Episode IV: The Straight-Laced Banker Who Desperately Needs an Out
Witch Weekly's 'Modern Romance' series asks anonymous witches and wizards to record a week in their sex lives—with comic, tragic, provocative, and patently revealing results. This week, a Gringotts employee tries to navigate the world of casual dating: 26, male, straight, hopelessly single.
DAY ONE
9:00 a.m.: I arrive to work exactly on time, as I do every day. I have my own office inside Gringotts and I'm one of the few wizards who works here in the building, aside from my brother. I know I should be grateful to him for getting me the job (and I am, really, considering that politics was not a particularly healthy place for me when I worked in the Ministry) but on groggy Mondays like this one, it's difficult to face the paperwork I suspect will be sitting on my desk the moment I arrive.
9:05 a.m.: Well. Always nice to know I'm not wrong.
9:30 a.m.: One of the goblins comes into my office to tell me that I will have to meet a bank patron this afternoon; an unpleasant task, by the looks of it. "An audit?" I ask, and he nods uneasily. I tell him that's fine, and thank him for coming by. My own voice sounds flat to me, and dull; it always does, really, but I make an effort to conjure some enthusiasm. "Have a great day," I add. He looks uncomfortable, and leaves.
10:45 a.m.: I mentioned my brother, who got me this job. I'm going to call him Henry—as in Henry Plantagenet, an early conqueror-king, because in my mind, that seems to fit. He's the eldest of the six of us (five boys, of which I am smack in the middle) and always a favorite of our mother's. I have done everything in my power to emulate Henry, to varying degrees of success; he was Head Boy at Hogwarts, as was I, and now that we're adults, we look strikingly alike, so we're not entirely dissimilar. The list ends there, though, and presently, Henry has everything I could hope to possess: a beautiful wife; a flourishing career; the respect of his colleagues; the adoration of our family. I begrudge him nothing, but I envy him perhaps more than I should.
10:50 a.m.: Henry joins me in my office, lounging in my vacant chair as I scribble details on an account I'm managing. "Busy?" he asks, grinning. His face is scarred from a werewolf attack but still, he remains unreasonably attractive, and I know the handful of witches who work here are whispering about him outside. I lean back, considering it. "I could take a break," I say. He rises to his feet, beckoning for me to follow. "Come on," he says, and suggests we visit our other brother who works in Diagon Alley.
11:00 a.m.: Henry and I walk into our brother's store. It used to belong to our twin brothers, of which only one remains; we'll call him James, as in King James II of Scotland, who also had a twin—Alexander. Our Alexander died during the war, and now James runs the store alone. He's in relatively good humor, although I scarcely recognize his humor as it once was. He brightens when he sees me; tells me a joke. "You're like a mushroom for sore eyes," he says, and I shake my head. "You know, a fungi," he clarifies, "as in—" "A fun guy," I permit drily. He laughs, as does Henry. They find my lack of humor to be something akin to hysteria, though I've learned to take it in stride.
11:15 a.m.: Is it wrong of me to prefer James' company now that our brother is gone? Sometimes I suspect it is, though our relationship as adults comes from a place of mutual struggle. Alexander died in my arms; James and I were the hardest hit by his loss. Now James and I are perhaps the closest of our siblings, and though I abhor the circumstances that brought us there, I value him more than ever. He tells me he's finally rolled out the concept that Alexander initially came up with; some sort of dating enchantment. "Try it," he insists, handing me a slim rectangle. I look at the letters WANDR across the top. "What is Wandr?" I ask, and he shrugs. "You know, like wand, but also wander, so—" "Ah," I acknowledge, shaking my head, "puns." He and Henry dissolve into laughter again.
11:35 a.m.: "Oh, just try it," Henry insists, shaking his head as I continue to regard the rectangle with dubious reticence. "You could use a date," James adds. Between the two of them, I know Henry is toying with me, but James is serious; he knows I'm somewhat lonely. I know he's quite lonely. I think we understand this about each other and while I have my suspicions about why James has chosen to feature this particular product now, I do him the favor of not saying anything. I shrug. "How does it work?" I ask, pretending not to care.
11:45 a.m.: "Whoops," Henry says, and I groan, because this is almost certainly not an accident. "Looks like you have a date tomorrow night," James informs me delightedly. I am intensely undelighted. "With whom?" I ask, sighing, and James shrugs. "That's the thing," he explains, "you won't know until you get there. You're matched by interests, personality—" "So this is a blind date?" I ask, mildly horrified. He smiles. "Be sure to use my mushroom joke," he advises.
11:50 a.m.: Henry and I return to work. "Have fun," he says, winking at me. I tell him he's obligated to say things like that; he's happily married to the world's most perfect woman, so of course he luxuriates in my suffering. "Oh, I wouldn't say that," he says, and leaves. I'm bemused, but he enjoys being an enigma. I settle myself at my desk and return to work.
1:28 p.m.: My afternoon appointment arrives on time; actually, a few minutes early, which is how I prefer people to operate. A promising start. "She's here," the goblin says. I tell him to send her in.
1:30 p.m.: "Oh," she says, and I echo the sentiment. "Hello," I say, and I can feel myself grimacing. I know her; not well, but I certainly know her. I'll call her Margaret, because if my family are Plantagenets, she is a Tudor. She sits down unhappily, reaching unconsciously for her throat. I suspect the reflex is because she normally wears a necklace that isn't presently there. "Well, let's get this over with," she says stiffly. She seems to be avoiding my eye, as if I remind her of something unpleasant; perhaps I do, as she should certainly not expect much pleasure from this process.
1:35 p.m.: I pull up the account of Margaret's vault. "Well," I say, displeased, "this isn't all of your money." "Yes it is," she insists flatly. It sounds practiced. I arch a brow. "We'll see," I say.
1:59 p.m.: I'll be honest: I don't trust Margaret or her family in the slightest. Margaret herself rather infamously tried to turn over the Boy Who Lived during the Battle of Hogwarts, and though I can't actually blame her for my brother's death, I certainly don't consider her hands to be clean. I remember the necklace missing from her neck and I notice the rings that she isn't wearing on her fingers; I can see the pale lines that indicate their lack of presence. She sees me looking and frowns.
2:14 p.m. "You're hiding your wealth," I comment, because I would stake my reputation (however damaged it is) on the fact that there is more to her family's name than is currently present in her vault. She scoffs. "Prove it," she challenges me.
2:15 p.m.: This has just become personal.
2:30 p.m.: "The account is in your father's name," I tell her, and ask her why he isn't here. For the first time, her mask wavers. "He's indisposed," she says. "Your mother is in hiding," I comment. This time, her expression doesn't change. I tuck that away; she's close to her father, but not her mother. "She is also indisposed," she says.
2:35 p.m.: Margaret is a hustler, but I decline to be hustled. "Come back tomorrow," I say, and give her a list of things I want to see; expenditures, mostly. Receipts. I know she's going to try to trick me but I want her to understand that it won't work, so I lean forward across the desk. "I'm going to find the money," I say, as quietly as possible. Her mouth contorts in displeasure, but she disguises it quickly. "Best of luck," she invites sweetly, and then she stands, smoothing out the lines of a practical, unadorned dress that I'm positive she chose for appearances.
