Episode IX: The Siren Getting a Taste of Her Own Medicine
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 French transplant is in way more trouble than she thought: 25, female, straight, in an open marriage.
DAY ONE
8:30 a.m.: There's a story my mother used to tell me about a goddess named Mélusine, the daughter of a fairy queen and a mortal king. Like her mother and her sisters, Mélusine was a water spirit, half-fish, and a strange, alluring enchantress who held tightly to her secrets. She was a shapeshifter, a succubus, and no man could resist her lure; but for any man Mélusine chose, her mortal mate was always too curious, unable to abide her efforts to conceal her uglier truths, and therefore ultimately destined to disappoint her. Sometimes in my mother's stories Mélusine was a beautiful woman, sometimes a serpent; sometimes, in a rage, Mélusine was a dragon, greedily consuming the faithless men who claimed to love her. Mélusine was many things in many stories—equal parts beauty, entrancement, and vengeance, and all of it at once—but she was a siren above all else, and one who was bound (by fate, and by the very nature of mankind) to destroy the men she loved.
8:35 a.m.: When my husband turns to me, I can't help thinking about the story of Mélusine, the tales floating through my mind in my mother's murmured French. "Good morning," he says, his voice its usual wolfish growl, and I take his face between my hands. "Good morning, sweetheart," I say, as if I am more wife than seductress; as if the softer I am, the better I can hide my terrible claws. He kisses me roughly, and I can tell at once that this is the start of something that will escalate in a comfortable, familiar way, even with how incongruously his fingers dig into my waist. "I love it when you sleep naked," he says, sliding his hand along my inner thigh. I know he does. This is a practiced lure. "Make use of it, then," I tell him.
8:45 a.m.: I'll call him Raymond, like the mortal husband of Mélusine. He takes me this morning the way he usually does; tasting me first, sampling me like an apéritif. He licks me slowly, carefully, sucking my clit with bewitching little pulses from his tongue, and I can still remember the first time he did this. I was so young then; I was only eighteen when I met him, and hardly aware what sex was supposed to be like. I'd been with boys, certainly, but even while I was with them I knew they were only boys. Raymond was twenty-five then (a man in my eyes, and as old as I am now) and truly, faultlessly handsome. For all that I am the temptress, he'd had me from a look; from the moment I learned what his mouth on my cunt could do to the air in my lungs, I was lost to him completely.
8:57 a.m.: Raymond pulls me into him and stretches me out alongside him, my back against his chest as he grips at my hips, entering me from behind. He fucks me with remarkable fluency, breathless dexterity, and there is never any awkwardness; never a movement that isn't a perfectly choreographed dance between us, even while he's wrenching my leg up and using it for leverage. My clit is still thrilling from his tongue but he knows what I want—knows what will make me cry out for him—and he lowers his fingers to it, angling my hips to help me grind against his hand. I doubt I will come less than three times this morning.
9:10 a.m.: I've gotten my perfunctory three and am working up to a fourth, riding him as I run my fingers along the scars on his shoulders and neck. He's still incredibly handsome now, even after being marred by a werewolf, and from this view I can see his gaze roving appreciatively over me. We're an attractive couple; this, the chemistry between us, was always bound to happen, even when he was my tutor all those years ago. I remember his eyes on me right from the start, immediately making even the most elementary conjugation impossible—not that I ever really needed tutoring, of course. I'm far smarter than I look, and I work much harder than I need to. I didn't need his help so much as his unwavering attention. Sometimes I regret having taken a submissive role, particularly given our age difference, but at the time, I think I would have given anything to have him.
9:20 a.m.: Neither of us is in a hurry to get dressed when we're finished. I've always been lean and willowy, so nudity isn't a problem for me; I've been comfortably assured of my body's appeal since well before I was old enough to really understand it. Raymond, meanwhile, has a hero's body, tall and elegantly built, covered in scars and muscle. "How's your girlfriend?" I ask him, and he grins. "How's my brother?" he replies.
9:35 a.m.: It's strange that in a relationship where I've never once felt pressure to lie, I still cling to some things. Like Mélusine, I'm secretive at heart; I think I simply enjoy having secrets, whether or not they happen to have consequences. "I haven't spoken to him recently," I say, which is true. We haven't spoken since he left. Raymond shrugs, getting to his feet to kiss the top of my head. "Well, do tell him I miss him," he says.
9:45 a.m.: Raymond is talking about his third brother, whom I'll call Jason. If I am a siren, then surely Jason is the hero of the Argo who has successfully skirted my lure. He recently went to Romania to live with his and Raymond's second brother, who's some sort of dragonologist. Now, in Jason's absence, I am actively in the throes of pretending I don't care.
11:37 a.m.: It occurs to me later (once I've finished the tedium of housework and have settled onto the sofa, contemplating what to do next) that Raymond didn't answer the question about his girlfriend, which is admittedly not the right word for her. He and I have been seeing other people (in addition to each other, of course) for several months, but neither of us had gone back to anyone with any conceivable regularity until now. The woman he's been seeing is even younger than I am, but I can see why Raymond likes her; she has a quality of innocence—of delicate, sensual beauty made more appealing by a tangible naïveté—and if I am a siren, then she is certainly a nymph. Raymond and I are open about his nymph because he thinks I've been with her husband, but the truth is that I haven't. Strange I would want to cling to the lie, but I think it's less damaging than admitting that the last time we saw them, despite the option of sex, I left to simply be alone. I suppose for all that we're comfortable with baring ourselves, there are still some things Raymond and I prefer to keep concealed.
3:45 p.m.: The day passes slowly, as most do, and my mind wanders to Jason, as it often does. I didn't make a secret of my attraction to Jason to Raymond; in fact, I think Raymond finds my attraction amusing, as if the two brothers look so similar it somehow only reinforces my attraction to him. In reality, though, Jason is a more thoughtful, quieter, more formal version of Raymond, and I can see the many, many differences between them, having looked intently enough. Jason's eyes are a different blue; they're cooler, stiller, and they have a sharpness to them, framed by a furrowed brow and the constancy of his contemplation. His mouth is softer, the angles of his cheeks sharper, a bit leaner around the jaw. Jason's voice is different, too, though I think maybe it's his silences that I'm so captivated by; the careful pauses he situates between words, between sentences, between phrases. It's an indication that somewhere—in some place in his mind that I can't see—something enigmatic is coming to fruition. Often those thoughts, whatever they are, are of me; I can see it in the way he looks at me, as if he's remembering me from some wistful memory, or from a vision he's been having. I've watched him, and found myself helplessly entranced for the way he watches me.
5:26 p.m.: While I'm making dinner, I'm surprised by how much I'm looking forward to work tomorrow. I work part time at Gringotts, which is what I was doing when I met Raymond. It's not very interesting work (it's quite boring, actually) but still, it's something to do, which is more than I can say for housework. I don't know how my mother-in-law can stand it; though, I suppose she had seven children, and therefore not nearly as much free time as I have. I've heard her say a few times that she thinks I make Raymond work too hard, and maybe she's right about that, since admittedly I do very little in his absence. But I envy him, in a way. In many ways. He always comes home with stories, and I am generally relegated to muted listening.
