Episode V: The Escape Artist Suffering From a Voyeuristic Mishap

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, an affluent publicist finds himself unexpectedly smitten: 22, male, bisexual, decidedly uninterested in commitment.

DAY ONE

9:00 a.m.: Is it just me, or is everyone else a total idiot? Today I'm traveling to Paris to meet with a client, and it seems like none of the people in this apparation queue have any capacity for efficiency. We're wizards, you fucks. If I wave my wand, you won't be a problem, and yet you're telling me I need to wait fifteen minutes for you to check me for 'contraband' while I, for some inexplicable reason, fight a losing battle to be polite? Trust me, idle hands are not the devil's workshop; international travel is.

9:30 a.m.: One thousand years later I'm finally through customs at the French Ministry, set to apparate to Bordeaux. I send a quick owl to the client (a new one, signed quite recently) apologizing in advance that I will be about ten minutes late; aside from the headache involved, though, I'm not all that fussed about the delay. They'll wait, of course. I'm the sort of person people wait for. I send a second owl to a friend of mine, informing her that I'm available to meet her this evening back in Paris. Calling her a friend is, of course, a deeply ineffectual misnomer, but it seems the polite term. 'Sex friend' is probably less ideal, albeit more true.

10:11 a.m.: The client is a rising singer that I vaguely remember as the sister of the Beauxbatons Triwizard champion from my years at Hogwarts. The singer, a young ingenue who seems scarcely more than a sliver of blonde upon first glance, "greatly admires" my mother, as she makes a point to continuously say. I wonder if she can see my skepticism. My mother is a former opera singer; a soprano, and a prima donna in the truest sense. However, that aspect of her life is not what she's famous for, so for this young slip of a thing to tell me that she sees herself having a career like my mother's strikes me as more than a little questionable.

10:45 a.m.: "Do you also plan to be widowed seven times?" I ask neutrally, and when the Ingenue—I'll call her Mimi, after the soprano role in La Bohème; the character dies in the end, but that's opera for you—pales, I stifle a laugh. "Only asking because as your publicist, I need to be prepared in advance," I tell her, hiding my amusement. Mimi stammers something in response, and I shake my head. "I'm joking," I assure her, and I remind her that she's in good hands; hands with a track record of more than considerable success. She looks relieved. The color returns to her cheeks, and I realize that she's not unattractive. In fact, she's quite beautiful, in an ethereal sort of way. She's also of age, and if I know a thing or two about covert glances—and believe me, I do—she's hardly as innocent as she seems. "What are you doing for lunch?" I ask neutrally.

12:30 p.m.: Lunch is a bit of agneau de Pauillac, some of Bordeaux's best fairy-made wine, and, as I predicted, Mimi, who rides me with a noteworthy enthusiasm. "Your hair looks better undone," I tell her, watching the silvery blonde of it stick to the back of her neck as it comes loose from its girlish twist. In response she says something about how good my dick feels, which is nice, but not strictly necessary. "Have your stylist fix it this way for the French Witch Weekly spread," I continue, and she freezes, finally recognizing that I am still conducting business. "Doesn't this mean anything to you?" she asks me, referencing the sex, and I pointedly remind her we only met this morning; I warn her, as my mother has so often warned me, not to get carried away. Mimi stops, panicked, and I sigh, taking her face in my hands. "What would you rather have," I ask her, "a lover, or a singing career?" She swallows heavily. "A career," she says, and I flip her onto her back. "Then you chose wisely," I promise, flicking my wand to tie her wrists gently to the bed.

3:15 p.m.: "I don't want to be too sexualized," Mimi tells me afterwards, and I don't bother to hide a scoff. I remind her that my mother is more famous for her beauty than she ever was for her talent, and in the end, it was her notoriety that sold records, not her voice. "Everything is an act," I tell her. "Talent isn't," Mimi protests, and I roll my eyes. "You just worry about your talents, then," I say, "and I'll engage mine. I'll make you famous," I promise her, because such is my skill in life. She looks more aroused by that than anything, so I'm not that surprised when she strokes my cock again, hoping for a second round. "Can't," I tell her, rising to my feet and reaching for my trousers. "But I'll see you tomorrow for the shoot."

5:05 p.m.: By the time I'm back in Paris, I've heard back from my friend, whom I'll call Carmen in honor of one of my mother's favorite arias. The Habanera is so inescapably in my blood that I suppose I know the cheeky rhythm of it about as well as I know my own pulse, and though the girl I call Carmen will likely never know this, I feel approximately as fondly of her as I do of the song. She's feisty, a rebellious bird and a gypsy child, and I look forward to chatting with her nearly as much as I enjoy undressing her. 'Practice running late tonight,' she says, and offers a late dinner, around 8:00. I agree.

8:15 p.m.: Carmen is fifteen minutes late when she arrives at my favorite restaurant in Paris' wizarding alley, her hair freshly dried and smelling of roses but her attire completely inappropriate for a place like this, where the waitstaff (nymphets, essentially) wear gauzy, translucent drapes of fabric. Carmen is dressed casually, wearing a skirt that's entirely too short for the setting, and flips her red hair over her shoulder as she sits. "I'm starving," she announces. "Should have come on time, then," I admonish her, as I am not a person generally made to wait. She looks at me for a moment, and then gets up to join me on my side of the booth, undoing the clasp of my trousers and sliding her hand beneath my underwear. I choke on my champagne. "What was that about being late?" she asks.

8:25 p.m.: Her fingers stroke me expertly beneath the table as I attempt, weakly I'm sure, to maintain my composure. Carmen smiles at the nymph who takes our order—tartare of course, for my carnivorous siren—and doesn't bat an eye as I'm struggling to conceal my rapid panting. "Take your time," she adds, handing the menu over to the server with a smile, "we have a long night ahead of us." The moment the nymph leaves, I come with a sputter that takes me by surprise (I don't oppose a digital manipulation from time to time, but I'm a man with experience, so this is hardly the height of pleasure) and she flicks her wand, relieving us both. "God," she yawns, "could you be more predictable?" I glare at her. "Your turn," she says, her gaze flicking pointedly under the table.