2:40 p.m.: She pauses as her hand touches the door. "I suppose it brings you some satisfaction," she murmurs, "seeing my family brought low." I cross my arms over my chest. "This isn't personal," I say, though it is. In fact, I couldn't care less about her family; it's her I'd like to see exposed. Perhaps she was too young to fight a war, but if that's the case, then my brother was far too young to die for it. She glances over her shoulder. "Funny you're the one with power now," she says, but I don't have power, really. I put myself in a job with almost no power, because I know myself; I've found I always come to regret the person I become when I extend my reach. "Fair is fair," I tell her. She seems to know what I mean, but shrugs. "In my experience, that's not true at all," she says, and then she leaves.
4:30 p.m.: I spend the rest of the day sorting through her account. She (or whoever has been running it, since she's likely been too young) has been careful not to move any large sums. The file I've been given by the goblin includes a Ministry-requested audit, which means I will be reporting my findings to them. I know the Ministry would only take an interest in this if her family has failed to pay their reparations from the war, which ignites a bit of fury in me.
5:15 p.m.: How dare she be so selfish? I can feel my own bitterness fester. What has she lost? What are her losses compared to mine?
5:30 p.m.: "Dinner?" Henry asks, appearing at my door. I look up. "Is that an invitation?" I ask, because it's sometimes hard for me to tell. He smiles. "Come on," he says, and I follow.
5:45 p.m.: We arrive at his house and his wife, whom I'll call Eleanor—as in Eleanor of Aquitaine, the queen of France first and then England, and royal in her own right—looks up from her cooking. She is breathtakingly beautiful, and her voice still carries a bit of its French accent, though she's lost most of it over time. She says my name slowly, savoring it like caramel, and I have to shake myself, reminding myself she's part Veela and this, my adoration for her, is hopefully just chemical. "Hello," I say back. Henry strides up to her, kissing the side of her neck. "Mind if my brother joins us for dinner?" he asks her. "Not at all," she assures him. No—not him. She assures me. "Not at all," she said, her eyes settling intentionally on mine.
6:01 p.m.: Steak for dinner. Eleanor and I have ours prepared medium, expertly pink, and my brother's is slightly bloodied, per his more wolfish tastes. Once again I feel a pang of envy for him, for having a wife who cares about him; about his needs, without regard to the costs. She slides her leg out under the table, her bare foot brushing my calf. I look up, startled. "Sorry," I say. She smiles into her wine glass. I frown.
6:30 p.m.: Henry toys with Eleanor's fingers, telling a story about work. His work is far more exciting than mine; he's a curse-breaker, and while he no longer does the actual curse-breaking himself, he serves as a consultant. I mostly look at numbers all day, and have nothing to offer for show and tell. I'm silent for most of dinner.
6:45 p.m.: Eleanor rises to clear the table and Henry stretches upwards, saying he has to answer an owl. I join her in the kitchen. "Need help?" I ask. She turns, leaning her back against the sink, and I am once again entranced by her. Her face is exquisite. Her body is—I can't possibly begin to think about her body, or I will simply dissolve into the floor. "Yes," she murmurs. I'm normally slow to read people's intentions, but this, I admit, is agonizingly ambiguous. "Dishes?" I ask unsteadily, holding one up. She laughs, and suddenly the spell is broken.
7:00 p.m.: I am abruptly grateful to my brother for trapping me into a date tomorrow night. Being near Eleanor is torturous in ways I can't even explain. She reaches over, her hand brushing my spine as she grabs a dish towel from my side of the counter. I jump, and she steadies me, settling both her hands on my hips. "Careful," she murmurs. I have to go home immediately.
7:15 p.m.: I say a rushed goodbye to Henry and arrive in my flat in Diagon Alley, falling back on my bed. It's a small place, but it's mine, which is more than I can say for anything I had while growing up. I get an owl from James suggesting I drop by his shop after my date tomorrow; 'I want to hear all about it,' he says, and I can picture his smug grin. I agree, albeit not happily.
9:30 p.m.: I nod off while reading a book and decide to go to bed early. I could really use some excitement in my life.
DAY TWO
9:00 a.m.: I'm at work on time. The paperwork is here. The goblins are here. Monotony persists, and I buckle down.
12:15 p.m.: I scarcely notice that hours have passed when there's a knock at my door; Eleanor's here, and I blink, surprised. "I thought I'd stop by," she says, because she's here to see Henry. She's here to see her husband—my brother. I repeat this in my head, trying not to let my gaze slip as she leans over my desk, eyeing my bookshelf. Or pretending to eye my bookshelf. No, I remind myself, she has no reason to pretend.
12:21 p.m.: "How are you?" I ask Eleanor, and she looks down, locking eyes with me. She tells me not to ask questions I don't care about the answer to. "I do care," I protest. Her lips curl up slightly. "No, you don't," she says. If this is some sort of psychological experiment, I'm not equipped to play. I rise to my feet, politely escorting her to the door, but she steps in close. "This job," she says, "isn't it boring?" I blink. "A little," I say. Abso-fucking-lutely would be a more accurate answer, but that's more James' style than mine. "Aren't you bored?" she asks. This appears to be a different question altogether, but I give the same answer. She smiles brilliantly.
12:25 p.m.: There's a faint smell of orchids and something darker, like black currants, as she leaves the room to go to my brother's office. Wonderful. As if I needed her to linger.
2:28 p.m.: The goblin steps in, and I look up. "She's here," he announces, referring to Margaret. She's not royalty, I scoff internally; I don't think she needs a herald. "Send her in," I say, waving a hand.
2:30 p.m.: Margaret returns. Once again she's wearing no jewelry, and though she's chosen a green dress for the occasion (probably not a thoughtless choice, as she seems a woman of intention) it's not particularly showy. Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders and while I can't help thinking she's rather pretty, there's something off about it. She looks like she's playing at innocence. "Do you have them?" I ask. She dumps a box on my desk. "Sorry," she says, sing-songily, "they're not really in order." She did this on purpose. I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Sit," I say. She sits, smiling.
3:35 p.m.: This is a mess. She looks pleased. I do my best not to look as frustrated as I am.
3:45 p.m.: "Finding what you're looking for?" she asks, propping her chin up on her hand and blinking coquettishly at me. I hold my tongue. "Not yet," I permit simply. She rises to her feet, surveying my office, and I am distinctly annoyed by it. She seems to be trying to make me uncomfortable, and though I want to treat this like any other assignment, it is becoming increasingly difficult to do.
3:55 p.m.: "So many books on accounting," she says, and glances at me. "All work and no play must make you a dull boy," she adds. I refuse to look up. "Don't toy with me," I warn. "But then we'll both be bored," she laments. This again; boredom again. "I'm not bored," I remind her, "I'm working. And I warn you, I'm excellent at my job." Her expression falters. "Your boring job," she says, with a meanness that strikes me as childish. This time, I glance up. "My boring job will bankrupt you," I promise her, and I see what I was looking for: a flicker of fear. I smile politely. "Why don't you go home," I say, "and we can continue this tomorrow."
4:00 p.m.: She leaves without much comment. I'm not even sure how much of the expenses in this box are real. This could take days, I realize, and put it aside with a groan.