6:45 p.m.: "Delicious," Raymond declares, kissing my cheek after finishing his meal. When we first met, we couldn't get through dinner without getting sidetracked, fucking on the counters (or the table, or the floor, or the sofa, or—) and letting the food go cold. It's not that we don't have plenty of sex now, obviously, but it was different before. We had planned on children, a big family and a loud, vibrant home like the one he'd grown up in, but as it got closer to actually following through, we kept putting it off (and putting it off, and putting it off, and—) until it seemed obvious that one or both of us was lying about how badly we wanted it. We've never said so aloud, but I think it was me, and I think that's what changed everything. When I didn't want children, I think Raymond wanted me a little bit less. It left the door open for other things, and I, in my siren's restless boredom, was just as willing to look elsewhere as he was—if not more so.
9:17 p.m.: We're both in bed relatively early tonight. We're a pretty conventional couple most of the time; the exceptions being the times we have sex with other people, of course, but I'm French. I've seen stranger things. Besides, we always end up together, don't we? Isn't that what counts? Everyone else is just a game. I am a siren, like Mélusine. My effect on people's lives is purely to lead them to destruction. Everyone else is simply collateral.
9:18 p.m.: Except for Jason, my brain reminds me unhelpfully, like a cymbal crash above my head. But I drove him away, didn't I? If that's not collateral, I don't know what is.
9:25 p.m.: Raymond tells me I seem a bit distant. "You still want me, don't you?" he jokes, and two things jump immediately to mind. I say the first part — "Of course I still want you" — but not the second: because you're all I have. But as it occurs to me, I realize how bitterly true it is.
9:27 p.m.: Despite this, I tell him nothing. I hold tightly to my secrets. "I'll always want you," I say, because I'm certain it's true, and because it's what he wants to hear, and I tell myself that the first reason matters more than the second.
DAY TWO
9:00 a.m.: No morning sex today; we both head to work. I'm glad I have something to do, but it's always a very mixed blessing. I know my accent hasn't faded all the way, and I do sometimes have difficulty figuring out how to express myself in English (making communication always a bit suspect). Some of the other witches who work here are incredibly unfriendly, too. I know that some of that is envy, and the rest of it is a dislike that's fostered by my own impatience (I have an unfortunate tendency towards intemperance—but again, I'm French), but knowing the cause never really makes the symptoms any easier. It used to bother me less when Jason still worked here; he was an excellent distraction. Maybe that's all I need: another distraction.
10:11 a.m.: I make up an excuse to walk past Jason's old office on the audit floor. They haven't replaced him yet, though it's been a few weeks since he's been gone. I look into the empty room and wonder when we—I—will move on.
12:17 p.m.: I only have to work a half day, but I don't feel like going home. Instead, I wander Diagon Alley a bit, opting to go to Raymond's other brother's shop. I'll call him the twin, though that is only retroactively true. We all lost something during the war; I often think I lost myself. The twin, I think, feels similarly, though he greets me with a smile. He's one of few in my husband's family who always does.
12:20 p.m.: "Come to see what's new?" the twin asks, showing me around the store, which is markedly more organized than it usually is. He must have a new business partner. "Sure," I say, trying to avoid the many words I know will incite what's left of my accent. The twin chatters for a bit, showing me some of his new products, and it is altogether a terribly mindless process, so I suppose I got what I wanted. I don't really know why I came here, anyway. The twin is close to my husband, but he was closer to Jason. I'm not sure why I know that.
12:36 p.m.: The twin pauses, his hand on a display of Wandr cases (Raymond and I already have one, being as sexually advanced as we are) and turns to me. "I miss him too, you know," he says, and I'm a bit taken aback, as he obviously means Jason. "He tells me you haven't spoken since he left," the twin adds, and I open my mouth to speak but immediately close it again, uncertain what to say. "Do you talk much?" I ask, trying to maintain some façade of innocence, and the twin nods. "Nearly every day," he says. I hesitate again, but ultimately permit the question: "Is he happy?" The twin gives me a wan, indecipherable smile. "I think he's happier than he was," he says, "but still, it's sort of an elaborate escape, isn't it? I don't think happiness was ever really the goal."
12:41 p.m.: I'm not sure what's going on, but considering the undertones, I feel the need to remind the twin that I am Raymond's wife. "I know," is all he says. He seems to know quite a lot more than I do, and it is singularly unnerving. Perhaps I should have called him Orpheus, whose own song is so sweet he outlasts the sirens in the end. "Do you know what I miss most about him?" the twin asks me, and there's a pang in my chest I can't quite prevent, though I manage a nod. "Nobody tells the truth quite like he does," he says, and I laugh in spite of myself. Jason was relatively hapless when it came to deception; he never really managed it. "Tell him I miss him," the twin says as he walks me to the door, though I have no idea why I would.
5:37 p.m.: By the time Raymond gets home, I've busied myself in the kitchen once again. He comes in with a broad smile, kissing the back of my neck, and sets what looks like a magazine down on the counter. It's called The Human Interest, which I've never heard of. "What's this?" I ask, and he tells me that his sister and some of her friends have gotten together to create a female-owned and operated publication. "I'm so proud of her," he adds, looking indeed quite proud, and the question that comes out of my mouth is so faint I'm surprised he manages to catch it. "Why wasn't I asked to be part of it?" I say, before I can help myself.
5:39 p.m.: Immediately, Raymond looks sheepish. He still thinks after six years that I don't know how much his sister and his mother dislike me, and he doesn't want to tell me the truth: that they simply didn't want me involved. Still, I'm restless, and I feel like arguing, so I do. "Why wasn't I involved?" I ask again. "I'm a woman, aren't I? Wasn't I the only female Triwizard Champion? Do I not have something to contribute?" "Maybe they were looking for someone who has something to contribute now," he says, and I'm immediately stung, which is reflected in the panic in his eyes. "Not that you don't," he assures me, and goes on to babble that perhaps they were looking for a certain type of perspective, but I kiss his cheek and walk away. There is no answer that would satisfy me; I shouldn't have asked.
6:34 p.m.: I can tell over dinner that there's something Raymond wants to tell me. "What is it?" I ask, a little grumpily, though by his subsequent hesitation I can see I need to soften. I hide my ugly claws again. "What's wrong, darling?" I ask, brushing my fingers over his knuckles, and he is instantly pliant. He tells me he was thinking of seeing the nymph tonight, which is about what I expected. They've been seeing more of each other recently, though I don't expect it to last. Of course, this is the thing with us, isn't it? Neither of us expects that anyone else will last, but whatever was once enough for us here is slightly filled with holes now. There are cracks where others can get in.
6:40 p.m.: "Go ahead," I tell him. I'm sure the nymph is enamored with my husband. I remember being young and dazzled by him myself. He is still dazzling now, and he gifts me a brilliant smile. "I love you," he tells me, which would seem an ironic time to say it, only I know what he means. "And will you be with someone?" he prompts. "Yes, of course," I lie, or possibly confess. I haven't decided.
7:15 p.m.: After Raymond leaves I think about calling someone. There are a number of men I've toyed with or slept with (or both) who could easily be on hand, but none I feel like making the effort to see. Instead I put on perfume, a little bit of makeup, pick out a dress and pour myself a glass of wine that I'll leave out for Raymond to see. The truth is not always what's important. Better that he believe something he'd like to see in me than expose him to one of my less pleasing forms.