8:47 p.m.: "He just had to step out," she tells the server as they conjure our food onto the table. I'm beneath it, wresting her legs apart as I flick my tongue over her clit. "Is there anything else I can get you?" the nymph asks politely, and I slide two fingers into Carmen, just to hear the subsequent catch in her breath. "No, thank you," Carmen replies, "the service here is exemplary."

8:54 p.m.: Carmen's hand drops to linger on the back of my neck, pulling me closer. I love this about her—that she wants what she wants without much regard for how deeply my face is buried in her cunt. I drag her hips down and finish her off, feeling her legs shake around my shoulders as she comes. When I surface, she glances over, handing me a frite. "Good boy," she says.

9:15 p.m.: Dinner is excellent, conversation is excellent. Carmen tells me that she's coming back to London in the next day or so, and I tell her I'll be back as well, once I've handled Mimi's photoshoot. It's the ingenue's first big solo spread, and I want to be sure they follow my guidelines. "She sounds naive," Carmen comments, and asked if I slept with her. Of course I did. "Of course you did," she agrees, shaking her head.

9:33 p.m.: I first met Carmen when my agency assigned me to the U.K. Quidditch All-Stars series early in my career. Well, that's not quite accurate; I knew her at Hogwarts, but she never registered as much other than the daughter of a bunch of blood traitors. I was young then; I said a lot of things I didn't mean, like "I'm straight," or "of course I'll call you tomorrow." Am I supposed to be held accountable for those, too? Anyway, as the token nouveau riche amongst the ruthlessly ancient purebloods of Slytherin House, I couldn't afford to acknowledge Carmen at the time for anything. Once I'd made money of my own and owed nothing in reparations, though, things changed; the purebloods came to me. Turns out they'd rather have friends in high places than stick to their cult of inbreeding … fancy that.

9:35 p.m.: In any case, Carmen was one of my first clients. She had a boyfriend then—I think of him as Aeneas, the prince of Troy, duped by a foolish prophecy—but that was never going to work out with as much as she traveled. His world, heroic or not, was far too small for hers, which was limitless. The moment she was single, it took all of about 30 minutes for me to have her pinned against the wall of her hotel room. She told me she'd never consider me for a romantic relationship; "Good," was all I said.

9:50 p.m.: We apparate to my hotel, which has more luxurious accommodations. She and a teammate are sharing a room elsewhere, but we both know she's not going back there tonight. "I was wondering," she murmurs as I turn the shower off, "can you teach me how to lick pussy like you do?" I glance at her, surprised. "Interesting in switching teams?" I ask her, and she shrugs. "Have someone in mind," she says, which I have to admit is intriguing. I shake my head. "I can't believe you're requiring cunnilingus twice," I say, lamenting her trickery. She quirks a brow. "Can't you?" she prompts arrogantly, grinning. She's right. She loves it, which is something I surely ought to know by now. I shake my head, relenting. "The trick," I say, "is in the angle." I get on my knees and she leans against the shower wall, throwing one leg over my shoulder. "I'm listening," she assures me, patting the top of my head.

10:35 p.m.: "So who is she?" I ask, and she shrugs. Someone on her quidditch team, it seems. "I'm curious," she admits. I've been there. "Teach me how to sell myself," she says, and I remind her that's prostitution. "No," she laughs, "I mean—you're my publicist. Teach me how to make people want me." I sit up to look at her. "You don't need my help," I remind her, but because I'm an excellent sex friend, I position her so that the taut muscle of her legs and the crisp sharpness of her scapulae are prominent as she looks over her shoulder at me on the bed. "No one could resist," I promise her, and then, because I am worth every penny of my exorbitant fee and I sell things so fantastically well, I reward myself. I roll her onto her stomach and kiss her spine before slipping inside her.

10:39 p.m.: She moans. I am an excellent publicist.

11:47 p.m.: We fall back, exhausted. "Set an alarm," she tells me, not bothering to move or dress. "I have practice in the morning," she says, as if I don't know that. I roll my eyes. "Sweet dreams," I tell her, but she's already asleep.

DAY TWO

5:15 a.m.: I wake up to room service arriving and Carmen is helping herself to pain au lait. I groan, furious that I'm awake, but she only leans back, getting crumbs on the bed. "One more for the road?" she asks, and I tell her no. "I'm fucking sleeping," I snap, because she is a monster, and she rolls onto her back, closing her eyes.

5:45 a.m.: "Are you masturbating?" I ask, squinting at her. "Shut up, I'm close," she gasps. She is fucking impossible. "It helps me focus," she insists. "I'm trying to sleep," I remind her, but she seems uninterested in the particulars of my displeasure. "She's so hot," Carmen says, presumably discussing her teammate. "You should see her. Her tits are so fucking perfect, and her mouth—fuck, I want to taste her mouth—" "Again," I snap, "I'm trying to sleep." Carmen moans. I shake my head.

5:50 a.m.: She comes, and I finally go back to sleep.

6:15 a.m.: Peace is short-lived. "I'm leaving," Carmen tells me, slapping my backside with something like fraternal affection. It's a good thing I'm pretty openly bisexual, because she's not even remotely a lady. "See you in London," I tell her, not bothering to lift my head.

10:15 a.m.: I wake up a little groggy, but I pull it together and head over to the Witch Weekly shoot.

11:35 a.m.: Mimi is five minutes late. I tell her for future reference that seven minutes is the sweet spot. "You want them to wait a little," I tell her, "but don't inconvenience people." She looks around, nervous, and I wave her into makeup and repeat the same thing to her stylist that I did to Mimi herself the day prior: make sure she looks undone.

12:27 p.m.: "They want me in a fountain?" Mimi asks, glancing nervously at it. I nod. "It's beautiful," I tell her, "and it'll give you an aura of something expensive—something natural but out of reach." She bites her lip. "But the clothes," she says, and I nod. "They want you wet," I confirm. She looks panicked. "Take five," I tell the photographer.