6:05 p.m.: "Ready for your date?" Henry laughs, bounding into my office and throwing a tie at me. "Wear this," he suggests. I rub wearily at my forehead. "Go away," I say, and he laughs again. "I hear my wife came to visit you," he comments offhandedly, and I freeze. "Oh, don't worry," he assures me, "it's fine." I don't understand, but I really, really don't want to talk about it. He shrugs. "Have fun," he says again, and disappears.
7:23 p.m.: I wave my wand and Wandr does the work for me; it delivers me to a table for two at a restaurant in Diagon Alley. I'm a few minutes early and I settle in, choosing a wine and hoping she likes it. The little rectangle tells me we share an interest in ancient runes and historical fiction, and I admit I'm intrigued. I wonder who she'll be.
7:30 p.m.: There's the distinct sound of apparation and I am exceedingly nervous, but I'm a little relieved she's reliably punctual. I notice her robes first; plain black, which is fine, but then I realize there's something distinctly familiar about her. "Oh my god," I say, and her face blanches.
7:31 p.m.: "Professor—" "For the love of god, do not," she snaps, and we are both so mortified that for some reason the only thing I can think to do is take an inhumanly large gulp of my wine, and then I'm choking, and it seems like this will be a good time to die. She casts a quick charm, mercilessly delivering me, and sits down. "Well, I don't see why we can't at least have dinner," she says stiffly. I nod, and bury my face in the menu.
7:35 p.m.: Having now foolishly agreed to have dinner with my former Head of House, I find the tension passes rather quickly. We'll call her Victoria; she's had rather a long reign, and it seems to fit. She must be … no. I can't think about her age; I'll simply choke again. "So," I say, and she glances up, pursing her lips. "Don't," she warns. "Right," I agree, but I can't help it. "So, are you—" "I'm a single woman," she reminds me sternly, as though I am still one of her Prefects. "Is it out of the question that I would want some sort of companionship?" It's a fair point, and I force a smile. I ask her if she's read the latest bestseller on wizardry during the Crimean War. She relaxes. "It manages to be both outlandish and banal," she pronounces ruthlessly. I agree.
7:40 p.m.: She primly orders a salad, as do I, and we both enjoy the wine. Conversation, too, is effortless. I'll say one thing for my brother's invention: it does match people quite effectively, if small things like reality don't get in the way.
8:00 p.m.: "There is, of course, not a future here," Victoria warns me, gesturing between us. I feel my cheeks burn. "I'm aware," I say. "Well, that's a relief," she pronounces.
8:30 p.m.: We part with an overly formal handshake, and then I disapparate, materializing in James' workshop. "You need an age filter," I say without preamble, and he looks up, his mouth twitching. "Oh, tell me it was someone interesting," he begs. I tell him. He falls to the floor, convulsing with laughter.
8:45 p.m.: "This isn't funny," I insist. He can't breathe.
8:55 p.m.: He wipes tears from his eyes. "I want to be sorry," he says, "but I can't." I tell him I'm so pleased he's enjoying this, and remind him that his entertainment is very much at my expense. He shakes his head, gesturing for me to follow. "Come on," he says, "let's fix it."
9:10 p.m.: He tries a couple of new enchantments and now there are age filters on Wandr. "Here, this should—oh, hold on," he says, and frowns. "I accidentally set it to the married filter, so—" "The what?" I ask, stunned. He waves a hand. "It's, you know, for swingers," he says. People who are committed, but still looking for casual sex. I'm astounded, but not as astounded as I am when he waves me over. "Look," he says. My jaw drops.
9:15 p.m.: 'Male, 32, red hair, blue eyes. Female, 25, blonde hair, blue eyes.' The description includes more details, but there's almost no question that this is Henry and Eleanor. I look at James, my eyes wide. "They're SWINGERS?" I shout, because this is the strangest thing I've ever heard, despite the fact that I just came from dinner with my former professor. James shakes his head, lightly stunned. "This," he says, "is the weirdest night ever."
9:30 p.m.: "Do we tell them we suspect?" I ask fretfully, and James shrugs. "Nope," he warns me, because it's none of our business—but still, he's not not-curious, so he checks his purchasing list. He points to Henry's name. "Looks like they did buy it," James says, chuckling, and I am in such a state of disbelief that I need to lie down. "Oh, you're such a square," James says, but waves a hand. "Better rest up," he advises me, and raises up Wandr with a grin. "Just got you another date for tomorrow night." I take a page from our youngest brother's book of vocabulary. "Bloody hell," I mutter.
10:00 p.m.: I arrive home and fall into bed. The world is insane. I am insane. I am slowly being driven to madness.
DAY THREE
9:00 a.m.: Another day. Another series of tasks.
1:28 p.m.: The goblin steps in. "She's h-" "Send her in," I interrupt, shaking my head.
1:30 p.m.: Today Margaret is wearing a pale pink dress, her hair tucked behind one ear as she enters with another box. "I found more," she says, dropping it on my desk. More than a small part of me wants to strangle her. "Sit down," I say.
1:45 p.m.: "You were rising in the Ministry," she notes, uninvited, "so why did you take a job at a bank?" I ignore her. "Surely you'd have risen in your department by now, or at least—" "Where is your father?" I interrupt, glancing up at her. I find (with a bit of satisfaction) that I have not underestimated her attachment to him, and once again, she falters. "He's in St Mungo's," she says, clearing her throat. I see the cracks in her foundation.
1:50 p.m.: I shove the box aside, staring at her. "Why," I say, "is this so important? If you get caught, this will fall on your head, not your father's." "Get caught with what?" she asks, but I brush past her denial. "Why not simply spend your time with him?" I ask her, because by the sound of it, her father is almost certainly ailing. "Not everyone was ruined by reparations, but you will be if you get hit with penalties for fraud," I warn her. I'm not totally sure what my intent is, but she takes it as a threat.
2:00 p.m.: "Does it still bother you that your family was poor," she says nastily, leaning forward, "and so you took this job because it gives you a reason to feel superior?" She's baiting me, and I try not to suffer her intended insult. "If I am superior, it's not because I control your finances," I tell her, "but make no mistake, I do control them. Anything you spend going forward will need to be approved by me. Everything you do is under Ministry scrutiny until I say otherwise. This audit will go on as long as I say it does, and you can lie to me all you want, but your future is entirely in my hands." She scowls. "It's just money," she says. "Yes," I agree. "But you've never lived without money, so take it from someone who's 'still bothered' by being poor," I tell her, and meet her sullen glare with a blow of honesty that impacts us both. "You are making a foolish mistake," I promise her.
2:10 p.m.: She slams the door behind her as she leaves.
4:30 p.m.: "Tough day?" I hear, and look up. I was engrossed in my work, but I'm not anymore; Eleanor's here again. I clear my throat, beginning to wonder how intentional this is. I want to bring up what I discovered about her last night, but I don't. "A little," I say, and she walks around my desk, perching atop it. She's wearing black trousers and a loose white blouse and she looks effortless and cool, and as she leans forward I smell the orchids again, the hint of something that's both dark and sweet. "Poor thing," she says.
4:45 p.m.: I ask her if she's meeting my brother for dinner, and she shrugs. "Sort of," she says. "I'm sure he's available," I say, and she gives me a long, searching glance. "Say I came to see you," she suggests. I let out a scoff of a laugh. "I'm boring," I remind her. Her lips, which are presently a rose-colored bit of cruelty, twist upwards. "I never said that," she says.