7:38 p.m.: It doesn't take long for my mind to wander to Jason. I suspect Raymond thinks that Jason was a game to me, which is understandable. Most men are. Besides, I doubt Raymond has ever considered his brother much more than a poor imitation of himself, truth be told. I think sometimes Jason thinks that, too. Perhaps some level of imitation is just the nature of siblings. My own sister and I are not totally dissimilar. I wonder how she's doing.
8:43 p.m.: I'm moments away from Floo-calling Jason, but I simply can't bear to do it. He left, didn't he? The twin says he escaped, and I think we both know he means me. I know that Jason wanted more from his career—from his life—but I'm almost certainly what pushed him over the edge. I gave him the reason he needed to leave, and I feel the consequences of that like a twisting in the base of my stomach. I should have known better than to do as I did; I shouldn't have pursued him. I shouldn't have slept with him. I shouldn't have begged him to stay.
9:03 p.m.: Or maybe I should have begged harder.
9:15 p.m.: I fall asleep thinking of the way Jason held me, the way he looked at me. Raymond has never looked at me like that, even at the early stages of our courtship. There was always an inequity involved with Raymond, him being so much older, and I was intriguing to him, certainly, but never unattainable. Never precious. Jason is a year older than I am, and approximately as lost, but I think we both held onto something we'd never felt before when we held onto each other.
11:15 p.m.: I wake briefly when Raymond slips his arms around my waist. "I love you," he says in my ear, and I'm conscious of the sound of it, the timbre, because I can still hear the words in Jason's voice. "I love you too," I reply, closing my eyes again.
DAY THREE
7:14 a.m.: I normally sleep while Raymond is getting ready for work, but this morning I join him in the shower. He looks surprised but not opposed, and before long he has my back pressed against the tiles, his tongue darting up the side of my neck. I try to bury my agitation, my restlessness in the feel of him; my life revolves around the men in it, after all, being what I am. I sink my teeth into his shoulder and possess him, taking shamelessly from him as only I can take.
8:37 a.m.: "Have a good day," he tells me, kissing the top of my head before he leaves. I'm not working today, but I can't stand the thought of a full day alone in this house. I pace the floor for a few agitated minutes before heading to the Floo.
9:05 a.m.: I go to the Ministry to visit an old friend. He's the best friend of Raymond's youngest brother, but I have a relationship with him all my own; we were both Triwizard Champions, and I credit him with having saved my sister many years ago. He's relatively immune to my charms, too, but I'd hardly call that important. I adore him far too much to toy with him. "Hello," he says, and I'll call him David, after the boy who defeated Goliath. "Do you need something?" he asks, not unkindly, and I'm immediately glad I came here. He has an earnestness to him that I always find comforting. "Yes," I say.
9:15 a.m.: I tell David that I'd like to visit my sister, and ask him some mundane questions about international apparation. He tells me he can expedite the paperwork for me. "When are you thinking you'd like to leave?" he asks, and even I'm surprised when the answer that slips out of my mouth is: "Tomorrow." "Huh," he says thoughtfully, looking down at something. "Well, this isn't technically my job, but I can take care of it for you." He hands me some paperwork and we chat a bit; he tells me he's doing well, and I'm happy for him. I'm very happy for him.
9:25 a.m.: "Is there something else?" he asks, sensing my reticence, and I bide my time for a moment, considering it. "What if I want to go somewhere else after Paris?" I ask. "Depends where," he says, and explains that international wizarding travel is more restrictive in some places than others. I hesitate, but eventually tell him. "Romania?" he echoes, looking bewildered. "Isn't that where—" "I may not go," I cut in sharply, and immediately feel foolish, rising to my feet to leave, but David stops me. "It won't be a problem," he calls hastily, and I turn, glancing at him over my shoulder. "You can go there from Paris," he clarifies, "and the same paperwork will be fine. Don't worry." I open my mouth to tell him that's the last thing I'm actually worried about, but upon closer inspection, I'm fairly certain he already knows that.
9:30 a.m.: We part with a hug, and David tells me to say hello to my sister for him. "She's still single," I tell him, because I would love nothing more than for them to fall in love, despite the fact that my sister is a siren of her own and probably equally problematic. "Any man would be lucky to be with her," David assures me, "but really, I'm doing well." He looks like a man in love; I tell him so. He smiles, shrugging in only minimal opposition, and I add that she's a lucky girl, whoever she is. "I'll be sure to tell her you said that," he remarks with a laugh, and waves as I leave his office.
1:17 p.m.: I spend the day packing my things after confirming via owl with my sister. I pack almost exclusively for things like champagne lunches with her, which is all currently I'm planning on doing. Despite what I asked David, I have no intention of doing anything beyond visiting her for a few days.
2:37 p.m.: Besides, I'm a witch. If I need boots and cold-weather gear, I can transfigure them.
6:30 p.m.: "It'll only be for a few days," I tell Raymond when he comes home. Again, he looks surprised, but not opposed. "You've never visited your sister before," he remarks slowly, and I nod. "Still," I say, "family is important, isn't it? And besides, I miss France." As soon as I say it, I can see I've trapped him with that; he knows I never really wanted to live permanently in England, but he's the one who talked me into it. He won't argue with me now—not that I was particularly worried that he would. I have a gift for persuasion. "Have a few days with your nymph," I tell him, and admittedly, he looks more than a little intrigued by the prospect. "Are you sure?" he asks me. Openness, always. The most perfunctory of nakedness. "I'm sure," I say.
7:39 p.m.: For the first time in a long time, we don't make it through dinner. He waits only until I've swallowed a long sip of wine before magically clearing the table, and then he rises to his feet and sets me on top of it, positioning himself between my knees. "Will you fuck anyone else while you're gone?" he asks me. "No promises," I say neutrally, and he slides my dress from my shoulders. I'm not wearing a bra; I rarely am. His gaze lingers on my breasts and scrapes over me, appreciative, before he lays me back on the table and parts my legs, sliding his thumb along the slit of my pussy. I'm not wearing underwear, either, and I prop myself up on my elbows to watch him unzip his trousers, his eyes on mine while he strokes me. "I'll miss you," he says, and I believe him. I believe I'll miss him, too, but Jason isn't the only one who needs an escape. "Show me," I say.
8:17 p.m.: He fucks me expertly, and again I wonder if the nymph is in love with him, too. If she isn't, all the better for her, I think. It's hard to love Raymond as simply a man and not as a pseudo-deity. I would know; I gave up everything for his love, didn't I? I gave up my home for the way that he reigns so powerfully above me; gave up my independence for the unmatched intensity of his gaze; gave up my freedom for the way he holds me unrelentingly in his arms. If the nymph is a woman who wants safety—who wants a protector, wants a hero, wants a knight in shining armor—then surely she is in love with my husband, and I could never hold that against her. I don't hold it against either of them. But while Raymond fucks me to blissful satisfaction, it's Jason who flashes through my mind; the distance he seems to travel when he looks at me, like he's dragging himself home when he looks in my eyes.
10:07 p.m.: By the time we fall into our bed together, we're both exhausted. "Maybe your sister should meet Jason," Raymond suggests, and I don't think he's vindictive, but still, I wonder if he said it to hurt me. He isn't particularly careful with the feelings of others, being as universally beloved as he is. I recall, though, that Jason is approximately as much older than my sister as Raymond is older than me. It isn't outside the realm of possibility that they might find an interest in each other, and I have no claim to him. "Maybe she should," I permit, and approvingly, Raymond kisses my shoulder. Sometimes I wonder if he misses the version of me who bent to his every wish; perhaps he's even hoping I'll come back from this trip ready to have his children. Perhaps all of this is simply a game we're playing until I inevitably fulfill the future I unwittingly promised him.