12:34 p.m.: I pull her aside and press her against the wall, anchoring her hips in place. She swallows hard, staring up at me. "This isn't sex," I tell her, "it's theater. This is an act, a role." She nods, but looks dazed. "You're a woman who enjoys sex," I remind her. I tell her she doesn't have to be a child; she can embrace the part of her that chose to fuck me on a hotel room floor. She looks doubtful, so I kiss her, hard. She hesitates, and then she reaches up, drawing me closer. I let her get into it a little, let her get a little rough with me, and by the time I pull away, her lips are swollen and her hair tousled. "Perfect," I say.

4:13 p.m.: She looks perfect. She looks totally untouchable. I discuss the spread in detail with the photographer and he keeps it tasteful; a glimpse of a slender upper thigh or a hint of decolletage, but never too much. The focus is on her face, her earnest eyes, the covetous glory of the ingenue. Men will want her and women will want to be her, and I've never even heard her sing. I am excellent at my job.

6:15 p.m.: Mimi talks me into a drink after the shoot and I permit a few sips of champagne, but with the excitement of the day and the admiration from shoot that she's just now discovering can be hers, she's got her hands on my cock well before she finishes her first glass. "You can have any boy you want," I remind her, and I'm ready to get back to London, but she is very, very compelling. I sigh, and she slips out of her dress.

7:07 p.m.: "Tell me again how I'm going to be famous," she pants as I fuck her on the loveseat of her hotel suite, gifted to her for the night by Witch Weekly. This is, of course, problematic; but better this, I suppose, then any sort of undue attachment. "I'm going to make you immortal," I tell her, and she comes with a strangled yell.

7:35 p.m.: I wish I could say I feel remorse as I leave her; my mother got pregnant when she was seventeen years old after a tryst with a boy she never saw again, so you'd think I'd see a parallel with my behavior, but I don't. There's a difference between my father, whoever he is, and me; I never lie. I tell Mimi not to romanticize what happened between us, and as I go, I wish her luck.

7:37 p.m.: The other important difference between my father and me? I always use a contraceptive spell; that was my mother's second most important lesson. Her first, the one that ultimately brought her wealth and comfort, was to always guard my heart. I learned that lesson well.

10:25 p.m.: I finally arrive back at my penthouse flat in London far later than I anticipated—there's something strange going on with the enchantment wards in the building, and I couldn't apparate into my unit directly—and there are several owls waiting for me. One from Carmen: 'thanks for the head,' she says. Typical. There's also a few packages; I often get sent samples of things for my clients to try, and one of them is a small rectangle with the words WANDR across the top. I've heard of this, but personally, I'm not interested in dating. I put it aside.

10:34 p.m.: I could use something to take the edge off—travel takes it out of me. I write to a particularly self-destructive friend I have asking if he's got anything on hand. We'll call him Romeo; I always think of him as a tragic romantic figure, prone to idiotic self-sacrifice, though I'm not sure others see him that way. He was essentially the leader while we were at Hogwarts and I have always turned to him when I've been in the business of sabotaging myself.

10:47 p.m.: Romeo saunters through the Floo, as smug and blond as ever. "I'm behaving myself these days," he tells me, tossing a vial at me, "but, you know." I roll my eyes and ask how our friends are doing; it's been awhile since I've been home for any long period of time. Romeo tells me I should check on one of our friends, the son of a particularly infamous Death Eater whom I think of as Mercutio, since he's that attached to Romeo. "Feel like he's up to something," Romeo explains, which I'm almost certain is true; when it comes to Mercutio, he's either up to something or he's wallowing in melancholia. Either way, he shouldn't be left unsupervised.

11:16 p.m.: "What's new with you?" I ask, taking a hit of the vapor. Romeo's gaze darts away. "Nothing," he lies. I'm grateful the intoxicant (and, I suppose, my personality) prevent me from caring much.

11:46 p.m.: Romeo leaves and I lay back on my bed, enjoying the drifting euphoria. I've been absent for quite some time and it's nice to be back here, specifically; I never let anyone into my bedroom. This is my safe space, my utopia.

12:01 a.m.: I fall asleep, blissful. Even though the bliss is manufactured, I consider my night a success.

DAY THREE

8:35 a.m.: I wake a little unsteadily but feel fine by the time I make it into my office; not that I really needed to come in. The agency is owned by my mother, who used the riches she inherited from all her dead husbands to go into business for herself. I'll call her Agrippina, who plotted to secure the throne of the Roman Empire for her son. "Ah, there's my heir," she trills, and I roll my eyes. Unsurprisingly, she has a flair for the dramatic. "Hello Mother," I say.

10:30 a.m.: She calls me into her office for coffee and we discuss my most recent trip. She's pleased with Mimi's addition to our clientele, and tells me she wants me to stay within that vein. More ingenues, it seems, and fewer athletes. "Any bumbling tit-wit can sell sports to the primates that watch them," she says, and while I realize this means I may no longer represent Carmen, I'm not that bothered. "Whatever you say," I assure her, and she smiles beatifically.

11:14 a.m.: 'You dead?' I write to Mercutio. Presumably he isn't, and honestly, I suspect I'd be a bit furious if he were. I'm reluctantly fond of him.

2:17 p.m.: 'Not yet,' Mercutio replies, and thankfully he's had a moment of cognizance and written slightly more. 'Come out tomorrow night,' he suggests, and I'm surprised he wants to go anywhere, but I accept the offer. There's a new club in Diagon; I suppose it's within my work detail to check it out.

4:32 p.m.: I leave the office early, bidding my mother farewell and heading home. I need to decompress; there are a lot of potential new clients and some of them will require a great deal of travel in the near future. The idea is exhausting. I'm relieved Romeo left me a couple of extra vials.

4:45 p.m.: I have some problems apparating into my flat again, so I have to go through the enchanted lifts in the building. While I'm waiting for one, I spot someone familiar; not unusual. I know a lot of people. I realize it's someone I went to school with, only he's not nearly as I remember him. "Is that you?" I ask, using his name, of course, and he turns. His hair's gotten a bit darker now than it was when he was in school, and he seems taller and far leaner. He mutters something in response, ducking his head. I'm going to call him Banquo, because he was—or might have been—the subject of a prophecy, but ultimately he's more of an operatic sidekick than anything.