4:54 p.m.: She's intoxicatingly beautiful, and it isn't fair how close she's sitting to me. I ask her about her day, and she says she's been working here. For a while she and Henry thought about having children, but she says she's gone back to working part time. I try not to ask questions. I try not to watch her blouse drape against her chest.
5:01 p.m.: I tell her I have a date tonight, and she asks if this is what I'm wearing. It is, I say. She purses her lips. "Wear the blue shirt," she says, and I'm surprised that she can describe my favorite shirt in detail. "It brings out your eyes," she explains. I tell her I will. She gives me an intriguing half-smile.
5:10 p.m.: "I suppose I should go," she says, so I stand, but we both shift in the same motion and then I find I am steadying her, my hands on her waist as we accidentally collide. Her arms coil around my neck and she pulls my chest to hers, and if I wasn't falling before, I certainly am now. I stumble, and then I'm leaning her back against my desk, and I'm thankful I'm not much of a creative person, or my imagination would take me a thousand impossible places right now.
5:12 p.m.: She tilts her chin up, and I start to wonder if I'm dreaming—or if, possibly, I've died—when the door to my office bursts open and my brother is there, watching me hold his wife in my arms. "I was looking for you," he says, grinning. I stagger backwards, absurdly raising my hands in the air, persisting innocence, and Eleanor clears her throat, smiling at him. "Darling," she says, and strides over, kissing his cheek.
5:15 p.m.: "See you," Henry says to me, languidly slipping his arm around his wife. I wave awkwardly, but say nothing. "Have fun on your date," Eleanor adds, and they leave. I sit down, exhaling sharply.
5:30 p.m.: I desperately need this date to go well.
7:15 p.m.: I'm very early. I down a glass of Ogden's, and then I order a bottle of wine.
7:25 p.m.: I drum my fingers on the table, anxious. Wandr tells me she has an interest in politics and she works in magical law. I take another sip of wine. Please, I think, just let her not be one of my former professors.
7:31 p.m.: I see her and recognize her instantly as she apparates in. I'm not sure whether to be relieved. "Hi," she says, smiling. She's prettier than I remember, but still.
7:33 p.m.: My date tonight is the girl I thought my youngest brother was in a relationship with, though she tells me they've recently split. "It wasn't working out," she explains, settling into her chair and smiling politely as the waiter pours her a glass of wine. "Are you sure you can be here with me?" I ask, and she shrugs. "Why not?" she says, though I feel that should be obvious.
7:45 p.m.: I'm going to call her Marian, as in Maid Marian, because I cannot imagine her separate from my brother and his best friend, whom I suppose I'll call Will Scarlett and Robin Hood respectively. I always think of them running around in the woods, evading capture, and so to be sitting with Marian now is incredibly strange. I find her to be an apt conversationalist, of course—I always have, and Wandr isn't wrong; we do share quite a lot of interests—but I don't see this going anywhere. Still, I resign myself to another evening that ends with a platonic goodbye.
8:05 p.m.: I ask Marian why she decided to use Wandr, and she says she's trying to broaden her horizons, or something equally cliched. "I'm trying to figure out who I am," she says, and just as I open my mouth, there's a clatter from behind us as a young man with exceedingly pale blond hair approaches, stomping angrily. I realize with a start that this is my youngest brother's nemesis, and am about to ask him to leave when he rounds on Marian.
8:15 p.m.: "You're joking!" he says, and I suppose out of loyalty to my brother, I'll call him Guy, as in Guy of Gisborne, who is one of Robin Hood's foes. He's angry, but Marian seems unfazed. "You're clearly also here on a date," she says, pointing, and I realize that she's known he's been here for some time; she knew precisely where he was sitting in the room. "I thought we agreed—" "I agreed to wait," he shouts, "but you can't seriously tell me this is what you want!" I'm a little offended, but I've had quite a lot of wine at this point, so I sit back in my chair as Marian and Guy fight.
8:20 p.m.: "I told you," she insists, "that we should see other people before we jump into something." "I don't want to!" he shouts, and he is so very shouty and angry that I raise a hand to politely intervene, but Marian rises to her feet. "Calm down," she snaps, and she looks like she might hit him—privately, I want her to, if only because it would be a good story for James later—but Guy takes her face in his hands and kisses her, hard, and she melts, kissing him back. I give it a minute (several minutes, in which Guy's fingers tangle in Marian's hair and her nails dig into his waist) and then I clear my throat, gently. Marian blinks, pulling away. "I have to go," she tells me, and I nod my agreement.
8:30 p.m.: Marian and Guy disapparate and I down my glass of wine. James is going to love this.
8:35 p.m.: "Well," someone says, and then I see a woman drop into the seat across from me. "That was fun to watch," Margaret mutters, and she looks so different I scarcely recognize her. "Can I have this?" she asks, reaching for Marian's abandoned glass of wine. I blink. "Go ahead," I say.
8:45 p.m.: Tonight, Margaret is wearing a fitted black dress, and I'm not especially good at fashion, but even I can tell it's expensive. Her hair is loose and curled and she's wearing darker lipstick—and she was certainly pretty before, but she's in her element now. She's incredibly sexy, but my attention is caught on something else. She's toying with her necklace. It's a man's signet ring, and I recognize the initials of her father. She's wearing earrings, rings, bracelets—heirlooms. She fucking glitters with them. "So," I say, gesturing to her, "where's your money?" She rolls her eyes. "Don't do this now," she tells me, "we're drinking."
8:50 p.m.: She tells me Guy is her ex-boyfriend and that Wandr paired them up for a date this evening; I remind myself to tell James that his product is certainly being widely used, but could clearly use some refinement in its enchantments. "It would never have paired them," she adds, gesturing to where Guy and Marian were just assaulting each other's mouths. I shrug my agreement. "How did your relationship end?" I ask her. "He broke my heart," she says. "How badly?" I ask. She looks me dead in the eye. "Shattered it," she says.
9:05 p.m.: "Tell me about your father," I say. "He's sick," she says, "and some days, he doesn't remember me." She takes a sip of her wine. "Tell me about your father," she suggests. I pause. "I don't think he likes me very much," I say, and I haven't thought about it before, but at the moment I'm fairly certain I'm correct. Her mouth quirks slightly. "Not many people do, do they?" she asks, and strangely, I don't think she's trying to insult me. I tell her I don't think so, and she smiles into her wine. "Idiots," she says.
9:15 p.m.: We finish the bottle and I offer to apparate her home, but she declines. "See you tomorrow," she says. I nod. We part ways, and I go to see James.
9:20 p.m.: He's still in his workshop, as always. "Hey, I was thinking," he says, without looking up. "What did you set your age limit to?" "Oh, I don't know—around 30," I estimate, and wonder why he asks. He pauses, straightening. "What do you think about dating someone older than that?" he asks me, and I shrug, because the thought had never crossed my mind. "Nevermind," James says quickly, and asks about my date. I tell him she left with another man, and then I tell him which man she left with, and he promptly sputters into another fit of laughter. "I'm so glad one of us is enjoying this," I say drily.
