Episode X: The Incurable Vagabond Who's Finally Seeing Stars
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 wandering dragonologist has a few too many revelations for comfort: 30, male, straight, extremely single.
DAY ONE
6:30 a.m.: I rise early in the dark, stumbling out of bed and conjuring a few warming charms before making my way to the kitchen. My brother, who lives with me, will likely be out here in a few minutes. He's outrageously punctual, but he and I have slightly different priorities. For example, first thing in the morning, I want food. He, on the other hand, will likely emerge fully dressed and ready for the day.
7:00 a.m.: "Good morning," my brother says, fully dressed and ready, precisely as I assumed he would be. I'll call him John, as in John Cabot, the explorer who started his career by diligently making maps, certain that he could find a way to travel the globe more effectively. My brother is not dissimilar; he's methodical, hard-working, and having just moved to Orasul Dragonilor a matter of months ago, not entirely without the need to wander. "Good morning," I reply, though in reality, I think I'd prefer silence.
7:15 a.m.: John's my next youngest brother (about four years younger than I am) but I can't honestly say I know him very well. My older brother and I were thick as thieves and my next youngest brothers after John—the twins—were, unsurprisingly, just as close to each other. I know perfectly well that John spent most of his adolescence isolated on either side, so I suppose in a way I'm trying make that up to him now. Some days the effort comes easier than others; today, unfortunately, it's cold and dark and approaching midwinter, so when he brings up something he's obviously excited about (runes? I don't know) I find I'm immediately wearied. "That's nice," I say, supremely unconvincingly.
7:30 a.m.: Luckily John's used to people losing interest while he talks. "See you later," he says as I leave to get dressed, and I nod. "See you," I reply, wishing I'd managed a little bit more patience. The truth is that I'm surprised he came here at all. It doesn't fit with what I expected from him; I used to think John would have had a lifelong Ministry career like our father, but now, strangely, I get the intangible feeling he's running away from something. I asked our older brother (whom I'll call Francis, like Sir Francis Drake) about it once, but he'd only laughed it off. "You know how John is," Francis had offered in total non-explanation, but as a matter of fact, I don't know how he is, and I'd reminded him of that. "Just don't worry about it," Francis had assured me. In any case, I suppose I'm mostly pleased with the disruption. Before my brother's arrival, all I had to worry about were the occasional (read: frequent) misbehaving dragons.
9:15 a.m.: Work is the same as always. On the reservation we study dragons' behaviors, so most of it is observation and charting. I'm sure it seems like an exciting career, given the intrigue of the creatures, but the day to day is pretty monotonous. I will say, though, that the best way to understand a species is to live among them. I never intended to stay here—actually, I came here thinking I'd only be there for a matter of weeks before moving on to study other creatures—but once I spent time with the dragons, I couldn't leave. I could never have known how much being among them would change my entire perception of the world; how being here would remind me of my own smallness. I'm just one tiny speck in this entire universe, and I don't even remotely breathe fire—which, sadly, seems like a real waste.
12:36 p.m.: Well, it's a normal day. One of our dragons, a female Ironbelly named Melusina, is new to the reservation, and she's been a struggle for a few weeks. She doesn't seem to like any of us (not even me, which is saying something) and lately I've been questioning whether or not we can afford to keep her here. She's got a temperament that would be better suited for the wild, I think, but she came to us a little scorched, which leads me to suspect she might have been banished from her horde. If we let her go, there's a possibility she could be injured or killed. Dragons can be notoriously unforgiving creatures; they're not fucking around.
3:29 p.m.: Well, thank goodness for flame-resistant robes. I put out a few small fires (literally) and get back to updating our logs. When I first came here I was the youngest by far, but by now I have one of the more impressive tenures on the reservation, so I'm not exactly on dung duty anymore. I spend more of my time writing papers, applying for resource grants, and running things around here, which is I think why the title of 'dragonologist' has lost its glamor in my mind. Sure, the things I do now are proof that I was once exceptionally good at my job, but in my line of work, a certain level of success eventually leads to tedium. The paperwork is just as necessary to keeping the reservation going as anything else—and yes, prestige is great and respect from my peers is certainly appealing—but still, I think I'd take the risk of being burned alive over the hours I spend in my office any day.
7:08 p.m.: Home again. It's a little more cramped with John living here, but hey, we're wizards. We make it work, and anyway we're used to our family home, which left us barely enough room to breathe, much less function. On dark, cold nights like this one, it's kind of nice coming home to someone, even if it's just my brother.
7:48 p.m.: "So, how was your day?" he asks, with his particular brand of stiff curiosity. I can tell he's trying to be nice, though it looks distinctly uncomfortable on him. Part of me struggles not to laugh; sometimes when John's trying to behave like a normal person, it almost seems like he's mimicking the behaviors of someone else (probably our brother Francis). Still, John's more relaxed here than he ever was while we were growing up. "It was fine," I say, chewing a bit of a pastie. "Yours?" I ask, and he launches into detail about some translation that he and the goblins he supervises have made. I asked for this, I think with an inward sigh, struggling to listen; at least his job makes him happy. I wouldn't begrudge him that.
8:15 p.m.: "Want to do anything?" John asks me hopefully, and I shrug. "Nothing to do," I say, and there isn't. "There's that tavern in the village," he suggests, but I remind him we'd only see the same people we always see. "Not too many prospects. No Wandr out here," I add, joking, but I'm reminded with a low thrum of disinterest that I haven't had sex in ages. About three years, actually, sad as that is to admit. The last time I was with a girl it was an isolated occurrence; before that, a few one night stands and one long-term friend with benefits. I guess I'm not really the settle-down type, much as my mum probably (definitely) wishes I were. "Ah," John says, returning his attention to his food.
10:37 p.m.: Bedtime. Funny, but thinking about how much sex I'm not having made me think of how much sex I used to have. There was a girl my year at Hogwarts, in a different house; I'll call her Anne, as in Anne Bancroft, an explorer who traveled to both arctics. My Anne was chameleonic (again, literally), and I think that's why she never managed to choose people who could love her back—she could be anything, and could so easily change to fill whatever other people needed. For me she was fun, warm, soothing. She never demanded much because she knew, like I knew, that I was always going to leave. She got married a while after I left, had a son; I think she was still feeling empty, though, as I would get letters from her from time to time. She came to see me once a little over three years ago, which was coincidentally the last time I had sex. She died shortly afterwards, during the war. I haven't felt the need to go back home since then.