10:15 p.m.: I feel drained as I drift to sleep in Raymond's arms. They say Mélusine destroyed the men she loved, but I wonder if she didn't destroy herself for having loved them. They took from her, didn't they? Forced their way, uninvited, into the heart of her secrets; betrayed her, rather than simply loving her as she was. And what did she ever really take from them?
DAY FOUR
9:07 a.m.: We said goodbye for hours last night, so the morning is unceremonious. Raymond kisses me thoroughly before we part ways, but he already looks distracted; I'm positive he'll be spending my absence playing house with the nymph, and I have no problem with it. Meanwhile, I sit through the drudgery at the Ministry, feeling an almost jittery agitation as I wait in the customs line. Beside me, my sister's beatific little face looks up from a stand of magazines, and I recognize the image as one from a photoshoot she did a few weeks ago. I should mention my sister is a singer on the rise, and her publicity team have clearly leaned (appropriately) into her blossoming sexuality. She is a siren herself, after all; if I am Mélusine, she is her sister Palatyne, and my sister's gifts are no less stunning than mine. Even in a picture, she is entrancing.
11:15 a.m.: When I finally arrive in Bordeaux, where my sister currently lives, she is speaking rapid French to someone I think might be her agent. She shouts for them to get her publicist through the Floo, and I am more amused than anything to watch my little diva, though she is hardly little anymore. Once she sees me, her expression softens to utter delight, and she throws her arms out for me to hold her. "Sister!" she exclaims, immediately launching into a story about her latest performance. I stroke her silvery-blonde hair, unable to prevent a smile as I listen. Few things are more precious to me than my sister.
12:01 p.m.: "I'm sorry I haven't prepared much," Palatyne tells me apologetically, and I reassure her that it's not a problem. This is, after all, a highly spontaneous visit. "Is everything okay?" she asks me, looking supremely worried, and I laugh again. Hard to imagine my little sister now trying to take care of me, but it seems to be unavoidable. Children do grow up, I suppose. "I'm fine," I assure her, marveling again what a woman she's become. She's my height now, and wearing her hair loose down her back instead of in the long, messy plaits I remember. "Want to show me your recording studio?" I ask, and she lights up. "Let me just tell Merlin where I'm going," she tells me, half-sprinting away. Who on earth is Merlin?
12:37 p.m.: Apparently Merlin is her name for an English photographer who's presently rising to some artistic prominence in France. "He calls me his Lady of the Lake," she explains, making a face, and I laugh at the juvenility of her opposition. "Do you like him?" I ask her, and she shrugs. "He's fine," she says, and explains that Merlin's older brother, who died during the war, was an avid photographer himself. Both brothers were muggle-born, and Merlin took up his brother's hobby towards the end of his schooling at Hogwarts, now making a name for himself in his brother's honor. "My publicist says my relationship with him is helpful for my career," Palatyne says, "and that this way, I can curate my image as a muse." I frown slightly; she sounds far more dreamy when she speaks of her publicist than she does when referring to her so-called Merlin. "Aren't you using him?" I caution her, and her gaze chills slightly. "You know the stories," she remarks, referring to the legends of Mélusine that we were both raised on. "They'll only use me if I don't use them," she reminds me.
4:32 p.m.: Palatyne has quite a way with the people around her; I should be proud of her, and I am, in a sense. She has everyone wrapped successfully around her finger, and she is clearly proud of her own effect on them, delighting in every seductive glance and charming beckon. We have lunch with the boy she calls Merlin (older than Palatyne, though considerably younger than me), who is obviously terribly enamored with her; my sister barely has to breathe a desire for something before he brings it to her, be it a glass of water or a compliment on her dress. Poor thing—it's no easy task, loving a siren. Meanwhile, Merlin's unreserved adoration is doing wonders for my sister's skin.
6:14 p.m.: Palatyne and I chat while we dress for dinner. I miss speaking my native language more than even I suspected, and I'm exceedingly pleased that I decided to come, though she is a bit distracted. Her new album is taking up a lot of her time, and she's a little too enthusiastic about her publicist stopping by later this week before she continues her European tour. "Careful," I warn her, "you said yourself he isn't interested in anything serious." "Neither am I," she insists, but I'm her sister, and I have known that little lying twitch in her brow since she was a baby. "Just be careful," I say again, "because even Mélusine and her sisters were not immune to heartbreak." "No," she agrees, "they weren't immune at all, but luckily we're women who will not be destroyed."
7:31 p.m.: She takes me to a very chic, somewhat crowded restaurant, which I think is partially so that we'll be photographed together. I notice immediately that two people of significance are here: one is Merlin, who positively lights up when he sees Palatyne, and the other is a blast from my past, an attractive man who was once my date to the Yule Ball during the year I spent at Hogwarts. I'll call him Beowulf, after the hero of the Geats. He and I lock eyes from across the room, and I can immediately tell that he's just as taken with me now as he was all those years ago. Beside me, my sister giggles. "Go say hello," she whispers, nudging me. "Ah, but you know better than that," I murmur back, turning my back on Beowulf and pointedly facing her. "Oh, yes, good thinking," she agrees enthusiastically.
8:15 p.m.: Merlin joins us at our table. I find I'm glad for his presence in my sister's life; the two of them talk about his new exhibition in an earnestly thoughtful way, and it occurs to me that, for once, my sister is not pretending for anyone's benefit, which is a relief. I, however, am actively pretending not to notice that Beowulf can't take his eyes off me. It floods me with the same undeniable warmth as the fairy-made wine we have with dinner.
8:39 p.m.: Beowulf waits until I'm pulling on my coat before advancing towards me. "Is that you?" he calls out, outrageously. The whole thing is such a circus of pretend that I almost feel foolish, but I have to admit, the anticipatory tingling in my stomach is something I haven't felt since Jason left. I'm relieved I can still conjure it. "Funny seeing you here," I comment in return, with a tone that's fully disinterested, no matter what I know perfectly well I'm doing with my eyes. Beowulf gives me a goofy—but not unappealing; more like admiring—grin. "Want to take a walk?" he suggests, and beside me, Palatyne gives me a wink. "Meet you at home," she whispers as she kisses my cheek.
8:51 p.m.: Beowulf is as handsome as ever. "I heard you got married," he tells me casually, and I shrug. I tell him it's a less conventional marriage than he might think; after all, I personally have zero doubts about where my husband is right now (and more specifically, who he's with). Beowulf tells me that he's in Bordeaux for business, but I don't ask him what he does. I only ask him if he has a hotel room. He smiles. Of course he does.
9:05 p.m.: We don't waste time with pleasantries once he apparates me into his hotel room, which I'm grateful for. I'm relieved to find it's still so easy; I take pleasure in how little I feel with him. In fact, I feel nothing. He slips his hand along my thigh and then under the lace of my underwear, but I feel nothing. I feel numb. I feel anticipation still, and the tension of what next what next what next that beats like a drum in my subconscious, but when he looks at me, his fingers tangled in my hair, I don't hear my heart pounding. I don't hear my breath quicken. He's attractive—oh, so attractive—and I like how his lips taste and how his fingers feel inside me and I like the power that I feel with him—finally, finally—but nothing about this is special. I doubt that any of it will mean a thing to me, and I interpret that suspicion as progress.