9:45 p.m.: It's a short visit, but before I leave, I tell him about Eleanor. I ask him if I should say something to Henry. "You're overthinking it," James says, and shrugs. He says Henry knows I would never be inappropriate with his wife, but I'm not sure. I hate to say it, but I don't think I was very in control of my limbs while she was that close to me. "Okay," I agree.
10:15 p.m.: I fall into bed. Dating is terrible.
10:30 p.m.: I wonder how tomorrow will go with Margaret. Perhaps it won't be a day of monotony, since she's shown her hand a bit. I know she's got the money; she knows I know that. I wonder what will happen moving forward.
10:45 p.m.: I fall asleep thinking about Eleanor. I think I should say something to Henry. I also wave my wand, scheduling another date on Wandr. Why stop now?
DAY FOUR
9:00 a.m.: Sometimes I wonder if I will simply collapse over my desk and die, and whether that will make a difference to anyone. The paperwork would certainly be inconvenient, I think, so I make a concerted effort not to.
12:00 p.m.: "Lunch?" Henry asks, and I agree, because I need to talk to him. We grab some takeaway and I join him in his office.
12:30 p.m.: "So," I say slowly, "about yesterday—" He looks up, smirking slightly. "Is this about my wife?" he asks, and I feel my cheeks burn. "I wasn't going to do anything," I assure him quickly, and he shrugs. "You're just a distraction for her," he says, and I don't really know why, but I think I might be bothered by the phrasing. I ask him what he means. "She's using you for entertainment," he tells me, and I insist that I wouldn't cross that line. "No, go for it," he says, and laughs. "I doubt it would last," he adds, shaking his head.
12:45 p.m.: "Are you telling me you want me to sleep with your wife?" I echo, feeling like I must be having a stroke. Henry looks incredibly amused. "Like I said, it wouldn't last," he reminds me, and I still can't believe we're having this conversation. "You've been half in love with her for years," he adds, "and I'm sure she knows that. If she wants to, then go ahead." I am astounded. I cannot close my jaw. "Oh, come on," he says, "I'm not threatened. I mean, it's you," he says, laughing. Now I'm stunned for other reasons altogether.
1:00 p.m.: I make an excuse to leave. "Hey, you get what I'm saying, don't you?" he asks, placing a fraternal hand on my shoulder. I am gobsmacked. I am incapable of speech. I make a sound that might be confirmation, and then I leave.
1:28 p.m.: The goblin appears in my office and it takes everything I possess not to throw one of my books at his head. "Just send her in!" I snap.
1:30 p.m.: "Someone's rather cross," Margaret comments when she enters my office. She looks both more like herself, and less; she's wearing her necklace, and she's wearing clothes I can see she actually likes, but I also get the impression she's dressed up for me. "Sit down," I say. She places a box on my desk. "Here's more," she says. I rub my temples, and she sits.
1:45 p.m.: "You're going to do this every day, aren't you?" I ask her, and she shrugs. "Look," I say, shoving the box towards her, "we don't need to play this game. I can find your accounts if I want to. I have a pretty good idea who moves money around, and I'm pretty sure they can be bought, and I'm also fairly certain I've got the leverage to do it. I have the Ministry on my side," I remind her, and I can see that what I'm saying is taking root. "You don't want to make an enemy of me," I finish. She pauses for a moment, toying with her necklace. "I don't want to make an enemy of you at all," she says, "but I have to do something." I make a mental note of what she looks like when she's telling the truth. For some reason, I'm pretty sure that will come in handy.
2:00 p.m.: "Just pay the reparations," I tell her again, and she shakes her head. "It isn't up to me," she says, and she's still playing with the necklace, and I'm positive this is about her father. "I know what it's like to feel responsible to your family," I say, but I don't think she likes that. I don't think she enjoys sympathy. She stands up. "I'll have another box of expenses for you tomorrow," she says. I say nothing, and she leaves.
7:28 p.m.: I'm early for my date this evening, but they're already there. Correction: he is already there. "Oh," he says, startled, and I want to pound my forehead into the table.
7:30 p.m.: This is another one of my youngest brother's friends. I'll call him Little John, because that is in keeping with the theme. Little John is quite loyal to my brother's best friend, the one I think of as Robin Hood, and is rather a war hero himself. He's an academician of sorts, which is likely the reason we've been matched, but his area of expertise is herbology. He seems to be fascinated with plants, and I, in any case, am fascinated with my glass of Ogden's.
7:45 p.m.: "So," Little John says nervously, giving me a rather intensive once-over, "are you—" "No," I assure him quickly, shaking my head. "I'm sorry," I say, "but I'm straight." "Me too," he says slowly, "or at least, I thought I was." He looks to be in the midst of a moral crisis, and I can't deal with this right now. I order another drink. James is going to love this.
8:05 p.m.: I'm trying to listen to some story about underwater plants in Chile and beginning to wonder if this is what I sound like to other people when I'm talking about the things that interest me, which I'll admit are deeply niche. Our niches, in any case, do not mesh, and I'm eager to escape, because I think Little John might have stumbled upon some important information about himself this evening. I wish him luck and leave, deciding to walk rather than apparate; I've had a lot to drink.
8:35 p.m.: "Stop laughing," I tell James. He steadfastly refuses.
8:45 p.m.: "Here," he says, finally recovering and pouring me another glass of firewhisky. "You need this." He's not wrong. "How's it going with the older woman?" I ask him, but I'm drunker than he is, and apparently he doesn't want to answer. "Fine," he says, squirmily. I let the whisky burn its way down my throat.
9:05 p.m.: "I need to have sex," I say. "Me too," he says. Maybe this is a weird conversation to have with my brother. Maybe it gets weirder when I tell him I want to have sex with Eleanor. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised that James is not surprised. He cautions me against it, but I'm barely listening. "What about the audit girl?" he asks, and I think about Margaret for a minute. I think about the undeniable appeal of her decolletage, which is difficult not to notice when she's playing with her necklace all the time. "Daddy problems," I hiccup. James grins.
9:15 p.m.: James gets me through the Floo, telling me I should go to bed. "You," I counter incoherently. "Good comeback," he says. "Be sure to speak clearly," he warns me, and I slur something in response, but miraculously I end up in my living room.
9:16 p.m.: Eleanor is on my sofa. I blink three times. Once to make sure it's real; a second time because she, the most beautiful woman on earth, requires an extra blink; and then a third, because she's naked. "Uh oh," I say, stumbling. She rises to her feet. She is perfect. She is perfect and I fall to my knees.
9:20 p.m.: My lips are against her thigh and she's running her fingers through my hair. "This isn't real," I mutter, and she laughs. "You're drunk," she says, somewhat disapprovingly. "Sorry," I say, and she shakes her head. "I'm afraid I've been thinking about this for far too long," she tells me, "and I don't think I can waste it on a night like this." She steps away and reaches for her clothes; a silk wrap dress, which she puts on without underwear. "You've been thinking about this?" I ask vacantly, and she looks over her shoulder at me. She smiles. "Well, maybe a little," she says, and the moment I've risen to my feet, her lips are on mine.
9:30 p.m.: It takes less than a minute for the kiss to turn ruthless, and she's grinding against me with absolutely no mercy. "Where's my brother?" I gasp, as she tears my shirt from my shoulders and the silk of her dress slides against my skin. "Oh, he's having his fun," she assures me, and then her hands are in my trousers.