11:07 p.m.: Can't sleep, which is an issue that seems far too frequent lately. Just not a lot going on, I guess. Means my brain goes to dark places when it's left unattended.
11:15 p.m.: I'm pretty sure my mum thinks I'm gay. I wish I were, honestly. It would solve a lot of my problems.
DAY TWO
8:30 a.m.: Another day. I'm just getting ready to head to work when the Floo in my bedroom comes to life, revealing the unrepentantly mischievous face of my little sister. "Hey, dummy," she says, her mouth full with the eggs she's shoveling into it and her hair slick with sweat from her morning workout. "Hey," I reply, rolling my eyes, and ask her what she needs. "Remember my friend with the dragon?" she asks, and I nod. Apparently a few weeks ago her flatmate happened upon a baby Hungarian Horntail (a breed which admittedly does look like lizards when they first hatch). "Yeah, well, she's going to be there today," my sister continues. I'll call her Amelia, like Amelia Earhart. In my experience there aren't too many women with those kinds of stones, but my sister is definitely one of them. "She's weird," Amelia adds in something like a warning. "Great," I sigh. Hard to imagine what my sister classifies as weird, but it's not like I have much of a choice. Can't exactly let them raise a dragon as a house pet, can I? Violates all my codes.
8:45 a.m.: "How's World Cup training?" I ask Amelia, and she makes a face. "We don't have to do this," she tells me, referring to the small talk I've irresponsibly initiated. "Good," I say. There's another woman's voice behind her and Amelia turns her head, nodding to someone out of sight. "Right," she says to them, and turns back to me, waving. "Have fun," she sing-songs, and then ends the call. I sigh. Time for work, I guess.
9:15 a.m.: I wasn't expecting to be accosted this early, but there is a very small witch with very long dirty blonde hair standing next to my desk. I notice, in this order, that she is wearing: 1) a pair of earmuffs that are shaped like house-elf ears, 2) a violently turquoise dress that does not appear to be even remotely weatherproof, and 3) a miniature Horntail on her shoulder, its tail wrapped around her neck as it lets out a small cough of ash in my direction. "Hello," she offers, her pale grey eyes growing so wide at the sight of me that my first instinct is to ask her if she's alright. "Oh, you just don't look at all like I thought you would," she replies. I shouldn't press it, I know—how could the answer possibly be anything good?—but I do. "What did you expect?" I ask her. "Taller," she replies, "and the sort of handsome I generally find too picturesque to do anything with." "Whereas I am what?" I prompt skeptically, "too unattractive to do anything with?" She makes a sort of scoffing sound, and the dragon on her shoulder scoffs as well, a puff of smoke dissipating in the air between us. "Not at all," she says, and assures me that she will gladly masturbate to me later. "What?" I ask, alarmed. "Oh, I'm sorry," she offers vacantly. "Amelia tells me I sometimes need to keep things to myself, but I can never tell what." "Well, I did ask," I permit, for reasons fully unknown, as there's no denying that I'm uncomfortable. "True," she trills happily.
9:25 a.m.: I decide I'm going to call her Isabella Bird, like the prolific explorer and writer; I think at first to call her Isabella, but the more she talks the more I feel 'Bird' is the more apt epithet. She has a certain avian quality to her; it's the overlarge eyes, I think, or possibly the general sense that she could sprout wings and fly away at any given moment. She tells me she's a writer and an editor at some publication I've never heard of (not that I'm what I would call a voracious reader in any way), and that she found something that I don't realize is the dragon on her shoulder until I finally connect that she isn't referring to an actual emperor. "You mean her?" I echo, gesturing to the dragon, and Bird blinks. "Her?" she asks. "Yes," I confirm, and explain that the markings around her eyes indicate female. "Oh," Bird says, but immediately looks delighted. "You're an empress!" she says to the dragon, who by contrast looks relatively unmoved.
9:45 a.m.: "Why didn't you bring her sooner?" I ask, gesturing to the Empress, because Amelia told me about her a few weeks ago. "Well, I was hoping to make it work at home," Bird sighs, "but unfortunately she does need more space. I'll need a new subject for my article," she laments, as apparently cross-species parenting is no longer going to work out. I am fucking dizzied by this girl. Is she even from the same species? Nevermind the dragons; someone should study her. "Well, I'll take her," I offer, and I reach a hand out, but the Empress immediately withdraws. "Sorry, she's a bit shy," Bird says, and goes on to say something about a series of letters. I-N-T-J? I don't know. I need her to leave. I need to lie down. "We're professionals," I assure her, sighing. "We can handle the Empress."
10:04 a.m.: "You look tired," Bird comments. I am, but I can't imagine what she would do with that information, so I shrug. "Why don't I just stay until she gets acclimated?" Bird suggests, and at this point, I just really need to get away from her. "Sure," I say, and point her in the direction of one of my underlings in the nursery. "Why don't you go get the Empress settled," I suggest blithely, and Bird says something about being excited, or possibly another comment about masturbation. I'm too bewildered to sort it out.
11:15 a.m.: Once again, work is work, but then Bird is back, popping her head in while I'm trying to focus on a grant proposal for the reservation. "How's it going?" she asks brightly, and oh, the horrible irony of having been up all night wondering if I'm ever going to meet someone in this village. "It's fine," I say.
11:29 a.m.: For reasons I cannot fathom, Bird sits and watches me work. "Why'd you choose to live here?" she asks me. I get this question a lot on the rare occasions that I go home, and it never fails to irritate me. "Listen," I begin, but she cuts me off. "I mean why did you choose to live here this morning, specifically," Bird clarifies. I frown. "I've lived here for over a decade," I say, certain she must already know this (she lives with Amelia, after all) but she shrugs. "Sure," she permits, "but what made you choose it today instead of simply going somewhere else?"