4:51 p.m.: "I didn't know you lived here," I say, and Banquo mumbles something about just having moved in. "The wards," he adds, "they tend to be finicky with so many enchantments from each flat." I realize he's discussing the problem that's requiring us both to use the lift; dissecting it, like I've asked him for a foot of parchment on the subject. "Right," I permit, hitting the button for the penthouse as he hits the button for the third floor. "I'm not quite that high up," he mutters. I chuckle. I'm rich; I know I'm rich. I've grown accustomed to the fact that that makes other people uncomfortable, but I don't apologize for it.

4:53 p.m.: Banquo seems intimidated by me, which makes me want to laugh. He hasn't changed at all, though his face has certainly lost its childish pudge. He wears his facial hair at a vaguely unkempt length—as though he's forgotten to shave for a couple of weeks, and now his surprisingly sharp cheekbones have cast an exceedingly pleasant shadow. "What do you do now?" I ask him, since I might as well make conversation. He hedges for a bit before he answers. "I teach herbology," he says eventually, and hesitation aside, I'm not surprised. The man's exactly the same and yet I'm drawn in by what, his ability to grow hair on his face? The elevator reaches his floor. He stammers a farewell and I wave ambiguously in response, continuing up the lift.

6:47 p.m.: Food is better stoned. As is sex. The first experience I had with a man was while I was stoned out of my mind, and to this day I don't think I've ever had head that compares; not even from Carmen, who's certainly no slouch. My mind wanders and abruptly, it arrives at a glimpse of Banquo's features. I'd love to fuck him, assuming he could keep his mouth shut. One word about plants and I'd almost certainly lose my erection.

7:56 p.m.: 'Want to come out tomorrow night?' I ask Carmen in an owl, because I remember she's back in London this week. I've never invited her out with Romeo or Mercutio before, but seeing as she won't be a client for much longer, I figure it's an offering that makes sense. She agrees. 'That club is fun,' she adds, and tells me she recently went with one of her friends.

8:17 p.m.: 'Every muscle in my body is sore. Want to have sex where I lay still and do nothing?' she asks hopefully, and I roll my eyes.

8:20 p.m.: 'Take your clothes off,' I reply instead.

8:25 p.m.: 'What am I doing?' she asks.

8:27 p.m.: 'You're touching yourself. I'm standing by the bed watching you. Don't come until I say you can.'

8:35 p.m.: 'You know I hate indulging your ego trips,' she writes back, 'but fine. I'm touching myself. My left hand's on my tits and my right hand is stroking my clit. Are you going to play?'

8:36 p.m.: I take my pants off and then I write to her about how I'm fucking her with my fingers. In my head, though, I'm still sort of fixated on Banquo's mouth; probably a side effect of the vial. When she writes back that she's sucking my cock, I picture the stubble on his cheeks instead. I bet he'd be so hesitant. He'd be so nervous. Probably ask me if he was doing it right—fuck, I'd love that.

8:47 p.m.: 'HELLO,' Carmen says. Oops. 'Come for me,' I tell her.

9:15 p.m.: 'Well, that was hardly your best effort,' she says, irritated. I find it difficult to care; part of being sex friends means that I don't actually owe her shit. I come again imagining Banquo begging for my cock, and then I gradually fall asleep.

DAY FOUR

10:15 a.m.: "You're late, darling," says my mother the empress. "Sorry Agrippina," I say. She looks flattered, and I laugh as she preens. She's as beautiful as ever; it's hard to imagine ever finding a woman more beautiful than my mother, which I suppose is why I occasionally include men in my fantasies (and outside my fantasies, when circumstances present themselves favorably). Mercutio mocks me relentlessly for it, but I can take his teasing. In reality, he's far more Oedipal than I am; I have no interest in fucking my mother, but he certainly longed to kill his father. What a troubled pair we've always been.

10:30 a.m.: "Are you behaving yourself, love?" Agrippina asks me, and I notice that she's holding a letter from Mimi; evidently the ingenue has requested that I personally accompany her when she begins her European tour. "Not very well," I confess with a grimace, and rather than disapprove, she smiles brilliantly. "I'll let the ingenue down easy. You just guard that heart of yours," Agrippina reminds me, "and take no prisoners." As if I need reminding. I kiss her cheek and slip into my office.

5:15 p.m.: The day passes slowly. I feel twitchy and bored, and I greatly look forward to my evening out. I even look forward to traveling next week; my prospective clients include a very intriguing actress in Ireland and a fairly high-profile model seeking new representation for a campaign currently shooting in Rome. Sometimes business is pleasure. Sometimes pleasure is pleasure. Either way, it seems I always come out on top.

7:30 p.m.: I head to Mercutio's, as we agreed to have a quick dinner beforehand. I tell him Carmen will be joining us later, and he arches a brow, but doesn't remark on it much; he only informs me he's seen her recently. He tells me that what Romeo was hesitant to confess to me two nights ago is that he's feverishly chasing a woman who is, aptly, forbidden by his bloodline. I love it when I'm right; despite the golden boy that Romeo always was, I've always been cleverer. Mercutio, on the other hand, is another story. "What's your deal?" I ask, because I can't possibly guess. He smirks. "What is it Agrippina always says?" he muses. "Guard your heart and take no prisoners," I remind him, and he nods, toasting me with a laugh.

7:52 p.m.: "I wish I could tell you who I've been fucking," Mercutio remarks. "Not my mother, is it?" I prompt. He chokes on his firewhisky. "Not quite," he coughs up, grinning broadly.

8:31 p.m.: "Question," Mercutio says unsteadily, and I realize we're already deeply, inescapably pissed, which is probably not a great start. "What do you do when things start getting serious with someone?" he asks me, and I shrug. "Leave," I say, and then ask why he's brought it up, since there's no possible way he's managing an actual relationship. I assume he means sex, and he grimaces. "Anyway," he says, and abruptly changes the subject. "How many men have you fucked?" he asks me, and I'm a little surprised, because while this information about my sexual preferences is certainly not a secret, he's never shown much interest before. "A few," I say.