9:35 p.m.: She's stroking my cock with spectacular determination and I reach down to stop her, my hand wrapping around her wrist. "Stop," I gasp, and she doesn't, so I have to tighten my grip. "Stop," I say again, shaking my head, and she looks up with surprise. "If you want this, then come back," I say, because I'm drunk and I don't want to be her distraction. In my alcohol-tinted stupor I don't want to be stumbling; I don't want to be her spur-of-the-moment decision she comes to regret. The firewhisky that's making its way through my blood is telling me that I've loved her too long to let it be wasted like this, and even if it's my only chance, I want her too much to have her like this.
9:45 p.m.: She seems a little stricken by my offer, but she recovers easily. She leans forward, her lips near my ear. "Tomorrow night," she whispers, "wear the blue shirt." "Wear nothing," I reply.
9:55 p.m.: After Eleanor exits the Floo, I stand there for a moment, shell-shocked.
10:15 p.m.: I come in the shower and it's like I'm a teenager again, touching myself because I'm just too fucking hard to go to sleep.
10:35 p.m.: It occurs to me that I maybe don't want to be sober when I fall asleep, but I'll be hungover in the morning, so I set a potion on my nightstand. Somehow, I feel like Margaret will have a new set of games for me, and I suspect I'll need to be sharp enough to play.
10:47 p.m.: I think about setting up another date on Wandr, but I can't bring myself to do it. Not when I have somewhere else I'd rather be.
DAY FIVE
9:01 a.m.: Okay, I'm here. I made it. Thankfully the week is almost over.
12:05 p.m.: "Hey," Henry says, sticking his head in my office, and I jump about a foot in the air. "Come over for dinner tonight," he tells me, and I'm not an idiot, but I cannot possibly make sense of this. "Seriously?" I ask, and he nods. He says he and Eleanor are going to a party later tonight, but he feels there's tension between us, so he thinks I should come over. "Besides," he adds, laughing, "she's fond of you." Is he torturing me? I think he must be. "Okay," I say, because apparently I am, in fact, an idiot.
2:30 p.m.: Margaret enters with a surprising lack of ceremony. "I think the whole goblin announcement process was starting to bother you," she says, setting yet another box on my desk. "I didn't think you cared much what bothers me," I return. She shrugs. She's Eleanor's opposite in many ways, I note; Margaret's eyes and hair are dark, and while Eleanor has a look of casual effortlessness, Margaret's appearance is meticulously crafted. Her hair is pulled back to showcase the line of her neck. She's the opposite of Eleanor, but I'm still looking. "Maybe I do," she says.
2:45 p.m.: I'm dutifully sorting through her box of receipts and bank transactions when she rises to her feet, pacing the room. "How much trouble am I in?" she asks, and I lean back in my chair, watching her. "A lot," I say, because I haven't told her yet, but I have a lead on who has been moving things in and out of her vault. It's only a matter of time. She turns over her shoulder. "What will you let them do to me?" she asks. I don't say anything, because I don't know what to say. She faces time in Azkaban. She faces financial ruin. She faces social ostracization, but she already knows all that. She's an exceedingly clever witch and she knows the consequences, and more importantly, that's not what she asked.
3:00 p.m.: She walks behind my desk and turns my chair so that I face her. "Well?" she asks. I am finding it difficult to breathe. "It's not my job to punish you," I remind her, "it's only my job to find out where the money went." She nods slowly, her gaze on my mouth. "Yes," she permits softly, "but your findings change everything, don't they?"
3:10 p.m.: "You're seducing me," I tell her. "Yes," she agrees without hesitation, "because I need you on my side. Because I'm desperate." I shake my head. The statement is undoubtedly confessional, but I remember what she looks like when she's telling the truth, and this isn't it. "I don't find women's desperation to be arousing," I tell her, because I don't, and in the larger scheme of things, I'm not like that. Perhaps in her world this is how things work, but I'm not like her. She leans back, catching her breath. "Good," she says.
3:30 p.m.: She dutifully sits as I sort through the box and then she looks at her watch. "I should go," she says. I wonder if I should stop her. "Would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow?" she asks. "That would be inappropriate," I tell her. She shrugs. "Would you like to?" she asks again. I pause. "Noon at the Leaky," I suggest, and she nods. "See you then," she murmurs, and leaves.
5:45 p.m.: Henry sticks his head in. "Ready?" he asks.
6:00 p.m.: Eleanor looks as perfect as ever even with her hair piled without refinement atop her head, wisps of blonde sticking to her neck as she bends over the seafood stew she's making. She sees me and I remember that I know what she looks like naked, and it's burning me from the inside out. She says my name, playing with it on her tongue. "Hello," I force out neutrally. Henry claps a hand on my shoulder, leading me into the dining room.
6:15 p.m.: I go to the bathroom to wash my hands before dinner and there's a knock on the door. I open it, and it's Eleanor, and she quickly shoves me inside. "Hi," she says, and kisses me, yanking me against her. She's a little hot from being in the kitchen but she still has that darkly floral smell, and I can feel the perspiration at the small of her back. Even with evidence of her humanity, she is divinely perfect. I lean her back against the sink and she shifts in my arms until she's shimmied out of her underwear, bending to pick them up and shoving them in my pocket. "Hold onto these," she whispers, kissing me once more, and then she disappears.
6:45 p.m.: I cannot believe I'm eating dinner with Eleanor's underwear in my pocket.
6:53 p.m.: "We'd invite you along to the party," Henry tells me, "but it's the sort of thing you need a partner for." Suddenly the food turns to ash in my mouth; I remember a number of things I'd forgotten, like the fact that they're swingers. Specifically, the fact that Eleanor thinks I'm a game. I'm an incredibly easy game, aren't I? I have always been the object of entertainment; even with the best of intentions, my brothers have always laughed at my expense, and suddenly I feel overtly used. I set my fork down. "I should let you go, then," I say.
7:00 p.m.: I get home and fall back on the sofa. I should have just scheduled a date for tonight. Or at least made a point to see Margaret—only I can't, I remind myself. I can't have Margaret because of my job. I can't have Eleanor because of my brother.
7:30 p.m.: I go to James' workshop, but oddly, he's not there. I'm disappointed, but it's probably best. I leave a note and head back to my flat.
8:15 p.m.: I'm having a glass of wine when someone comes through the Floo. It's Eleanor. I look up, and she locks eyes with me. "You're not wearing the blue shirt," she says, sounding disappointed. I rise to my feet. "Have you done what I asked?" I remark in return, noting that she is clothed. She lets the robe fall from her shoulders. She's bare underneath. "Yes," she says.
8:20 p.m.: I take another sip of wine, biding my time. "My brother tells me I'm a distraction for you," I comment, taking a seat on the edge of my sofa. "I like you," she says, and I shake my head. "You don't," I tell her, "because I'm boring." She steps forward, reaching for me. "You're not boring," she says, her thumb curling around my cheek, "you're bored."
8:25 p.m.: "You're bored," she says in my ear, "and so am I. There's something about you—something beneath the surface. Same with me." I don't tell her that I have known that since the moment I met her. I don't tell her that I have loved her for it, adored her from afar, wished every moment that I could have been the one to love her. "Where are you supposed to be right now?" I ask her, and she shrugs. She tells me my brother is with someone, but that she slipped away. "For you," she tells me, stroking my cheek. I step away. I don't want to be played with. "Sit down," I say. Slowly, as if in a trance, she sits.