11:33 a.m.: I don't know what to do with this question, or with this girl. "I have to check on the dragons," I tell her, and rise to my feet, only she's still looking expectantly at me. "What?" I demand, suddenly impatient. "Am I just supposed to have woken up, determined this was the place in the world I most wanted to be, and deliberately carried on with that decision?" I ask her, and though my tone is meant to indicate the inanity of the question, she nods. "Yes," she confirms. "For example, I decided to come here today because I wanted the Empress to have a good home," she adds. I sigh wearily. "Well, you made a good decision," I tell her.
12:44 p.m.: I eventually shake her, only I still feel very strange about her presence and opt to come home, looking for solace—or something like it, I suppose. To my surprise, John's door is shut, which is rarely the case. "You home?" I call, and I register the sound of something from his bedroom, but I can't imagine it's anything close to what I think it is. "Yeah," he replies, his voice a little strained, and adds, "I think I've come down with something." I shudder. Sickness is the last thing we need in this little house, so I probably shouldn't stay.
12:46 p.m.: I shout something about Bird being here, and he shouts something back about her staying with me. I suppose that makes sense; if I don't know what to do with her, I can't imagine John would manage to handle it very well. I grumble my acknowledgement and take my leave, offering him some vague niceties and feeling immensely relieved when he doesn't ask for anything.
5:07 p.m.: The rest of the day is unremarkable. Bird has either gained the presence of mind to leave me alone or is having some sort of separation anxiety from the dragon she's unwisely kept as a pet, and she attempts to introduce the Empress to Melusina. It doesn't go well; as I suspected, Melusina's a little too aggressive to get along with other dragons, even the babies, and the Empress has almost certainly been bred to be undersized. I cast an Aguamenti, nudging Bird away. "It takes some time for them to get used to each other," I say, and she smiles up at me. "True for all species, I think," she says, which is far more meta than I feel like being. "Come on," I grumble, suggesting she leave with me.
5:15 p.m.: "Actually, I'm going to stay here," Bird says, gesturing to what I've just noticed is a small tent behind her on one of the outer edges of the reservation. "I don't want her to be alone yet," she adds, gesturing to the Empress. "It's going to be well below freezing tonight," I inform her, and really, it already is. "Well, I'm a witch, aren't I?" Bird prompts, and gestures to the tent. "Come see," she says.
5:20 p.m.: I don't know why I follow her in, but I'm instantly met with the warmth of a fireplace, the smell of fresh pines, and an enchanted ceiling that resembles the stars outside (which are regrettably already encased in darkness, winter being the curse that it is). "Wow," I say, as I'm not above being impressed. Bird gestures to a pot on the stove, which I didn't realize was there; she used the space wisely. "Soup?" she asks.
5:45 p.m.: I get trapped into dinner. In my defense, though, the soup is delicious.
6:35 p.m.: "Whisky?" Bird offers. Christ, I'm never leaving.
7:04 p.m.: I can't believe we have anything to talk about. To tell you the truth, I'm sort of playing a drinking game with myself. Every time Bird says something insane, I take another sip.
7:37 p.m.: Once Bird starts talking about something called a nargle, I'm positive I'm drunk. "That's not real," I say, and at her dubious expression, I remind her that I've devoted my life to studying magical creatures. I would know if such a thing were real or not. Bird, however, merely gives me something of a weary, disapproving stare. "There are at least a thousand new creatures identified in the ocean each year," she says, "and for that matter, muggles don't even believe in dragons, and yet here we are. Just because you haven't seen it doesn't mean it doesn't exist."
8:27 p.m.: She brings the Empress inside, which is a terrible idea, but I'm drunk and off duty. "Sit," she tells the dragon, and needless to say, it doesn't. "Only if you feel like it," she concedes, and the Empress belches her opposition directly into my trousers. "Oops," Bird says, flicking her wand.
8:38 p.m.: I don't have any pants on. Also, I'm pretty sure she's looking at my dick.
8:40 p.m.: Don't get hard. Don't get hard. Don't get—
8:41 p.m.: "I'm happy to help you with that," Bird says, gesturing to my erection. Luckily, even in my drunken haze I'm aware I haven't had sex in about three years, and I certainly wouldn't be good at it now. "I have to lie down," I say.
8:50 p.m.: She tucks me into her bed and I close my eyes. I guess this is happening; I should tell John where I am, but he's a big boy. He'll manage. I'm actually feeling pleasantly unconcerned with everything when I feel something slip in beside me, and then I register that it's Bird.
8:52 p.m.: Then I register that she's naked.
8:53 p.m.: "I sleep naked," Bird informs me, and before I can say anything, she gestures up at the sky. "Look," she says, and I glance up. "What am I looking for?" I ask groggily, and she shrugs. "You're just looking," she clarifies. So I look. And look. And look. I guess I haven't really looked before; I'm the kind of person who's more comfortable focusing on the ground beneath my feet than the sky overhead.
8:57 p.m.: "We're tiny, aren't we?" I say deliriously. "We're small and orbiting around something we can't even understand," I mumble, and she turns to look at me. She has the most delicate nose I've ever seen, and her lips are pretty. They're full, and they look like they're accustomed to wonder. There are a handful of delicate freckles around her grey eyes. There's also a hand on my penis. "What are you doing?" I whisper groggily, and she releases me. "Sorry," she says, "curiosity got the better of me." I swallow.
8:58 p.m.: "How was it?" I ask awkwardly. "Didn't really get much time," she says, "but I like the feel of it." I ask her if she needs more. She says she would know how to use it. It sounds like a line, but I doubt she's that kind of girl. "Go for it," I say gruffly. She curls her hand around my dick again, stroking it slowly, and I about quiver and die. "Sorry," she says. I swallow hard. "It's fine," I manage.
9:02 p.m.: "It's a very nice penis," she says. I ask her if she's known a lot of penises. "Yes," she replies, "and vaginas as well." My cock leaps in her hand. "Oh, I didn't mean to arouse you," she says. "You have your hand on my dick," I remind her. "True," she concedes, and releases me. "I mean, you don't have to stop," I say. She smiles.