9:15 p.m.: At this point Mercutio's asked me so many questions about cocks that I ask him if he's writing a book. "And whose mother are you fucking?" I demand, because it better not be mine. He shakes his head. "Not anymore," he says, though he looks like he might be lying; in any case, he's already focused on something else. Something he's not going to tell me, which is irritating. Either he's coming onto me, or he wants to fuck a bloke, or he already is fucking a bloke—but none of those options really seem likely.

9:43 p.m.: I ask Mercutio if he's seen Banquo lately over yet another bottle of Ogden's. "The guy's unrecognizable," I say, and even I can hear the little tinge of awe in my tone. Mercutio shrugs. I think he only finds people interesting if they pick fights with him, which the Banquo of our schooling would never have dared to do. "Until the end," I amend, because he did take quite a beating at the hands of our corrupt heads of house our seventh year. Regardless, Mercutio's not interested, which I suppose is fair.

10:27 p.m.: We head to this new place, which is packed; not my favorite. It seems that idiots from all walks of life have surfaced from their various circles of hell to join us for the evening, and while money means nothing to me, I fundamentally oppose the inflated cost of my glass of Ogden's. "Geez, smile, would you?" I hear behind me, and Carmen's there. "Excellent," I exhale, and she promptly steals my drink.

10:36 p.m.: I am. Not. Sober.

10:45 p.m.: We manage to grab a seat at a table in the corner and Mercutio, who's probably drunker than I am, promptly disappears. Carmen, meanwhile, is regaling me with tales of this teammate she wishes to bed; she still won't tell me who she is, but she details the way she longs to lick this mystery woman's nipples. I, meanwhile, am distracted, as I've noticed that Banquo is here too. Nevermind all previous efforts at inter-house cooperation; all it takes is one shitty club in Diagon Alley to bring people together after a war. Deviants unite.

11:15 p.m.: I look around, noting that I'm one deviant short. "Where's Mercutio?" I ask, and Carmen shrugs, disinterested.

11:25 p.m.: Can't find Mercutio, but I need some air, so I stumble into the alley. Guess who's there? Mercutio. Guess what he's doing? Even I can't process it, as it seems the alcohol has lessened me to an idiot myself. Mercutio's lips are on someone's throat; a man's throat. Whose throat? Aeneas, the fucking scar-faced prince of Troy himself. They're furiously touching each other in the midst of what looks more like a fight than a drunken hook-up and Aeneas looks up, catching my eye as Mercutio fumbles with his trousers. He holds Mercutio's head still, yanking it by the hair at the back of his head, and Mercutio glances over his shoulder, finally noticing me. His tongue slips slyly between his lips and then—slowly, and with obvious deliberation—he kisses Aeneas' neck, his eyes still locked on mine. Aeneas, meanwhile, flips me off, smirking as Mercutio drops to his knees. Aeneas' eyes close, accommodating a groan, and I finally regain the presence of mind to turn, heading back to the club.

11:41 p.m.: Fuck. With as much sex as I've had, you'd think nothing could faze me, but that was unforgivably carnal. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't inconveniently hard.

11:48 p.m.: "Where are you going?" Carmen asks, and I shake my head. "You should ask what your ex-boyfriend is up to," I tell her, but she doesn't care. "Come on," she says, "let's fuck on the dance floor." I don't have the heart to tell her that my mouth is practically watering from watching Mercutio suck Aeneas off, and she's just not the flavor I want this evening.

11:49 p.m.: "Go find that girl," I tell Carmen briskly, "and don't waste your time on me." I think maybe what I meant was don't waste my time, and I think maybe she heard it. Her eyes narrow. "I knew eventually you'd be as selfish with me as you are with the other people who are dumb enough to fuck you," she retorts furiously, "but—" This is too much. This is ridiculous. "When will you learn you can't rely on me for anything?" I demand, cutting her off. Her eyes widen, and then she leaves.

12:02 a.m.: I find Banquo. "Hey," I say, and he catches me; apparently I've stumbled. "Are you okay?" he asks; a stupid question. Of course I'm not okay, and even if I were, that's not important. I want his mouth on my dick. I want to stroke his cock until he's shaking in my hands. I want to fuck him and discard him like I've done to a thousand other people a thousand times before. I want to lay claim to him and take no prisoners and by the end of Act II, I want to leave utter fucking devastation in my wake. Banquo, however, seems unfazed. "Let me take you home," he offers.

12:10 a.m.: "You kind of saved me," he says, in some sort of awkward confessional. I wish he'd stop talking. He tells me about an unpleasant Wandr date he was on, but I can't possibly summon the energy to care. We take the stupid lift into my stupid flat and he looks around, his mouth falling open. "Wow," he manages. "Does yours not look like this?" I joke obnoxiously, and he wordlessly shakes his head. "I just moved here," he says, "because I'm on sabbatical, so I'm not sure I'm going to be able to aff-" "Cool," I say disinterestedly, pulling him towards my bedroom.

12:34 a.m.: He seems to be keeping his distance, which pisses me off. "Don't tell me you're straight," I mutter as I tumble onto my bed. He gives a throaty chuckle and I fervently wish my dick were in his mouth. "I'll owl you in the morning," he says, "and maybe we can have dinner." If I could open my eyes, I would roll them. "Dinner," I scoff. He nods and tells me about some fucking plant I should take to alleviate the dehydration in the morning. I'm furious. "Fine," I say, with as much bitterness as I can muster.

12:45 a.m.: "Why me?" he asks. "Fuck if I know," I say, "I just want what I want." He leaves. I'm going to kill Mercutio.

1:14 a.m.: How's that for an opera plot?

DAY FIVE

11:24 a.m.: "Not your best work, darling," my mother says as I stumble in close to lunchtime, having struggled through the morning after stubbornly forgetting whatever plant Banquo was rambling on about. "What, am I late?" I ask drily, and she sighs, handing me some hangover potion that she keeps in her desk drawer. "Why don't you take the day?" she suggests, and I nod, fumbling with the vial.