9:17 p.m.: I'm pleased with myself until I close my eyes, and then Jason's face materializes in my head. It's a brief, hazy appearance, but in the moment I can't prevent a loud gasp, the image of his face in my mind equating to a stab in my chest, deflating my lungs in an instant. Understandably, Beowulf takes that as an invitation to lift me in his arms, half-tossing me back on his bed, and I forcibly return my focus to him. I feel as if I need to prove something to him and to myself, and when he takes my dress off, I let him. I wrestle with the buttons of his shirt, yanking at the lapel. I have to be an active participant in this little bout of nothingness, because if I am not a siren, then I am simply sad and lonely and scared.
9:21 p.m.: "You don't seem very into this," Beowulf comments, deflated, and I sigh, sitting up. "I should go check on my sister," I say, and my voice sounds foreign and robotic, even to me. He looks discouraged, so I tuck my ugly parts away, turning up my charm and taking his face between my hands. "You're as handsome as ever," I tell him, and he is helplessly without argument as I leave him on his bed and fix my dress, heading for the Floo.
9:27 p.m.: I walk into my sister's flat to find her chatting with Merlin. I feel worse about interrupting them than I do about abandoning Beowulf, actually, but it appears as innocent as anything. She and Merlin are sitting on the floor, each drinking a glass of wine and talking animatedly, and she appears to be teaching him some phrases in French. Unfortunately, though, she can see distress on my face the moment I walk in, and she wastes no time sending Merlin home. "I have to talk to my sister," Palatyne tells Merlin firmly, and he gives her a shy, approving smile. "See you tomorrow?" he suggests, and she nods, shooing him out as she gestures for me to take his place.
9:55 p.m.: "It's not working out with Raymond, is it?" she asks me, and I grimace, because that is somehow both a wild understatement and a thing I cannot bring myself to say out loud. "Is there someone else?" she asks, and I don't want to say it, but I do. I tell her about my tryst with Jason—"It was nothing," I lie—and then, to appease my sensation of loss at admitting it, I tell her she should meet him. "He's vastly intelligent," I say, struggling to put Jason into words, "though it's more than smart. He's thoughtful and clever, and he's not conventionally handsome, but he has this way about his movements, this elegance to him—" "I think," Palatyne interrupts gently, "that maybe you're the one who should see him, don't you?"
10:15 p.m.: "I'm afraid," I confess, and she looks up at me, half-smiling. "That he loves you, or that you love him?" she asks. "Both," I say. "Well," she sighs, "Mélusine always outlasted the men she loved. You'll survive, whether you fear him or not." "Still, everything could change," I protest, and she shrugs. "Perhaps it should," she tells me, leaning her head against my shoulder.
11:18 p.m.: The truth is that I envy my sister. Oh, I love her more than anything, and I would never wish any less than for all of her dreams to come true, but I envy more than anything the prospect of her choices. She has love, though I don't know if she'll choose it. She has admiration, which I know she will tire of over time. But she has purpose, too, and talent, and aspirations and goals, and though she whispers excitedly for to me to go after Jason, that choice still seems part of a much, much smaller life than the one Palatyne has erected for herself.
12:01 a.m.: "Promise me you'll go," she urges me. "Do it for me," she adds, "if you won't do it for yourself. Because I'm no use to anyone if I don't believe in the love I sing about."
12:03 a.m.: "I promise," I say, and drift to sleep holding my sister, both of us sirens finding refuge for the night.
DAY FIVE
8:17 a.m.: I leave before my sister wakes, because there's no point that I can see to interrupting her day. She has plenty on her plate; and besides, she may not love Merlin, but she's in good hands with him. I hope she gives him a chance. Meanwhile, I make my way back to Paris.
9:45 a.m.: Paris to Bucharest. This isn't exactly an easy day of travel; part of me doesn't really believe I'll make it all the way there. The moment I pass through customs to Bucharest, my knees threaten to give out. It's only one more apparation, though, and even if I make it there, I doubt I'll have to bring myself to stay. I don't know what I'm expecting, really; I think I just need to see Jason again, just to see what it'll do to me. Maybe all I need is a glimpse. Maybe we won't even need to speak, and then I can head back to Paris in peace.
11:11 a.m.: I thought I could downplay my arrival, but the size of the settlement that Jason and his brother live in—a camp called Orasul Dragonilor, situated on a lake in the Carpathian mountains—makes that impossible, not to mention that's utterly freezing outside, and no normal person would be here. There's no avoiding the truth: I came here to see him. There would be no other conceivable reason. I feel more stupid than ever, but there's no turning back. Not yet, anyway. Not until I see him.
11:27 a.m.: I describe Jason to a Romanian trader—"Red hair, glasses, serious expression," I explain in French, and the man nods vigorously, imitating Jason's tendency to nudge his glasses back up his nose—who leads me to the opening of a cave in the mountains, where Jason is apparently overseeing some sort of wizarding dig site. I make my way there, transfiguring my shoes to boots, and stumble over the somewhat icy ground, nearly losing my balance more than once.
11:45 a.m.: I spot him from a distance; it's hard not to, being that he's the only lanky redhead for miles, and I freeze in place, watching him slide his hand through his hair. He gives some goblins some instructions, frowning down at something, and a smile pulls unavoidably at my lips; he looks so different than I remember. Not physically; he's just as I've seen him in my mind, but there's something else now. Confidence, or surety, or interest. I've only ever seen him bent over the tedium of his work at Gringotts, but it seems he's in his element here, his posture conveying a sense of certainty and poise. Then, as I'm watching, he turns, and lacking any reasonable alternative I merely stand in place, the fog of my breath falling still amid the cold air.
11:47 a.m.: He locks eyes with me from afar and blinks, equally frozen. If this were any other person (or any other place) I'd do something to hide, or at least feign disinterest. I'd look away, glance back coyly, bat my lashes. At the sight of him, though, I'm rendered fully breathless. I'm delivered to madness, to weak-kneed hesitation, and I can't look away. I can't manage the pounding of my heart. I can't pretend to see anything but him. I can't pretend at all, in fact, and before I realize it, he's standing in front of me, staring down at me.
11:50 a.m.: "You came," he says, as though he can't quite believe it.
11:51 a.m.: "I did," I reply, and I know that I should look away, I should say something demure, I should let my gaze float knowingly over his lips to trace the shape of his mouth, but I can do nothing. I can do nothing but look at him. I can see, hear, feel nothing but him, and I'm no succubus at all but merely a ghost of a woman lost to uncertainty, the air in my lungs turning painful from ongoing captivity.
11:52 a.m.: I think it's Jason who kisses me, though the moment I feel him moving towards me I reflexively lean into his grasp, so it's equally possible that his lips meeting mine might have been my doing. I have so little control over my own limbs that I barely register that motions around us have ceased, and all I can see and feel and hear now are Jason's arms coming to wrap around me; drawing me closer, welcoming me home. I feel the thrill again, the anticipation, but it's different this time—there is no sense of prediction, no telling what steps will come next. I don't know where he'll take me. I don't know what he'll do. I don't even know how he feels, true, but I know how he tastes, and right now that's more than enough. We break the kiss slowly, but neither of us pulls away; his hand slides up my spine, tracing the notches of my vertebrae.