9:15 p.m.: Thank god I'm thirty. If I were any younger, I'd have already come in her hand. As it is, though, it takes a little more than just inoffensive rubbing to get me off. She's sliding her palm against my shaft without intention, almost as if she's making a mold of it and I'm just the insignificant plaster. "Would you like to touch me?" she asks. Well, that's certainly not going to help. "Where?" I ask. She picks up my hand, settling it on her breast. "Here works," she says, and I slip my thumb over her nipple, shuddering.
9:21 p.m.: She smells so good. She smells so bloody good, and she's sliding her fingertips in the slickness I can tell is dripping from the tip of my cock, and fuck, she has spectacular breasts. They're just bigger than a solid handful, firm and perky with nipples like little perfect pearls, and sooner than I'd like I am sputtering out a groan, coming in her palm. "Fuck," I cough, but she doesn't look bothered. "Do you mind?" she asks. I have no idea what she means. "If I masturbate," she clarifies. I feel a little bit bad about this and start to argue, but she shakes her head. "You should sleep," she advises me, and tells me again that I look tired.
9:27 p.m.: I start to doze off, but then she slides her hand down her torso, hitching her heels up and parting her legs. She makes a breathy sound of satisfaction. "You're very attractive," she murmurs, and adds, "Do you mind if I think about you?" I blink. "I don't have any control over your thoughts," I say, though in fairness to her, I can't actually tell if I should be flattered or repulsed, so I suppose it's a fair question. "Masturbation is fairly easy for me," she comments, "but it's always nice to have a visual." She glances over at me. "Can I see your chest?" she asks. "I'm afraid I have a weakness for pectorals," she explains, "but I think it's purely evolutionary." I strip my shirt off, obliging. Fuck, I'm going to be hungover in the morning, and I hope I can block all of this out. She reaches out, placing a hand on my chest. "Oh, that's good," she whispers, shuddering suddenly.
9:41 p.m.: I watch her until she comes. Her face goes from contemplative to serene, and then she lays back, panting slightly. "Thank you," she says, "that was nice."
9:53 p.m.: My life would be so much easier if I were gay.
DAY THREE
8:01 a.m.: "I think you have to go to work soon," Bird says, poking me in the shoulder. I bolt upright and immediately regret it; my head is pounding. She nudges me, offering me a small red circle. "It's Advil," she says. "Is it like hangover potion?" I ask. "Sort of," she replies.
8:20 a.m.: Eventually I grab my scorched trousers and stumble out, the pounding in my head just barely subsiding. I have time to go home, but I'm not really sure I want to bother. I transfigure my trousers instead and owl John, asking him to bring some hangover potion (whatever this Advil stuff is, it's not working nearly fast enough.)
8:45 a.m.: John walks in, offering me a vial. I thank him and attempt to settle myself at my desk to handle the usual morning owls from our research partners, but he's still standing in the doorway. "I have to tell you something," John says. It doesn't sound promising, but at least my head isn't pounding anymore. "Okay," I say uncertainly.
8:50 a.m.: John tells me our brother Francis' wife is here. "Why?" I ask bluntly. I'll call her Joan, like Joan of Arc, the French woman who came to interfere with England. Of course, I like to think of her as just someone who wanted to travel around on the basis of her own fleeting whims, but she did influence the Lancastrian wars, so perhaps she's a bit more than just an explorer. "Because," John says tentatively, and closes his mouth, hesitating. "We, um," he attempts again, and it dawns on me that I have very much suspected he was running away from something. "You fucked our brother's wife?" I ask. John grimaces. "It's worse," he says, and he looks so painfully morose I can't actually be angry with him. "I love our brother's wife," he explains, and dear god. Talk about Lancastrian wars.
9:01 a.m.: "Explain this," I demand, but then Bird is popping her head into my office, the Empress sitting on her shoulder. "Feeling better?" she asks me chipperly, which reminds me that John said he was sick yesterday. "You're not actually sick, are you?" I ask him hotly, and he shakes his head. "Not in any conventional way, at least," he says.
9:05 a.m.: I don't know what to do this information. "Does Francis know?" I ask. "Yes," John replies. "And he's—" "Okay with it?" John predicts wryly, shrugging. "I suspect he doesn't think it will last," he says, and I have to agree with the sentiment—or, more accurately, with Francis' ostensible doubt. The truth of it is that my loyalty is to Francis first; I can see that John sees that, or at least hears it, and he looks down, eyeing his shoes. "She's going to be staying with us for a bit," he says. "How long?" I demand. He winces. "I don't know," he says quietly, and it occurs to me that perhaps the fact that he doesn't know isn't exactly his choice. I sigh, rubbing wearily at my eyelids. "As long as we're not keeping anything from Francis," I warn him, and John looks up, shaking his head. "We're not," he promises.
9:10 a.m.: I almost managed to forget Bird was here. "This is private," I inform her when she glances wide-eyed between John and me. "Oh, of course," she says absently, but unsurprisingly, she doesn't leave. John, meanwhile, fidgets in discomfort. "I should go," he says, and nods to Bird. "Goodbye," he offers in his stiffly formal way and I watch him leave, still utterly confounded by our conversation.
9:12 a.m.: "There's absolutely no way that Joan would choose him over Francis," I remark, making the mistake of saying it out loud. "I'll believe it when I see it," I add under my breath, and Bird gives me a quizzical look. "You put a lot of stock in what you can see," she comments, and I have to fight not to roll my eyes. "That's because I can see everything I need to," I inform her. She doesn't seem to like my tone. "Fine," she says, and leaves. Turns out the way to get everyone far enough away to let me work is to upset them.
10:15 a.m.: I can't focus on anything, of course, because that would make my life far too easy. Joan and John? Joan is … well, in a word, she's beautiful. Exquisitely, coldly beautiful, like something in a museum; far too out of reach to touch. The sort of beautiful you could imagine ancient kings would fight a war for, if you wanted—but then again, maybe I only see her that way because she never really warmed to me. Or anyone in my family. Well, except one, it seems, but that hasn't gotten any more conceivable, no matter which way I slice it. John, really? He's not unpleasant, I suppose, but he hardly has Francis' charisma, or his innate likability. John and Francis may be brothers—and sure, they're a set of lanky, blue-eyed Head Boy bookends who put the rest of our family to shame—but still. When it comes down to it, they're not remotely the same, and it surprises me that they would both appeal to the same woman; much less this woman.