11:25 a.m.: "Oh darling," she says, taking my face in her hands. "What's gotten into you?" she asks. "Just tired," I say, because I'm not sure I have a better answer. She kisses my cheek. "You are my favorite thing," she tells me, softening a little as she looks at me, and repeats herself. "You are my favorite, favorite thing, my darling." "I thought your independence was your favorite thing," I comment, and she shakes her head. "It doesn't have my eyes, though," she laments, and I sigh.

12:15 p.m.: The fucking wards to my flat are still misbehaving, so I make my way to the lobby again. Horrendously, Banquo is there. "Hey," he begins, "so, about dinner—" I can't help it. I groan aloud. He blinks, startled. "Look," I say, "you're making me jump through hoops, I get it, but whatever you want from me, I'm not going to give it to you. So we can fuck," I say emphatically, "but the pretense of dinner is not going to happen." He swallows heavily, and I want to strangle him and blow him at the same time. I convince myself to do neither. "Have a nice day," I say, getting in the lift without bothering to wait for him.

12:35 p.m.: I go to my bedroom to take a nap, but I did a terrible thing by letting him in my bedroom. I see where he stood in the room—where he sat on my duvet—and the whole thing is ruined. I walk out to the sofa and pass out there instead.

3:32 p.m.: I wake up to an owl. 'Are you really not going to apologize?' says Carmen. I go back to sleep.

4:14 p.m.: Naturally, I can't actually sleep. Perhaps I should have introduced myself as Don Giovanni; I could see myself dragged down to hell right about now. Such is the end of the evildoer, of which I am certainly one; the death of a sinner always reflects his life. Wouldn't it be right—wouldn't it be a perfect reflection—for me to waste away to nothing on this sofa having just disappointed two pure-hearted idiots? I marvel at my unrelenting cleverness. I despise my guarded heart.

4:47 p.m.: 'Fine,' I write to Carmen. 'I'm sorry. I just really needed some dick.'

5:02 p.m.: 'Could have just said so,' she says.

5:05 p.m.: 'You try with that girl yet?' I ask.

5:08 p.m.: 'Not yet. Did you get the dick you wanted?'

5:15 p.m.: 'No. Fucked that up.'

5:24 p.m.: 'Never too late to fix it, right?'

5:30 p.m.: 'You're hopelessly optimistic. You're terrible and I hate you.'

5:34 p.m.: 'Blow me.'

5:43 p.m.: Well, all's well that ends well.

6:51 p.m.: Eventually I get dressed with a sigh and head downstairs, knocking on Banquo's door. He looks surprised to see me, but he's dressed sharply, as if he's going out; his shirt is unbuttoned far enough that I can see the hint of tattoos on his chest. That's a surprise. "What?" he asks, folding his arms over his chest. I lament the loss of my highly intriguing view. "Dinner," I say. "Can't," he replies stiffly, "I'm meeting someone else." "Where?" I ask. He gives me the name of some restaurant in Diagon. "I can take you somewhere better," I say, and it's less an offer than a certainty. I can get us in anywhere in London—anywhere in the world. I'm objectively the better choice. "I don't want you," he says flatly, and leaves.

7:14 p.m.: Well. That's unacceptable. How long does it take for a date to go badly? Ten minutes? I pace my living room and then I head to the restaurant he mentioned.

7:34 p.m.: "Thank you so much," I say a touch too loud to the elf who seats me beside Banquo and his date, who is some wizard I don't recognize. Looks like an idiot, I think, and probably is. Banquo's gaze instantly snags on me, his mouth curling into a childish scowl. "Well," I declare, opening the wine list. "What's good here?"

7:42 p.m.: He can't stop staring at me. What a pity.

7:52 p.m.: After I've ordered an insanely expensive bottle of wine and Banquo's listened to his date drone on at length about the unseasonable weather, Banquo appears to have finally had enough. "Can I see you for a minute?" he asks me, gripping my wrist, and I let him pull me away. "Sorry," I say to his date, "I suppose he's just intent on something—" fucker, I think, laughing internally and glorying in my superiority until Banquo drags me into the corridor by the bathrooms.

7:54 p.m.: "What are you doing?" Banquo hisses, and I shrug. "Providing you options," I say, backing him against the wall. I slip my hand under the gap in his shirt, loosening another button and drawing a fingertip over the lion that's tattooed there. He grips my wrist, his teeth gritted. "Don't," he says. I laugh, and he tightens his grip. "I mean it," he warns quietly. "Don't what?" I ask innocently.

7:56 p.m.: "Either you're willing to give me what I want, or I don't want you at all," he says. This surprises me; I suppose I'm too used to ingenues. "And what the fuck do you want, then?" I ask. His expression turns to a tightened grimace. "Take me seriously," he growls, and then he returns to his table without another word.

8:04 p.m.: Suddenly, I no longer feel like returning to my table. I have the server give the bottle of wine I ordered to Banquo's table. "Tell him he knows where to find me," I say, dropping several galleons in her palm.

8:25 p.m.: I'm reading a book on my sofa when there's a knock on my door. I wave my wand to open it and see Banquo standing there, loping in the doorway. "You have control problems," he says without preamble. I set the book aside. "I can take control," I tell him, and feel a thrill up my spine; I know precisely what I'm going to make him do—what I'm going to make him say.

8:27 p.m.: He shuts the door behind him and sets his jaw. "I don't have a lot of experience with this," he opens carefully, and I step towards him. "I can make it good for you," I promise him, but rather than let his eyes widen or set his lip coyly between his teeth, he shakes his head. "We do this the way I want," he says, "or we don't do it at all." I'm intrigued. "I'm listening," I say, warily.

8:38 p.m.: He steps forward, looking a little dazed. "Why am I living here?" he asks, and I blink. He arches a brow expectantly. "You weren't listening, were you?" he asks, and I grimace. "Listen," I begin, "it's not like I was—"

8:39 p.m.: He cuts me off by taking my face in his hands and kissing me, firmly. It's not an overlong kiss, but it has substance. It has promise. I lick the taste of him from my lips and he stares at me. "That was my first kiss with a man," he says, "and you don't even give a fuck about me, do you?" I blink. "I'm happy to give you your second," I tell him.