11:54 a.m.: "I have to go," Jason says to the goblins behind him, all of whom are watching us with interest. "That's enough for the day," he adds, and then turns back to me, his blue eyes on mine in that unnervingly searching way that I've missed so terribly. "Where are we going?" I manage playfully, but he doesn't laugh. He doesn't even smile. This is not a game, and he doesn't let me believe for a moment that it is.
11:55 a.m.: "Bed," he rasps without hesitation, and apparates us away.
12:01 p.m.: He takes me directly into his bedroom, which appears to be inside of a house-like shelter that's comprised of little more than wooden floors, a bed, and a crackling fireplace that comes to life upon our arrival—not that I'm spending much time analyzing his decor. He kisses me again, and then again, and again and again and more until I stumble backwards against his bed, pulling him so close it's astounding he can breathe.
12:06 p.m.: He doesn't ask me if my husband knows I'm here, or if my presence here means something. He doesn't ask me where I'm supposed to be right now, and I don't ask him if he's missed me while he's been away. Instead he takes off my transfigured boots, kneeling reverently at my feet, and looks up at me before sliding his hand in a smooth, careful motion up my calf. "How would you like me to fuck you?" he asks me, and I shiver. He's distressingly incongruent, proper and filthy all at once, and it confounds me as much as it ignites me. "Like you've been waiting your whole life," I whisper, and this, too, is not a game. "I have been," he says plainly. Then he tells me to lie back on the bed.
12:10 p.m.: I haven't exactly been without expert foreplay in Jason's absence, but still, the way he touches me is heart-stoppingly torturous. His fingers run slowly up the inside of my leg, tracing the inner curve of my thigh, and pause just short of my cunt before his lips press against the inside of my knee, a strange, circular tease of sensations. He kisses his way up, positioning himself between my legs with an impossibly calculated slowness, and it is utter agony, watching his shoulders shift beneath my thighs as his breath skates across the damp lace of my underwear. I murmur his name, my nails scraping up the back of his neck, but he won't be distracted. His concentration will not be deterred, and his fingers skim the curves of my hips and thighs and stomach like I'm a landscape he's been painting, and he's revisiting the source. He touches me like he's memorized me, and I have no doubt that I am not the only one who's been suffering in his absence.
12:17 p.m.: We divest each other of our clothes and then he pulls me against him, his hand sliding down my torso for two of his fingers to part the lips of my cunt. I rock back against him, feeling the motion of his jaw as he grits his teeth, and he dives his fingers into me, his free hand cupping my breast as his lips travel over my shoulders. I feel him everywhere at once, heat radiating from the places we touch, and when he tells me what he's going to do to me—where he's going to kiss me, how wet he's going to make me, how deeply he's going to fuck me—I can't think, I can't speak, I can't breathe.
12:25 p.m.: I turn over my shoulder and he catches my lips with his, parting my knees wider to slide inside me. I'm so wet he fills me easily, my gasp catching between his lips before he turns his attention to my neck, my back, my shoulders, dragging his tongue along the sweat I know is already there, my hair sticking to the back of my neck before his hips even start to move.
12:31 p.m.: It isn't the first time we've had sex, but there's something about this time; there's something that's been altered now that I've sacrificed something to come to him. The first time I knew he was tentative. He thought I was toying with him, and I think that at the time, I thought so too. I don't think I realized how permanently his touch would scar me; I didn't think it would make me long for him once he was gone, but I should have known better. The way he touches me is like the way he looks at me: undeterred, like nothing else is clouding his mind. Like he's taken a hand to all the many dials of distraction and resolutely shut them off, and all there is is me. He shifts me forward onto my elbows, but neither of us can take our eyes off each other. I look over my right shoulder as he sweeps my hair over my left, and my gaze catches on the motion of his throat as he swallows.
12:40 p.m.: The longer we move together, the more his kisses are imprecise, scattered across my body wherever his lips can find a place to land. It was desperate before, but it's just starving now, both of us leaning shamelessly into every touch. He closes his eyes briefly, brushing his lips across my collarbone in what reads as penitently as prayer, and then locks eyes with me. I've lost track of how many times he's made me come.
12:44 p.m.: Jason is teasing me, easing slowly in and out of me, when we hear the sound of apparation elsewhere in the house. "You home?" his brother—the dragonist, whom I'll call St. George—calls out, and one look at me comfortably assures Jason that I don't want my presence known; at least not yet, and certainly not in this compromising position. "Yeah," Jason calls back, his hips still moving with meticulously calculated fluidity against mine. "I think I've come down with something," he adds very seriously, as outside, St. George makes some gruff sound of acknowledgement.
12:46 p.m.: "I won't bother you too much," St. George adds as Jason carefully covers my mouth, catching a whimper that I bite into his hand, "but you should know that friend of our dear sister's is here. I think she'll need to stay with us for a few days."
12:47 p.m.: "Oh, is she?" muses Jason, taking a handful of my hair and shifting the angle of my legs, gradually increasing his speed. "Well, I guess she can stay with you then, can't she?"
12:48 p.m.: "I guess so," St. George grumbles as I muffle a cry into Jason's shoulder, sinking my teeth into the span of his muscle. "Well, see you later, then," he adds, "unless you want me to bring you something."
12:49 p.m.: "I'm good," Jason manages incoherently, nearly bending me in half; the bed is getting loud from friction, and I'm teetering on the brink of what I know will most likely emerge in a shout. "See you later," he adds, half-choking on the words, and at the crack of apparation, we both come with gasping, strangled groans, collapsing against each other.
12:51 p.m.: Our breath is translucent in the air between us as we turn to face each other, his blue eyes on mine. "Does Raymond know you're here?" he asks simply, and I shake my head. "I wasn't planning on coming here," I say, though even I know that's only half a truth. "I don't want to lie to my brother," Jason says, and then corrects himself. "I won't lie to him," he amends, "even if my actions don't suggest much in the way of brotherhood." "He won't care about this," I say, and Jason reaches out, touching my face. "He would care," he says, "if he knew how I felt, and how I think you feel."
12:57 p.m.: I let a few seconds pass in silence. "And how do you feel?" I ask.
12:58 p.m.: "I'm in love with you," Jason says plainly, with the sort of unapologetic honesty that only he possesses. "And you?" he asks, and he's absurdly unafraid. I think perhaps he's prepared himself for an answer either way.
12:59 p.m.: I have never had an easy time revealing my secrets. "I think I should talk to Raymond," I say quietly, and Jason nods, shifting to sit up. "But not yet," I blurt out hastily, taking hold of his arm, and he turns to look at me. "It's cold," I tell him, "and I'm not ready to get out of bed yet." He nods again. "You're right," he says, and he does the kindest thing that I think anyone has ever done for me: he says nothing at all when he takes me in his arms.