10:25 a.m.: I didn't even know anything was wrong between Francis and Joan. Has Francis really hidden it that well? It's certainly a possibility; he's always been the best at carrying off a persona. Not in a disingenuous way, but he was the golden boy, wasn't he? Always the one to succeed, and I know better than anyone how much he suffered quietly when he didn't. He's the oldest, the one with all the expectations, so yeah, maybe he's adept enough at hiding what he sees as flaws. Still, I was always his closest brother, his best friend. I'd like to think I've had enough practice seeing through to what's underneath. Have I just been away too long?
10:26 a.m.: Yes, my brain informs me. Yes, I most definitely have.
10:45 a.m.: "There's a woman here," one of our dragonhands says to me, and I sigh. "I know," I say, "she's just dropping off her Horntail—" "No, not that one," he cuts in, looking utterly starstruck, and then I know that it's Joan he's seen. Two blondes in one week; suddenly I understand why everyone seems more pleased than usual to be at work today. "Where is she?" I ask, and he points, alarmingly, towards Melusina. I instantly rise to my feet. That can't be good.
10:48 a.m.: Joan is near impossible to miss. I catch the silvery blonde of her hair from afar and hurry towards her, hoping I can intervene before that pretty adulterous face of hers gets scorched by Melusina's usual fiery greeting.
10:49 a.m.: I open my mouth, ready to shout for Joan to back away, but the closer I get, the more obvious it is that she's not in any danger. In fact, she's speaking French to Melusina, who looks more docile than I've ever seen her. I don't mean to, but a laugh escapes me; of course one haughty ice queen would bond with another. Joan doesn't notice me right away, so I take a moment before I call out to her, trying to think of an opening line. Sure, I've just heard some pretty disconcerting news, but dragons have always come first in my life, so—"You're a natural," I remark, because everything else will have to wait.
10:50 a.m.: Joan turns, looking a little startled at the sight of me. I, in turn, have to swallow a moment of attraction; she has always been unnaturally beautiful ("I know, right?" Francis had laughed in my ear the first time I met her) but I can usually shake her effect after a bit of time passes. I count to three and cough, ridding myself of her momentary hold. (See, Mum? Not gay. Unfortunately.)
10:51 a.m.: "She?" Joan echoes, and for the second time in two days, I confirm that the dragon is, indeed, a she. I wonder if the gender presumption says something about society; does that make me a feminist? Sounds right. "We call her Melusina," I explain, "after the—" "Folktale," Joan supplies for me, her cheeks warming with something like wonder.
10:55 a.m.: I'm pretty sure I want to be angry at Joan for being here, but it's hard to remember that when Melusina appears to be bonding with another creature (dragon, human, or otherwise) for the first time. Of course, it occurs to me in the midst of my bemusement that Joan has always had a way with dragons; I mention that to her, and she looks incredibly pleased that I've remembered. No, not incredibly—painfully pleased, as if she's been hoping someone would and the time that it's taken to happen has stung her, somehow. "I'm surprised you remember that," she says quietly, and against my will, I feel a pang of sympathy. I can feel myself soften, too; she does look a bit starved for something. Attention? Acknowledgement? I know how that goes. I remind myself that I can't judge Joan for something I don't have all the facts about—at least not yet.
11:15 a.m.: She comments that it's nice here, and she seems to mean it. Odd, considering my mother always complains that nothing is ever good enough for Joan. Of course, my mother has never liked her. My sister Amelia doesn't, either, and then I wilt internally; the more I think about it, the more I can see the foundation of loneliness Joan must have. She's away from home, after all, as am I, and I think everyone who bonds with a dragon has some degree of vacancy; of emptiness, of lacking something. There's something mournfully beautiful about a dragon, and hauntingly grandiose. Some sense of yearning. I may not know much about what's brought Joan here, but I know she and Melusina have similar looks in their eyes. It must have taken a lot for Joan to have come here. Or, more accurately, there must be something here she wants badly enough to have come.
11:20 a.m.: Joan looks a bit uncomfortable when she brings up John, but I'm a little relieved she does it first. It occurs to me, too, that John did a good thing coming to tell me the news this morning. He could have hidden it from me if he'd wanted to, but if there's one thing my younger brother isn't, it's a liar. "You know," I say, "Francis is the oldest, the most attractive, the most successful. Why would you give that up for John?" I hope she has a good answer, but she doesn't; not all of us have John's talent for honesty. "I didn't say I would give anything up for him," she replies stiffly. I think of his face this morning and it occurs to me that I am just as much a brother to him as I am to Francis, so I stand firm. "You'll break his heart if you don't," I warn her, feeling suddenly protective of them both.
11:22 a.m.: She says something about hearts breaking all the time (something more self-revelatory than I think she realizes) and I'm about to step forward and argue, but Melusina nudges her, making a low, mournful sound of comfort. This is one of the steps in bonding with a dragon; empathy. I hadn't thought Melusina was capable, but she soothes under Joan's touch. I immediately forget about my stupid brothers and their stupid tangled lives. "Holy fuck," I breathe aloud, "you're a natural."
12:30 p.m.: I immediately take Joan around the reservation, introducing her to all the dragons. Am I testing some sort of bizarre experiment? Maybe, but that's what I do. She has a way with all of the dragons, but not just them. Some of the dragons have companion creatures to keep them calm—hippogriffs or thestrals, for example—and they react favorably to her too, not betraying any sort of disruption at her presence as they normally do around strangers. She may have come here to be with John, but for however long that takes to sort out, I plan to make use of her.
1:45 p.m.: I bring her back to Melusina. "Keep her calm," I say, because for the sake of my team of dragonhands' safety, we need to file down some of her claws. "How?" Joan asks, and isn't that the eternal question? I don't know, and I've been trying to figure it out for months; I've tried music, I've tried bribes of food and trinkets, I've tried spoken word poetry—nothing. "Oh, you know," I say, waving a hand, and Joan looks a bit stunned for a moment, but she recovers quickly. "Okay," she says, and in French, she says something to Melusina; it sounds like a question, though I can't be sure. I'm not great with languages; my Romanian is pretty sad, and I don't speak a lick of French. After a second, though, Melusina lies down with a sigh, her big eyes fixed on Joan.