8:42 p.m.: He turns to the door and I reach out, stopping him. "What do you want from me?" I demand. He doesn't turn back around. "Just—give a fuck," he mutters. Fine by me, I think; that's as much an act as anything, and I'm so excellent at pretend. I step closer, letting my hands float over his shoulders and down the length of his upper arms before brushing my lips against the back of his neck. "Tell me again why you're living here," I say.

8:49 p.m.: He's on sabbatical. He felt claustrophobic staying in the castle, and living in Hogsmeade wasn't much better. It haunted his every move, he says; it was the place he loved the most, but also the place he suffered the most, and he can't bring himself to forgive it.

8:57 p.m.: He thought he needed an outlet, so he got the tattoos. He thought he needed a purpose, so he buried himself in research. Everything he thought he needed turned out not to help at all, and now he's running away. "It's just for a year," he says, "but it'll have to be one hell of a year if I can ever manage to go back."

9:05 p.m.: "So you're living here because you're an escape artist," I summarize, finally able to answer the question. "So are you," Banquo notes. I clear my throat. "Now what?" I ask. He turns to face me on the sofa, considering it, and then he kisses me again. This time it's longer, and I slip my tongue against his. He lets me do it. I pull him on top of me, grinding my hips up against his, but he stops me as my hands start to wander. "Tell me what you're running from," he says. I stroke his cock over his trousers and he shakes his head, withdrawing to sit up on the couch. I recognize that this, too, is nonnegotiable.

9:15 p.m.: "Caring," I say, "only hurts people." "Couldn't you argue that it makes people stronger?" he asks, which is just like a fucking Gryffindor. If he wants me to be the kind of person who luxuriates in cliches, that's not a tragedy I want any part of. "I don't even want to fuck you anymore," I say. He stands. "Come find me tomorrow if you change your mind," he says, and leaves.

10:35 p.m.: He's a right little shit. I take the last of Romeo's vials.

11:14 p.m.: You know what's not better stoned? Masturbation. I see Banquo's face and taste his lips and it makes everything a thousand times worse.

1:25 a.m.: I'm done with this. I'm done.

DAY SIX

12:15 p.m.: An owl is tapping upsettingly at my window and I rise with a groan, accepting the letter. 'You know, I'm back on the road VERY SOON,' Carmen threatens. I shake my head and give in, inviting her over.

12:30 p.m.: She shows up at my door in a pair of tight black trousers, her hair in a long braid that's presently tossed over her right shoulder. "Should we fuck first, or talk?" she asks. I shrug. "How sore are you?" I ask. She tells me she's in top form. "Take your pants off, then," I say.

12:41 p.m.: She rides my face on the floor, moaning up a storm, and when she comes I put her on all fours on the sofa, admiring the curve of her arse before I fuck her. "Do you think I have control issues?" I ask, teasing the tip of my cock against her as she moans again. I enjoy how vocal she is, and I also enjoy that she's not relentlessly quizzing me about her life or my personal philosophies just to get a fucking kiss. "Absolutely," she gasps, and I respond with a none-too-gentle thrust. "Fucker," she hisses, and I yank on her braid. "It's not your fault," she pants, "your mum fucked you up. You think doing things for other people is weakness." I slam into her as punishment; naturally, she seems to like it. "You think keeping people at arm's length is smart," she says, throwing her head back, "but you'll never feel anything that way—you'll never—oh fuck, YES—"

12:55 p.m.: "What was I saying?" she asks, trying to catch her breath as we both fall back on the rug. "I have no idea," I reply.

1:14 p.m.: "Why wouldn't we work?" she asks me. I shrug. "I think it's because you'd rather have your space than have me," she says. "Sounds right," I permit, but I remind her that she never wanted me either. She shrugs. "Listen, I'm a realist," she says, "and I want things you can't give me. Thus, I don't want you." It should sting—and it does, in a way—but in the wake of it, I'm mostly silent.

1:45 p.m.: "You're not an idiot," I tell her. She glances warily at me. "What a fucking compliment," she remarks wryly.

2:35 p.m.: "Listen, I can't just go after a teammate," she tells me when I bring up her mystery love interest. I shrug. "Will she give you whatever it is that I can't?" I ask, and she thinks about it. "You know, you could," she says, "I just don't think you want to, and I don't want to wait for you to change your mind." "That's probably best," I say.

3:43 p.m.: I give her a little more advice, sex friend-to-sex friend, about how to pleasure a woman, and she gives me a high five, apparating out. I'm sure we'll see each other soon.

4:37 p.m.: She apparated out, I realize with a start. This occurs to me with a strange blow of disappointment, because it means the problems with the wards have probably been resolved. If I don't want to run into Banquo, I likely won't have to.

7:47 p.m.: I can't be in this apartment. I just keep thinking about the friction from Banquo's trousers against my leg, the stubble on his jaw, the look in his eyes. How desperate am I?

8:45 p.m.: "I'm this desperate," I say when he opens the door. He steps aside, waving me into a flat about an eighth the size of mine.

9:15 p.m.: "Hungry?" he asks. I'm not. "Me either," he says, but he hands me a beer. I don't drink beer. This is cheap beer. He's wearing a jumper that looks like his grandmother knitted it. "Take that off," I say, almost irritably. He puts his hand in his pocket, leaning against the wall as he eyes me. "What the fuck do you want?" he asks me. "Your dick," I say. "You can have anyone's dick," he tells me without expression, and he's not wrong. "Why mine?" he asks. I don't have an answer, so I slam the beer down on the counter and turn to leave.

9:20 p.m.: He stops me, stepping to block the door. "I'm not going to get involved with someone who doesn't give a shit about me," he says. I scoff. "Haven't you heard of casual sex?" I drawl. "I've heard of it," he says, "but I don't want it." I stare at the motion of his throat as he swallows. "My bedroom is that way," he says, pointing to it. I frown. "I thought you said you don't want casual sex," I say. He shrugs. "I don't," he says, "so if I ask for too much, just stop me."