2:15 p.m.: We're dozing off in silence when an owl taps at his window. I'm alarmed—forgetting, as I have, that the world has foolishly continued on around us—but this looks to be a regular occurrence, as though Jason has been expecting it. "Who's it from?" I ask, and he tells me that it's the young pureblood heiress he was auditing right before he left London. Apparently they write to each other frequently. "She needs a friend right now," he explains, "and so do I." I do him the favor of not asking why, and he has the decency not to make me acknowledge it. "Is it, um—" I hesitate, because I have no right to ask, but he shakes his head. "It's not romantic," he assures me. "It might have been, but—" he trails off, shrugging. "I think we both would have only been filling a vacancy."
2:39 p.m.: He offers to make something for lunch, and I nod. The moment he leaves, though, it hits me with a wave of nausea what I've done, and I immediately feel a guilt that drives me directly to the fireplace. I pull on my clothes and take a deep breath, grabbing a bit of Floo powder and tossing it into the flames.
2:41 p.m.: "How's Bordeaux?" asks Raymond, and I steady myself for the briefest moment before admitting I'm in Romania. "Ah," he laughs, "and you said you hadn't spoken to him." "I haven't," I say, a little bit irritated by his dismissal, "but I wanted you to know where I was." "Well, you're coming back, aren't you?" Raymond prompts, and I can't believe it hasn't occurred to me yet to wonder. "I," I attempt, but can't conjure anything else. I'm vaguely aware that behind me the door has opened, and now two people are listening to my inability to make up my mind. "I'll be here for at least a couple more days," I say, and Raymond shrugs. "Have fun," he tells me, "and tell Jason I miss him. You know, it'd be much easier for all of us if he just came back," he adds, shaking his head. I say nothing. "I love you," Raymond says. "I love you too," I reply, and then I pull my head from the flames.
2:50 p.m.: As I suspected, Jason is standing in the doorway, having heard my side of the conversation. "Soup?" is all he says, offering me a tray.
3:15 p.m.: We eat in silence. "What should I tell my brother?" he asks, referring to St. George this time. "You can tell him the truth. I'm here making a mess of things," I say. To my surprise, Jason almost smiles. "My other brother would like that," he says, and this time, I can tell he means the twin. "You have too many brothers," I say grumpily. "I agree," he replies, without a hint of irony.
8:39 p.m.: We while away the rest of the day with food and sex and conversation in a variety of intervals. I think Jason's resigned himself to taking what he can get, and he doesn't push me, though I find his presence as comforting as I always have. I tell him how pleased I was to see my sister; how much I enjoyed being back in France; how I feel more stagnant than ever in England. He replies that he feels useful here, for once; that he's enjoying getting to know his second brother; that he can't imagine going back, at least not yet. At that, I wonder if he heard Raymond's remark. I don't know how he would, but he seems conscious of it, like it's a thought he's cautiously tiptoeing around. "I'm not going back," Jason says firmly, and I think he's doing me the favor of casting off ambiguity. "Good," I say. After all, I can see how much good it does him to be here.
9:37 p.m.: We had intended to tell St. George I was here, but he isn't back yet, and both of us are drifting off to sleep. It's too cold to sleep in any lascivious way and thus, Jason is subjected to sleeping with me wrapped in thermals, but he doesn't seem to mind.
10:01 p.m.: "I missed you," he says quietly. I say nothing. I'm a siren, after all, and we're not built for such unclouded truths. What's changed, really? Nothing. Nothing that would be aided by me confessing anything.
10:17 p.m.: Still, I do it anyway. "I'm in love with you," I whisper.
10:18 p.m.: He tightens his arms around me, pulling me closer in his sleep.
DAY SIX
8:15 a.m.: "I have to go into work today," Jason tells me somewhat guiltily, though this is no surprise, considering that he rather baldly walked out of work the day prior. "Do you want to wait here?" he asks, but I'm not sure I want to deal with St. George (the best man at my wedding, I remember with displeasure) in such close quarters. I tell Jason I'll find a way to entertain myself.
10:04 a.m.: The little village-settlement they live in is actually quite nice. It's apparently a site for quite a bit of wizarding research—curse-breaking and dragonology alike—and so there are a few shops, a bakery, and a small owl outpost. I send an owl to my sister, telling her I've arrived, and then I get distracted by a flash of multi-colored flames coming from afar. "What's that?" I ask someone, pointing, and they tell me it's where the dragons are kept. I ask if anyone can go see them; the man shrugs, apathetic or ignorant or both.
10:37 a.m.: As it turns out, anyone can go. The dragons themselves are kept in an enclosure of sorts, but nobody stops me as I approach. One dragon in particular is watching me from the moment I appear, and while part of me wonders if I'm in danger, the rest of me is oddly assured it won't harm me. The dragon's dark eyes follow me as I approach, and I offer something of a bow, inclining my head. "A bit cold, isn't it?" I say in French, and it mimics the motion of my head, giving me what I'm absurdly positive is a nod of confirmation. Behind me, I hear a chuckle.
10:50 a.m.: "You're a natural," comments St. George, and if he's surprised to see me here, he doesn't look it. "She loves small talk," he adds. "She?" I echo, surprised, and he nods. "We call her Melusina, like the—" "Folktale," I supply, and he nods again. "She doesn't like men too much," he adds, as Melusina's eyes follow him warily around the enclosure, a bit of smoke emanating warningly from her nostrils. "Though, you're good with dragons, aren't you?" he asks, which surprises me. "You lured a Welsh Green into a sleeping trance. No easy task," he clarifies, and I blink. "I'm surprised you remember that," I say. "How could I not?" he counters. "The only female Triwizard Champion? Simply luring a dragon to sleep? You're unforgettable," he tells me, and I am so grateful for the smallest trifle of appreciation that I hardly know what to say.
11:15 a.m.: "I take it Jason told you I was here," I venture, and St. George nods. "I saw him earlier this morning," he says, gesturing around. "Besides, small settlement, you know. Word gets around when a beautiful blonde is wandering around without an escort." "It's nice here," I comment, and St. George gives me a strange, unreadable look. "What?" I ask.
11:20 a.m.: "You know," he ventures, taking a step towards me, "Raymond's the oldest, the most attractive, the most successful. Why would you give that up for Jason?" I wait to see if there's scorn or mockery in the question, but there isn't. I think he's genuinely asking. "I didn't say I would give up anything for him," I say carefully. "Well," St. George sighs, "you'll break his heart if you don't." I don't tell him that I know my heart will break, too.
11:22 a.m.: "Hearts break all the time," I say. After all, I'm a siren. I would know.
11:23 a.m.: St. George opens his mouth to say something, but a thud to my elbow alerts me that the dragon Melusina has ventured over to interrupt. She makes a low, mournful sound that I could swear is sympathy, her cat-like pupils focusing on my face as she claws somewhat uneasily at the ground. "Hush," I tell her, reaching a hand out before it occurs to me to consider whether it might be bitten or singed; she immediately quiets under my touch, exhaling a gentle shower of sparks.
11:25 a.m.: "Holy fuck," pronounces St. George. "You're a natural."
3:12 p.m.: I spend the rest of the day caring for the dragons; an unavoidable conclusion, seeing as St. George and his colleagues are so convinced I have a gift. "It's amazing," St. George says, coming and going to observe me throughout the day. "It's like you speak their language," he adds, somewhat in awe. Part of me suspects that the dragons and I are simply similar creatures, but I don't expect him to understand that. It's nice, at least, to feel useful.