2:01 p.m.: One of the other dragonologists gapes. "Bloody h-" "Close your mouth and get to it," I snap, and they hurry forward obediently as Joan patiently strokes Melusina's brow, the dragon's eyes closing with a shudder as she seems to fall into a trance.
3:45 p.m.: I won't lie. This is an exciting day for me. I forget about my grant work, instead hurrying Joan from enclosure to enclosure. "What's in here?" she asks, finding the nursery. I'm about to show her when I catch a flash of dirty blonde hair, suddenly recalling that Bird is still roaming around. "Nothing," I say quickly, instead ushering her towards our twin Short-Snouts.
4:58 p.m.: Inevitably there are a few things I have to take care of in my office, and though I've only known her for a day, I find that Bird's unnecessary presence there is starting to feel equally inevitable. "Are you busy?" she asks inanely, as I'm clearly up to my neck in paperwork and thinking about lighting it all on fire. (That's the other thing about working with dragons: a natural tendency towards arson.) "Why?" I ask helplessly, and she shrugs. "I thought I might do an article about you and your research while I'm here," she says. "That isn't a ploy for sex, by the way," she adds neutrally, "though if you'd like to do that, I do think it would be mutually beneficial for me to help solve your wrackspurt problem."
5:05 p.m.: I look up, about to argue that wrackspurts don't exist, but I catch her gaze lingering on my chest. I remember, too, the feel of her chest, and my cock gives a highly unwelcome twitch. "Just the article," I say, clearing my throat. "I don't think sex would be appropriate," I add, and she nods vigorously. "Oh, I agree, sex should never be appropriate," she begins with enthusiasm, but at the look on my face, she stops. "Oh," she says with a frown, "you meant appropriate to society, didn't you?" I nod mutely. "Disappointing," she sighs.
5:10 p.m.: "Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me," she says. I begrudgingly offer for her to stay with John and me, but Bird shakes her head. "I can tell you don't want me there," she says, and tells me she'll be staying in her tent again. I think for a moment to apologize, but she doesn't look upset. "Goodnight," she chirps, and flits out of the room.
5:20 p.m.: I may never know what to make of her.
5:30 p.m.: I find Joan communing silently with Melusina. "Ready to go?" I ask her, and she looks surprised. "I thought you'd be more opposed to me being here," she tells me slowly, her French accent softening the edges of her words, and I nod. "I'm not happy about it," I admit. True, I'm happy about her effect on Melusina, but the circumstances still irk me whenever I manage to remember what they are. She nods. "Okay," she permits, and we head out.
5:45 p.m.: When we get home, John is making dinner. I study behavior for a living; the first thing I notice is the way Joan's expression changes when she sees him, and the way John looks particularly unburdened, his eyes filling with something like relief when they land on hers. All of a sudden, Joan's beauty is something completely different; she radiates with warmth, and she is both more stunning and more real. She is flushed and golden where she used to be stiff and silvery, and as much as I struggle to reconcile the sensation with what I've believed of my sister-in-law in the past, I've known enough of mythical creatures to see when one finds its mate.
5:47 p.m.: "She's got a way with Melusina," I tell John, and he smiles. "Of course she does," he says, never taking his eyes from hers, and all at once I feel as though I'm an outsider, interrupting a private moment. I realize that I never felt this way when Joan was with Francis; if anything, I always felt she blended into the scenery a bit, an extension of my brother, while he and I slipped into fraternal habits and inside jokes. Now, though, I feel like an intruder.
5:49 p.m.: "I have dinner plans," I announce suddenly. John looks bemused. "But I thought you said—" "Well, that friend of Amelia's is here," I say, horrified firstly that that's the first thing that comes to mind, and then increasingly more so as I realize that's the only other place I have to go. Still, I can see these two should be alone. I'll wait until tomorrow to try to wrap my head around it. "Okay," John agrees, and I apparate away as Joan takes a step towards him, the look on her face dazzling enough to light the entire house for a week.
6:05 p.m.: "Oh, hello," Bird says when I slip through the tent flap. She doesn't look surprised at all, and neither does the Empress. I sigh loudly. "I'm not staying the night this time," I tell her, and she nods. "Soup?" she offers.
6:37 p.m.: "So tell me about you," she says. I tell her the basics. I have many brothers. I enjoyed quidditch, I loved being a seeker, but I always felt a calling elsewhere. After all, I'm an explorer too, aren't I? If explorers only have one stop, I suppose, but when you find something that makes you happy, you stop looking, right? She scribbles a few things down as I talk, but pauses at that. "Are you happy?" she asks me. I pause before answering. "I work with creatures," I say, "which is all I ever wanted to do." "Is it?" she asks.
7:05 p.m.: I tell her that it was Anne's idea for me to go off and study dragons (I call her my friend at first; Bird lifts a brow, and I admit there was a bit more to it). Anne always said I was too good for most humans, and I always replied that so was she, and she joked that that's why she wanted to be an Auror: to put most of them in prison. I chuckle at the memory of her, and Bird eyes me curiously. "Did you love her?" she asks. "It wasn't love," I reply, "or else I wouldn't have left." "Or," Bird counters, "maybe it was love precisely because you let each other go." I tell her that's ridiculous, and she shrugs. "It's probably related to your wrackspurt problem," she replies.
7:17 p.m.: I tell her to stop calling it 'my wrackspurt problem,' and she asks me what else she should call it. "You seem like you'd oppose my referring to it as your celibacy problem," she comments, and I'm a little frustrated, though as usual, I'm not at all sure why I'm still here putting myself through this. "Do you really think sex would fix it?" I demand. "Oh, of course not," she says, shrugging delicately, "I simply suspect it would help."
7:20 p.m.: Bird asks me more about Anne. I'd wonder if she were being nosy, but I'm determining nosy isn't the right word for her. She's just curious, I think, though that distinction isn't particularly helpful. For reasons unknown, I tell her about the first time I fingered Anne, which was in the Charms classroom between classes our sixth year. I'll never forget Anne's response. "Ouch," she'd said blithely, and at that moment I'd known I was doing everything wrong, and also that I badly needed to learn how to do it better. Bird smiles, which I realize slowly is an echo of my current expression. "So," she says, "did you improve?"