9:30 p.m.: The first thing I do when he kisses me is take that fucking jumper off, and I see that his tattoos cover more than just his chest; he has two full sleeves in addition to a chest and back piece. "Fuck," I say, "what on earth were you trying to cover up?" He pulls my shirt off in response, resting the palms of his hands on my unblemished skin. "Memories," he mutters, and shoves me onto the bed.

9:45 p.m.: The kissing is good, but I want more. He shoves my hand away. "What do you want?" he asks. "Your dick," I reply, and then, more of a retort than anything, I ask, "what do you want?" He smiles. "Well, that's step one," he remarks, sucking at the base of my throat.

10:02 p.m.: "What do you want?" I ask again, breathing hard, and he pauses his lips on my torso, considering it. "I want control," he says. I blink. Once. Twice. I go rigid. He sits up. "That or nothing," he says. "Fine," I say eventually, and he gets out his wand. "What the fuck?" I ask, scrambling away, and he pauses. "Do I have control or not?" he asks. I want to kill him. "Fine," I say, and he flicks it carefully, strapping me to the bed.

10:05 p.m.: I immediately panic, and he covers my mouth with his, catching my sharp exhalation on his tongue. "Relax," he says.

10:10 p.m.: He kisses my neck, my shoulders, my chest. With my eyes closed and my hands tied I can do nothing but endure it, wondering what he'll touch next. I'm unreasonably, devastatingly hard, and then I feel his hands on the button of my trousers. I hold my breath.

10:20 p.m.: His tongue flicks over my tip. "Tell me what you want," he says. "I want you to suck me off," I say instantly, ready to drown in a river if he doesn't. Miraculously, he takes my cock in his mouth, humming his agreement, and my hips jerk up. "Do that again," I gasp, and then, for some reason, I say please. He hums something like approval and I writhe beneath him, unraveling.

10:27 p.m.: I've never come this hard in my entire goddamn life.

10:45 p.m.: His tattooed chest slides up against mine and he's clearly exploring me, seeing how he feels against me, and I think I understand this now. I tell him to let my hands loose; I promise, somewhat wryly, that I won't touch his cock. He agrees, looking dubious, but I let my hands float over his waist, his hips; I drag my fingers up his spine and settle them beneath his shoulders. He's learning me, so I learn him.

11:05 p.m.: In the Verdi, Banquo returns to haunt Macbeth. My Banquo does the same to me; even after I leave him, I feel his touch on my skin.

11:35 p.m.: "I want more," he said before I left. "More of me?" I asked, dubious. He shrugged. "All of you," he replied.

12:16 a.m.: I'm not ready to give him that.

12:48 a.m.: I may never be ready to give him that.

DAY SEVEN

12:45 p.m.: I do nothing for most of the morning. I pack, seeing as I'm leaving tomorrow. I also send Mercutio an owl, since I still have some questions.

1:15 p.m.: "Oh, hello," says Mercutio as he apparates in. "So," I say, and bring up him and Aeneas. He shrugs, looking smug. "Is it real?" I ask him, finding that difficult to believe. He thinks about his answer for a second.

1:16 p.m.: "You know how everyone is the worst?" he asks, and I laugh. "Yeah," I say. He shrugs. "He's not the worst," he says slowly. I shake my head, underwhelmed. "What a compliment," I remark, but then I remember that I said something similar to Carmen, and it really had been a compliment. It was, in fact, unparalleled affection. "Oh, so you're fucked, then," I realize, and Mercutio sighs. "Catastrophically fucked," he agrees.

2:35 p.m.: We chat for a bit, since I won't be back for a week or so, and I promise not to say anything to anyone about Aeneas. Mercutio shrugs. "They'll find out eventually," he says. "Sure," I say, "but why should I be the one to open that door?" He looks grateful, but also indignant, as though I have snatched the gratitude out from under him.

2:36 p.m.: "Don't die," I say, patting him on the back. "Guard my heart and take no prisoners?" he asks. I think about it. It doesn't seem as necessary as it used to. "Just don't die," I say again.

6:45 p.m.: 'Enjoy your travels, darling,' says an owl from my mother. I consider, strangely, that if she had always guarded her heart as she advised me to guard mine, we would never have had each other. 'I'll miss you, Agrippina,' I write back.

7:16 p.m.: "I'm surprised you're not out on a date," I tell Banquo when he opens the door to his flat. I lean against the frame, imitating nonchalance; I am, after all, so very good at making things look real. He runs a hand through his hair. "I think I'm going to lay off that for a while," he tells me. I ask him why, and he sighs. "Come on," he says, shaking his head, "you know why."

7:30 p.m.: "I can't give you what you want yet," I say. "It's going to take me a long time."

7:32 p.m.: "Does a year sound feasible?" he asks.

7:33 p.m.: I nod slowly. "I'll be gone for a bit," I tell him. "For work."

7:35 p.m.: "Can I ask you to come back to me?" he says.

7:36 p.m.: I think about it. "Yes," I say.

7:38 p.m.: "Yes I can ask?" he prompts, with a faint smile.

7:39 p.m.: I shake my head. "Yes," I clarify, "I'll come back."

8:30 p.m.: He grips the back of my neck so tightly while I blow him that I feel strangely anchored. I suspect I should feel adrift in unfamiliar territory, but instead I feel steadied. Besides, he tastes like expensive merlot.

9:15 p.m.: "Tell me about your tattoos," I tell him later. I'd like to do a lot more, but I've resigned myself to waiting, even if that means stocking his flat with better alcohol. Banquo looks surprised by the request, and then hesitant. "Could take a while," he tells me, somewhat sheepishly, "and a lot of them are plants, so—" I shrug, settling myself beside him on the sofa.

9:16 p.m.: "As it turns out, I've got lots of time," I say, and it comes out like a promise.

a/n: dedicated to Gaeleria, Saay (happy belated birthday!), and Blueberry Bliss! Thank you a thousand times to everyone for reading! You're all so thoughtful and perceptive and I love, love, love hearing what you take from the story.