8:35 p.m.: "What does my brother not give you?" I ask her. Her brow twitches for a moment, and then she regains her certainty. "Awe," she says. She doesn't mean veneration; surely he worships her, or he did once. She means he doesn't awe her—and why would he need to, being the eldest, the most successful, the most loved? I realize I have identified everyone around me as a person of power, and perhaps I have misjudged. "Lean back," I say.
8:41 p.m.: I tell her to touch herself and she looks startled for a minute, but she does it. She closes her eyes and I tell her to open them. "Look at me," I say firmly, and settle myself between her legs, my hands wresting her knees apart. Her dark blue eyes widen, her tongue slipping between her lips, and she runs her hand down her stomach. I watch her fingers as they slide along her clit and I take one of mine, sliding it inside her. She gasps and I lean forward, catching the feel of her breath in my mouth. Her hands fall to my chest, fumbling with my shirt, and I grab her hand. "Slow," I tell her. She blinks, mesmerized.
8:45 p.m.: I take my shirt off, tossing it on the floor, and she reaches for me but I keep her at arm's length, lowering my head to kiss the lines of her abdomen and making my way down. I shift my shoulders, settling them beneath her thighs, and pause. "Tell me how you want your pussy licked," I say, and she shivers. She reaches out, trapping her fingers in my hair, and I stare up at her. "Tell me how you want me to lick your pretty cunt," I say again, because it seems to be making her a little bit crazy, and her fingers tighten against my scalp as I slide another finger inside her, moving them in and out. She's breathing hard, but I tell her not to come. Not yet. Not until I've tasted her. She groans. "I'm going to fuck you with my tongue first," I say, "and finish with my fingers while I suck your clit. Tell me when you're about to come," I warn. She nods numbly. I lower my head.
8:50 p.m.: For all the times I've thought about how she would taste, I still find that I've underestimated the sweetness. She grinds against my lips and I think that's what makes it all the sweeter; she's pulling at my hair and losing control and when she grits out that she's close—she's coming she's coming she's coming I am making her come—I stop, and she cries out in frustration. I press her thighs apart, kissing the curves of them, and when she lowers her hand to her clit I take her fingers in my mouth and suck them once, lightly, before shoving them away, because I'm going to be the one who does this. I sit up to take her breasts in my mouth and she's squirming, she's writhing, and then she says it: "Please." This is what I've been waiting for. "Please what?" I ask, flicking my tongue over her nipple. "Please suck my pussy until I come," she begs, and I smile.
9:04 p.m.: She screams my name when she comes and I can't wait any longer. I stand up, my hands shaking as I take off my trousers and kick them aside, and then I pull her against me, her back to my chest. "Do you trust me?" I ask her. She nods, and she reaches for my cock but I push her hand away. I turn her, picking her up, and she wraps her legs around my hips. "Obscuro," I whisper, and conjure a blindfold over her eyes.
9:15 p.m.: I take her to my bedroom and lay her back across the mattress, climbing on top of the bed. I take my time kissing her; she's an excellent kisser, her lips are supple and pliant and she tastes so goddamn sweet, but I move lower, tracing my tongue over the faint freckles on her shoulders, trailing my lips down her thighs and then back up. She wants awe, and she will feel it in the way that my lips mold to her skin; the way I make her so wet my cock slides easily against her.
9:30 p.m.: I tell her I'm going to fuck her and she lets out a gorgeous little whine. If this is all I get, it will have been worth it. I am coveting my brother's wife but at least that means she is being coveted—being adored, being glorified.
9:45 p.m.: She comes with a devastating shiver and then so do I, choking out the sound of her name on what part of me hopes will be my last breath, because it's hard to imagine a moment more perfect than this one. But then she slips the blindfold from her eyes and looks at me, and we catch our breaths, and this moment is perfect, too.
10:15 p.m.: I have always known her to be more than her beautiful face, but it's only now that I realize just how much I admire her. She tells me she's lonely, tells me she's unstimulated and bored, and I listen while I kiss the tips of her fingers, memorizing the way her hair looks when it's swept across my pillowcase like this. Then the conversation turns to other things, to little things; to telling me about her childhood home, and the games she and her sister would play. To the things she misses most about France (the smell of the sea, which she insists is different than it is here) and how she wishes people understood her better (she knows her English is fine, but still, her words are never quite right). She spills out her secrets for me and I confess one to her: "I'm in love with you," I admit, because my heart will break if I don't say it. She kisses me as if I belong to her, as if she's come to possess me.
12:20 p.m.: "I have to get back," she whispers once she's stolen the breath from my lungs.
12:30 p.m.: I send her off through the Floo and expect that I've fucked everything up.
DAY SIX
8:15 a.m.: I lay in bed all morning, and I can't stop thinking about what she said to me. You're bored, she said, and I am. My job bores me. My life bores me.
11:25 a.m.: I turn my head to look at the clock and realize I should take a shower.
12:00 p.m.: "Right on time," Margaret says. Her legs are crossed daintily and she's toying with her necklace again. "Why am I here?" I ask her, and she blinks. "Aren't you supposed to know the answer to that question?" she prompts dubiously, and I shake my head. "Why did you want me to come here?" I demand. She rises to her feet and steps towards me. "Let's talk in private," she suggests.
12:15 p.m.: The moment we apparate into my apartment she throws me down on my sofa, straddling me and bringing my lips to hers. I admit, I've been curious about her, and my hands instantly fly up to her clavicle, tracing my thumb along her neck. I find that when I think about her, my thoughts are always on her neck; the way she holds it, I think, when she's got her chin held impossibly high—but also that necklace, the manifestation of her loyalty. She intrigues me, and while part of me is certain she's using me to at least some extent, I let her fingers drop to the buttons of my shirt.
12:45 p.m.: I slam her against the wall of my apartment. "If you don't stop me," I say, "I'm going to fuck you right now." "I don't want to stop you," she says, but she's lying. I know what her truths look like and this isn't one of them. I take a moment, still pressing her against the wall, forcing myself to think clearly. She tastes different from Eleanor, but part of me wants that. Part of me wants to rid myself of Eleanor entirely, though I know this is no better an idea. "You're thinking about someone else," she says, and reaches out, brushing my hair away from my forehead. There's something about the motion; it seems meditatively intentional, as if she's done it before, but it hasn't been me she's been touching. "So are you," I say, and she smiles, and I recognize it as truth.
12:51 p.m.: I let her down slowly, and we're both slightly shaking. "I have to recuse myself from your case," I tell her hoarsely, and she looks up. "I know where the money is," I tell her, and I do, and it would almost certainly take me a while to prove it but still, I'm positive I could. "Another auditor might find it," I add, "but I don't want it to be me." She swallows. "That's not the same as protecting me," she says, and I shake my head. "No, it isn't," I agree. She's pensive for a moment, her brow creased with thought.
1:05 p.m.: "I'm glad I didn't have sex with you," she says, and although I suspected she was using me, it still stings a little bit. I take a step back and she shakes her head, pulling me against her again. "No, not because of that," she insists, "but because now, I can like you." I stare at her. "What?" I ask. She sighs impatiently. "If I'd had sex with you, I'd have to hate you now," she says, and though it's essentially the same thing she said the first time, it makes sense to me this time. "I see," I permit quietly.