7:45 p.m.: "I think so," I say, but it's possibly I only ever learned what Anne liked. "Show me," Bird suggests, standing up to wriggle out of her trousers. I gawk at her, and she tilts her head. "Ah, right," she says, and removes her shirt. She isn't wearing a bra. "I forgot you seem to have a preference for my breasts," she clarifies, resuming her seat at the little dining table and placing my left hand on her right tit. I swallow uncomfortably. "I'm right-handed," I say awkwardly, and she smiles radiantly. "You need your right hand for other things," she reminds me, and scoots to the edge of her chair, parting her legs.
7:53 p.m.: I tell her I need to be considerably drunker than I currently am to do this, but she shakes her head. "You're fine," she says, and I could so easily say no, but I think she and I both know I can't stop looking at her, and that I'm hard once again. I shift forward, still not sure if I'm going to manage it, but my heart is pounding and fuck, it's been ages. She smiles encouragingly. "I'll help you if you need it," she says, and I think she genuinely means it. I nod, and then I go for it; I slide one finger into her, watching her breasts shift as she inhales sharply. For having ostensibly experienced so many penises, she fits snugly around my finger, and my dick fucking convulses with yearning. "Good start," she says cheerfully, "but you should probably move it around."
7:56 p.m.: I slide my finger in and out a little; she shifts in the chair. "Don't forget the clitoris," she says, and nudges my thumb up. I move it around a little and she rewards me with a nod, her big eyes falling shut briefly. "I can't get very good leverage," I tell her, gesturing to the way my hand is awkwardly cupping her, and she nods. "Come on," she says, and takes me to her bed.
8:01 p.m.: She lies down on her back. I strip my shirt off, recalling her 'fondness for pectorals,' and she nods approvingly. "Don't be nervous," she advises. "I'm not," I say. "It's sweet that you think you have to do that," she says. "Do what?" I ask. "Lie," she says, and takes my hand, placing it between her legs. Honesty is overrated, she tells me, because honesty is something you do when you aren't worried about damaging someone with the truth. "In my experience, lying means you care," she says, and adds that my sister Amelia always lies to spare her feelings. I tell her I'm not sure she's right about that, but she shrugs, beckoning to me again.
8:10 p.m.: It's easier this way. I slide another finger into her, fucking her with them relatively slowly, in and out. I like the way I fit inside her. I like the way her cheeks flush. My cock positively throbs, but it seems like a waste to use it right now. I'd last about five seconds.
8:15 p.m.: I start to rub my hand against her clit and her breath quickens. When Anne was about to come, it was usually pretty obvious; her hair usually turned an electric shade of violet. That was the thing about sex with her, actually. It was always pretty easy to tell what she liked or didn't like. With Bird, though, all I have are my suspicions until she looks over at me, her little pink tongue darting out as she parts her lips. "Well, if you keep going like that, I'm going to come," she tells me. I tell her that would be ideal. She nods. "I like the feel of your hands," she says, and tells me she likes my hands in general; likes the way they nurture things, and the way she feels safe in them. "Is that strange?" she asks softly. I tell her every fucking thing she's ever said to me is strange, but that doesn't mean it's bad. "Mm," she says, and shifts her hips.
8:17 p.m.: "There," she half-mumbles, and I shift my hand again. I feel her rippling around my fingers, which is oddly rewarding, and I look down at her breasts. What is it about her nipples? I lean down and suck one, curling my tongue around it, and then the other. When I look back at her face, she's watching me, amused. "Would you like to do more?" she asks. I do everything in my power not to say yes. "What about the interview?" I ask gruffly. She shrugs, shifting over in the bed to make room for me. "Just keep talking," she says, and adds, "I'll remember."
9:30 p.m.: Maybe it's because I've just fingered her—or maybe because she's still naked and I'm halfway there—but I tell her things I haven't said to anyone in a long, long time, if ever. I tell her I regret not being home during the war; my brother Francis came home from Egypt, but I didn't. I think maybe I didn't realize how bad it was. I never really believed my family would be in danger; they weren't very active in the first Order, after all, but I suppose my youngest brother being best friends with the person destined to end it all sort of drew them in. I feel selfish for not having gone, but I always felt strange at home. I always felt like I didn't belong.
9:45 p.m.: Bird nods. "I know what it is to feel strange," she says, and I immediately feel guilty for having said as much myself about her, but she cautions me with a quick shake of her head. "There's nothing wrong with feeling like you don't fit in somewhere," she tells me, and gestures up to the stars overhead. "The universe is rather large," she says, "so it must be a very lucky thing to find a place where you belong." I glance at her, at the little dusting of constellations near her eyes, and ask her if she knows where she belongs. "Not yet," she says, "but I'm looking."
10:29 p.m.: I had thought of her first as a wanderer, but I think she's more than that. I had thought her search was aimless, but I think I'm wrong. Difficult to tell, though. She could be lying. She did say lying was a way to show you care, and I think she cares. I think she cares more than anyone I have ever met, and I think that might actually be the strangest thing about her.
11:17 p.m.: I'm falling asleep beside her again. She's already sleeping, her dirty blonde hair spread across the single pillow as she rests her forehead against my shoulder. I wonder if she's really writing an article about me, and I wonder what it would say. I wonder how a person who sees the world so peculiarly would look at me and find me something of interest. I resolve to ask her in the morning, just before I drift off to sleep.
DAY FOUR
7:04 a.m.: I wake up oddly rested, though Bird is no longer beside me. I sit up, grimacing as I realize I slept in my heavy trousers, and Bird glances over from the kitchen, the Empress perched once again on her shoulder. "Hungry?" she asks me, and I realize it's Saturday. "Sure," I say.
7:26 a.m.: "I was thinking that I shouldn't stay too long," Bird says contemplatively, and adds that she must be getting in the way. She isn't wrong (after all, she's currently camped out in the middle of an active research facility, so her presence here is hardly something I can fully approve) but I'm a little uncertain what to say. I take a spoonful of muesli, covering my hesitation with a mouthful of food, but she continues without pause. "So," she adds, "I was thinking that today we should address oral sex." I instantly choke, my eyes watering as everything goes entirely down the wrong pipe.
