casting shadows all across her face.

For a second I'm sure I'll say something I regret like how in this light she looks better than she ever did at nineteen. So I take a final drag on my cigarette and then stamp it out on the ground. She tuts, stares at me incredulously and then reaches down and picks it up.

"You can't litter just because you think it makes you look like James Dean or something!" she says.

"James who?" I ask and she's laughing again.

H

I take his hand. I don't know why and part of me regrets it straight away. I lead him back through the fire escape into the main room and start to look for a bin. Then he pulls my hand and twists me back to face him.

"Do you maybe want to dance?" he asks. I know I shouldn't because it's probably pretty late by now anyway and more than one dance with another man when you're married isn't the sort of thing a sensible, honest wife does.

"You know, I really can't dance very well anyway. And I've had a few too many now, so I really-"

"Maybe I should have made myself clearer," he says, cutting across me. "I meant, would you like to dance with me?"

"I know what you mean," I say. "I'm just stalling I don't know how to answer."

He takes the stamped out cigarette out of my hand and throws it on the ground. Then, before I can object to the littering again, he's put his hand on my waist and is guiding me towards the dancefloor. "You could start with 'yes'," he says. "For old times sake."

"If old times were so good, we wouldn't have let them get old," I tell him. But then we're dancing and some old song is playing and so for a moment I take a deep breath and go with it.

"I haven't danced like this in too long," he says, grinning down at me.

"Me neither."

Then he's leaning in much closer and he whispers in my ear, "You know, my ex-wife was the only one who used to be able to make me dance."

I smirk. "Was she?"

"Oh you should have seen us."

"Show me," I say. He spins me round and lifts me off my feet. For a split second, I could have sworn we were nineteen years old in a muggle nightclub. Me, sipping on a rum and coke and he taking short, excited drags on a cigarette. And then I'm leaning into him and he's doing the same to me. We're standing in a close embrace, his face buried in my hair when I realise that we are not those people. I am twenty-seven years old. I am married. I push away from him.

"I have to go, I'm sorry," I say and I walk quickly away from the dancefloor. There are tears stinging my eyes but I refuse to let them fall out.

I can hear him chasing after me. "Please!" he calls. "Don't, please." He catches up to me within a matter of seconds. "Hey, what's wrong?" he asks, he reaches up to cup my face and I wave his hands away.

"I can't do this," I tell him.

He frowns. "Do what? Dance?"

I sigh. "You know what. This isn't me. You know this isn't me."

He shakes his head and lowers his voice. "I know you. I know you better than you know yourself."

"Knew," I say. "Maybe you knew me once but I've changed. You've changed. You're with 'nineteen next week' and I have..."

"And you have Ron," he finishes. "I know."

"We're not the same people we were then."

"You're right; we're better."

"I'm going to bed now," I tell him calmly. "I think you should do the same." Then I walk towards the lifts before he can call me back again.

I press the call button for the lift and wait there calmly. I made the right decision. I know I have. When the lift comes, I glance over my shoulder but there's no one standing behind me. I step in and press the button for the eleventh floor knowing that there, there are pyjamas and there's food and a double bed all to myself.

A/N: Okay so I was going to upload this all at once but I feel like I'm only halfway through so I'll make it a two part affair. This is something I've been playing around with for a while so I hope you like it. It's pretty much based off 'Conversations With Other Women' which is a fabulous film that I suggest everyone check out (it's on Netflix). Anyway, that's where the kind of anonymity of 'he' and 'she' comes from but I hope you enjoyed! I'd love to hear what you think so please review and I hope you'll check back for part two.

-Alice x