1:15 p.m.: "You can't rely on me for anything real," I tell her, "at least not yet." She nods. "Same," she agrees, and slides her thumb across my lip, as if she's contemplating the feel of it.
1:30 p.m.: We apparate back to Diagon and she tells me she's going to meet one of her friends. She tells me, in a highly conspiratorial tone, that her best friend finally decided to try one of those sex parties where people switch partners. Her take on the whole situation is very dry, and I realize with surprise that she's actually quite funny. "I don't understand it," I say, and she shrugs. "Love and sex are different," she says, and while I'm sure she's correct, it still doesn't seem much clearer. "Maybe I'm too boring to understand it," I say, and she glances at me. "You're not boring," she tells me, and for reasons I cannot possibly fathom, I'm incredibly grateful. "Well, you're not ruined," I say, hoping that's a sufficient trade. It seems like it is.
4:27 p.m.: We're still talking and I happen to look at the time, surprised. "What time were you meeting your friend?" I ask, and she glances over at my watch. "Oops," she says. "An hour ago."
6:34 p.m.: Eventually she leaves, and I go to meet James. "Hey," I say, stepping into his shop. He looks up, smiling. "There's my fungi," he says, and I roll my eyes.
6:54 p.m.: "Any hilarious new dates?" he asks, and I tell him I just had a date (because I think I did) but that the only hilarious bit was that she seemed to genuinely enjoy my company. He laughs. "Nah," he says, "sounds fake."
7:15 p.m.: "Do you think I'm boring?" I ask. "Nah," he says again. I pause. "Do you think I'm bored?" I ask. He thinks about it. "Yes," he says firmly.
7:35 p.m.: "Just because you fucked up once doesn't mean you can't learn from it," he tells me, shaking his head. "I mean, you don't have to be locked up in that office. Maybe you should get out."
9:45 p.m.: I spend the rest of the night thinking about what James said; about where I would go if I did get out.
11:15 p.m.: I'm still thinking about it.
DAY SEVEN
8:15 a.m.: I send an owl to my brother Henry asking him to meet me at the office in an hour. He agrees.
9:15 a.m.: "What's going on?" he asks, and I tell him I'm removing myself from Margaret's case. I tell him to give it to an auditor who is thorough, but patient, because she is a uniquely difficult case. "Thousands of expenditures," I explain, thinking of the boxes, "and no organization whatsoever." "Okay," Henry permits, "but why am I here?"
9:30 a.m.: "I want a transfer," I tell him. Specifically, I want to be a curse-breaker, and more specifically, I want to do it abroad. "Where?" he asks. I tell him I'd like to go to Romania, where one of our other brothers currently works. "I need a change," I say. Henry nods thoughtfully. "You do seem bored," he says.
9:45 a.m.: He asks me when I want to leave. I say today. "How about tomorrow," he offers, chuckling, and I agree. "Okay," he says, and holds a hand out, "but I'll miss you." Surprisingly, I think that he will. I realize that if Eleanor is lonely, then maybe Henry is, too. Maybe it's not as easy as I think it is being so universally adored. "By the way," Henry says, "how good does my wife's cunt taste, right?" I wince. "Ha," he says, laughing as he turns to leave.
12:45 p.m.: I'm eating lunch at home when Eleanor steps through my Floo. "You can't leave," she says, and her eyes are wild. She looks like she might have been crying. I rise to my feet and open my arms and she throws herself into them, beating her fists against my chests. "You can't say that you love me and then leave," she sobs. I'm stunned.
1:02 p.m.: Somewhere in the midst of Eleanor's tears her arms have twined around my neck and she's kissing me desperately, and I rapidly lose my self control. She strips my clothes off and I let her; I want her to ruin me, to break me, to fuck me up entirely. "This is precisely why I'm leaving," I say as she yanks my underwear down my legs and then slides her dress from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. "This," I say, even as I take her in my arms and kiss the side of her neck, "is exactly why I can't be here."
1:20 p.m.: We're on the floor when she takes hold of my face, wrenching it towards hers. "I should have told you," she says, and I pause. "I should have told you that this is not just for entertainment," she whispers. I wish I could read her like I read Margaret, because I need to know if this is true. Of course, if it is true, then I am a man in love with my brother's wife and she is a woman in love with her husband's brother, and we are both bound for something horrible and filled with pain. "Make me come," she begs, and I oblige—because this, at least, I can do.
2:15 p.m.: When we're finished she rests her head on my chest, drawing absently on my stomach. I tell her I'm still leaving. "Think about it, though," I add, feeling her stiffen in dismay, "and if you still want me, then come find me." She looks up at me, and I try not to think about the way her legs are tangled with mine, or how frustrating it will be when they aren't. "Are you sure that you'll want me?" she asks, and I kiss her slowly, rolling over her and drawing my thumb across her cheek. "I will always want you," I promise, though if tragedy awaits, I desperately hope that there comes a day that I don't.
5:15 p.m.: After Eleanor leaves I start packing my things, fitting my life into boxes. It's a small life, and a dull one, but it's an easy one to walk away from. At least, I think it is, but then the Floo roars to life and someone clears her throat.
5:30 p.m.: Margaret's head is in the fire. "Can I come through?" she asks. I say yes, and she materializes in my living room.
5:45 p.m.: She tells me she's been assigned a new auditor, and I nod. "I would have recused myself even if I weren't leaving," I assure her, and she nods. I wonder if she'll ask me to stay, but she doesn't. If anyone is going to understand why I'm leaving, I suppose it will be her. "You could come with me," I say, attempting a joke, "seeing as you might want to go on the run anyway." She smiles wanly. "I think I'm getting a bit tired of that kind of life," she says.
6:30 p.m.: "Can I come visit you?" she asks. I tell her that in my professional opinion, leaving the country probably isn't going to look good for her criminal investigation, and she grimaces. "That bad, is it?" she asks, disappointed, and I nod. "They're going to find the money," I tell her. She sighs. "But," I say, "I think I'd like to see you, if you ever wanted to come see me."
8:30 p.m.: "I fall in love so easily," she laments. I tell her I know what she means.
8:45 p.m.: "I think of the people around me as if they're infallible," I say, "as if they're all kings and queens." "Me too," she says, and I find I'm not surprised.
9:15 p.m.: "Imagine there is a door," she says, "and behind it is your future. What does it look like?" I pause, thinking about it. "What does yours look like?" I say, because I don't know. She turns her head to look at me. "We're idiots," she says.
10:06 p.m.: "I think if you love someone," I say slowly, "you should fight for them." "You're not talking about me," she notes. I shake my head. "You're talking about you?" she guesses. I nod. "Tragic," she sighs.
10:35 p.m.: "Tell me how starting over goes," she says, "because I'd like to know if it's something I should look into."
11:45 p.m.: We're falling asleep. "We're idiots," she murmurs.
11:55 p.m.: "Stupid idiots," I agree.
a/n: dedicated to Belle Delesque, sunset oasis (happy birthday soon, if I remember correctly?), and witchsoup. Thanks for reading! Also, most people were correct last week as well, but do tell me if you have doubts so I know if I need to clarify things!