5:45 p.m.: Jason is already home by the time I return with St. George, cooking something that smells delicious on their little stove. "Oh," he says, surprised to see us together, but he looks as I've already noticed he often does here: unburdened, and uncommonly relaxed. His expression brightens when he sees me, his eyes settling purposefully on mine, and St. George lets out a loud, supremely undelicate cough. "She's got a way with Melusina," he tells Jason, and Jason smiles. "Of course she does," he says, giving me a look of certainty. "They're both sirens, aren't they?"
5:50 p.m.: St. George makes excuses to leave, either for our benefit or for the benefit of whoever he's been with the last twenty-four hours, and Jason and I sit down to dinner alone. Of all the games of pretend I've played, this one feels the most real, and after a few minutes of chatting about our days I reach out on instinct, settling my fingers over his knuckles. He looks at our hands for a moment, looks up at my face, and then he sets his fork down, meeting my gaze. "Take your clothes off," he says without preamble. I rise to my feet and oblige.
6:05 p.m.: "Fuck," Jason says as I lick the tip of his cock, settling on my knees and shoving him back against the table. He normally feels the need to deliver me to wonder, but I take a moment to convey in some comprehensible way how badly I want him, which presently manifests in the way I take him in my mouth. "Holyfuckingshit," he informs me, his fingers tightening in my hair, and I glance up, watching him struggle not to dissolve. He grits his teeth, one hand in a white-knuckled fist against the table, and my god, his restraint is beautiful. "I want you to tell me how I feel while you fuck me," I whisper to him, and he convulses into a full-bodied shudder.
6:17 p.m.: I rise to my feet, thinking he'll want me to fuck me on the table like Raymond did only a few days ago, but instead he turns me, his hands wrapped loosely around my upper arms as he puts his lips near my ear. "I don't have to be inside you to tell you how you feel," he tells me quietly, "because there's not a moment that I'm not thinking about it. I love how wet your pussy gets for me, how slick your cunt feels, how sweet it tastes. I love that I know where to make you moan, where to kiss you softly and where to fuck you hard. You're hot and tight and wet and fuck, I'd die to be inside you, to never leave you, to fuck you always. To love you," he amends, and I shiver, "always. But you're more than that pretty cunt. You're more than that, and this is more than sex, and if you think you're not a fucking dragon queen almighty, you're wrong. You're wrong. You're wrong." He half-shoves me forward, my palms landing hard against the wood of the table, and he kisses down my spine, his hand lingering at the slickness between my legs.
6:30 p.m.: "Fuck," he hisses while he slides his cock into me, "I love you. I won't pretend I don't. I can't, I won't—" He widens my legs, his hand ruthless against my clit, and I'm half-blind and delirious for want of him, for love of him, for what could ultimately be the too-painful loss of him. I come hard, bending over the table with a sputtered cry, and he follows shortly after, pinning me against his chest as I try desperately to catch my breath but can't, panting in restless, terrible panic. Instantly he turns me, burying his lips in my hair, and conjures a blanket over us just before we both fall to the floor.
6:40 p.m.: It takes a few minutes before I realize I'm crying. I don't cry often; even at my most fragile, I rarely break like this. "I love you," I force myself to tell him, because I think if I say it out loud, he'll understand what's so painful that I can't breathe.
6:45 p.m.: "I know," he says, and I think he means to echo what's ripping through my chest right now, burning up my lungs. "I know," he says, and I know that this is what I feared: that he would love me and I would love him and that knowing as much would ruin us. The tighter he holds me, though, the less I can remember what fear is anymore. Ruin seems terribly far away.
9:30 p.m.: We end the night in his bed again, whispering our secrets to each other. It occurs to me that I have none from him anymore, which terrifies me and renews me in equal parts. I tell him of Mélusine, of the heroes who betrayed her that she was bound to destroy, and he shakes his head. "Why should you not be a hero yourself?" he asks me. "What, and destroy myself, then?" I prompt skeptically. He shrugs. "I only mean that whether you're half-fish or all dragon, why bother to keep any of it a secret? Embrace all your forms," he tells me, and I know what he's trying to tell me even before he says it.
10:13 p.m.: "I will love all of your forms, Mélusine," he says in a promise, burying the weight of it in my heart.
DAY SEVEN
10:14 a.m.: We wake slowly and contemplatively, and this version of sex is the intimate kind, without any frills beyond the heat of contact. I love him as naturally and as easily as waking; he loves me as instinctively as a breath.
11:30 a.m.: It's not a workday, but still, part of me wants to see Melusina, as if I now have some sort of guardianship over her. Jason kisses the tips of my fingers and agrees.
12:20 p.m.: "This isn't her home," I say sadly, "and it's too cold for her." Jason wraps his arms around my waist as we watch Melusina look up, catching my eye in her strangely docile way. "Do you mean her," he asks, "or you?"
12:25 p.m.: "The climate is apparently fine according to my brother, or at least controlled," Jason goes on, given to babbling as he is, and I stop him with a shake of my head. "I don't mean me," I assure him, though, admittedly, I do miss home, and I am presently quite cold. "I just like working with her," I clarify, "and I worry no one understands her." He eyes me for a moment, considering something. "You know," Jason says slowly, "you could work with dragons if you wanted. Or other creatures, even," he suggests. "I bet your natural gifts with entrancement would work just as well with any number of magical creatures worth studying."
12:27 p.m.: I turn, frowning. "Are there other creatures here, you mean?" I ask, gesturing around, and he shakes his head. "I don't just mean here," he tells me. "You could go anywhere you wanted," he says, and adds that he thinks Gringotts probably just wasn't the right place for either of us. "You could study any creature, anywhere, if you wanted to," he says solemnly.
12:30 p.m.: I find I'm gaping at him. "What?" he asks, and I struggle to put my disbelief into words. "You're not going to ask me to stay?" I ask, half-sputtering, and he looks, genuinely, as if the thought had never occurred to him. "I don't want you to go," he assures me slowly, "but I don't think that what I want is very important. I find my work fulfilling," he adds, "and I'd like you to find your work fulfilling, if that was something you chose. If it seems like work you'd like to do, then maybe that could be what you're missing."
12:35 p.m.: For some reason, all of this processes very slowly. It seems impossible that a man who loves me would do something as unselfish as to offer me a choice that might lead me away from him, but I recall that this, the thing dancing in my grasp, is what I had so envied of my sister: her choices.
12:37 p.m.: "So," Jason says, "what do you think?"
12:40 p.m.: I glance at Melusina first, and then back at him. It's one choice, yes, but it's also a thousand choices, and a thousand after that; it's the promise of a new future, the shifting of my present, the altering of my past. I have only ever believed one thing of myself, mythologizing myself for inevitable tragedy, but I've never seen before that that, too, was ultimately a choice. I glance down at my hands and unfurl my hidden claws, my terrible truths.
12:41 p.m.: "I think that I'm a dragon," I say, and it's hardly anything at all; but still, I luxuriate in my certainty, feeling Jason wrap me in his arms.
a/n: Future clarification: the next two diaries will take place within approximately the same time frame as this one, similar to the timelines of the first three chapters. Dedicated to wombat85, orangepine, and motekelm! A reminder, if you haven't already seen it, to check out my anthology of romance, Fairytales of the Macabre, which you can find at olivieblake dot com. It features four original stories, photography by Aurora, and illustrations by Little Chmura. Thank you always for reading!