7:34 a.m.: "Do you disagree?" Bird asks neutrally, once I've recovered from my brush with death. "I don't know what you're talking about," I manage to sputter, and she gives a little ghost of a laugh. "I can start, if that would make you more comfortable," she says, and fuck me, I'm getting hard again, but I do my best to deny it. "I really don't know what you mean," I stupidly persist, but she places the Empress on the table before getting to her knees, prying my knees apart. "Ready?" she asks, glancing up at me. Fuck, her eyes are huge. I've seen dragons with less unnerving stares. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "Okay," I mumble, and she slides my zipper down as the Empress politely turns away.
7:40 a.m.: The moment Bird's tongue slides across my tip I know I'm in trouble. For one thing, I haven't had a blow job since the time Anne came to visit me. I think she was already in the process of pining for her eventual-husband then; I remember that her hair had looked particularly mousy and dull, and she'd seemed listless and low. It's actually difficult for me not to combine the sensation of a mouth on my dick with the memory of suffering Anne's sadness myself; of looking down at the top of her head and finding myself paralyzed with the need to fix it, fix everything, for her. She'd asked me to come back with her; I didn't. In retrospect, I don't think she ever really expected me to. I think she was glad I didn't, even when she kissed me goodbye. We had a habit of disappointing each other, so it was comforting to fall back on something reliable.
7:42 a.m.: I remember that Anne's gone now and flinch. Bird, who has just slid her lips around my shaft, glances up at me, and my entire body suffers a wave of confusion. On the one hand, fuck, this feels good, and at the moment Bird's grey eyes are unsettling in a highly alluring way (probably because her mouth is on my cock? Impossible to tell.) On the other hand, thinking about Anne isn't helpful, and Bird seems to notice. She pulls away, releasing me, and says one word: "Wrackspurts." I sigh. She climbs onto my lap, straddling me, and I let her.
7:45 a.m.: I really thought I didn't care about sex. "If I loved Anne," I ask Bird quietly, "then why did I let her go?" She thinks about it. "I think loving someone is a talent," she says, "and some people do it better than others." I grimace, but she shakes her head. "You can also be what someone wants and not what they need," she adds, "or so I've been lead to believe." She seems as though she's been told that by someone. I sigh again, wrap my arms around her waist, and kiss her. She seems comically surprised, and I pull away. "What?" I ask. "Nothing," she says, but strangely, I feel as though I've crossed a line. She wiggles slightly in my lap in her discomfort and I remember I'm still inconveniently hard. "You can continue," I tell her. She looks relieved. "Okay," she agrees, and slides back down to her knees.
8:05 a.m.: She might be a total weirdo, but she bloody knows what the fuck she's doing. It's actually impossible to think about Anne once Bird really gets going. I'd always thought of getting head as a predictable range of foreplay, but she sucks me off with something a little too skillful to be purely enthusiasm. Keenness, maybe? She ought to be knighted. Canonized, even. She looks up at me with those big grey eyes and I come so hard it's almost painful, a loud groan leaving my lips uninvited. Forget sainthood; she should be queen.
8:15 a.m.: "Your turn," she says. Oh, shit. It's only fair, I know, but I've never been great at this. "Um," I say, and she gestures to the bed. "Lie down," she suggests, and I do, slowly, though I wriggle out of my trousers first. They're for wrangling dragons, not bizarre blonde witches. "Okay," I exhale, once I've settled myself on her mattress. She slips out of her clothes, eyeing me a little hungrily. She certainly has an appetite. "Okay," she agrees, and gently—much to my instant confusion—sets her knees on either side of my head, bracing herself against the headboard of this goddamn contraption of sin.
8:20 a.m.: She looks down at me, and from this angle I can see her tits bounce as she shifts around, which I'm not opposed to. "Need help?" she asks. Bloody hell. "No," I mutter, and gather my nerve, tilting my chin up to lick the slit of her pussy. I feel her exhale; she's wet, and my tongue slides easily across her. I dig my fingers into her hips, angling them to slide my tongue inside her, mostly out of curiosity. She inhales sharply, and I think I'm doing it right, even if I'm not doing it particularly well. Maybe I can manage this.
8:26 a.m.: "Don't forget my clitoris," she pants, and damn, I had forgotten. I was distracted by the way she tastes, which isn't really what I remember; it's better, actually. Sort of salty-sweet. I shift her hips again. "Better," she half-moans.
8:28 a.m.: "Are you spelling the alphabet on my clitoris?" she asks once I've gotten to the letter 'H'. She looks down at me, amused, and I recall that Anne hadn't been overly impressed with that trick, either. "I didn't think you'd notice," I admit. She laughs. "Try sucking on it," she suggests, "and use the broad side of your tongue." I oblige, and her legs shake slightly. "Mhmm," she manages. I feel better. I slide my hands up, too, exploring the shape of her torso. She has a narrow waist, and the spot where her hips flare out is particularly beguiling.
8:35 a.m.: The Empress (who I'd forgotten was here) coughs, lighting a small fire in the kitchen, but I can't stop now. Bird is shaking like mad above me, and I certainly didn't work this hard not to see it through. I let her grind on my mouth, her fingers tightening in my hair, and move with her. The fire must be worse than I thought; I realize that it smells like smoke the moment Bird comes, though at first I think it's my imagination. I do feel particularly ignited.
8:37 a.m.: Bird gets up quickly, leaving me behind as she puts out the fire the Empress has started. It takes her a while and I sit up, watching her disappear from sight and then return, eyeing me on the bed.
8:45 a.m.: "We could do more," she says. I take a long look at her; it's tempting.
8:46 a.m.: Still, some things are more pressing. "You need to put her back in the nursery," I say, gesturing to the Empress. "She doesn't belong inside a tent," I add, "and she doesn't know how to control her impulses yet. She should be with the rest of her kind." "And what if they don't want her?" Bird shoots back. I blink, registering the uncharacteristic quiver of insecurity in her tone. "She's not you," I point out.
8:49 a.m.: Bird looks stung. "You should go," she says flatly.
8:52 a.m.: She doesn't say anything else while I put my clothes on, but she doesn't cover herself, either. She simply watches me with her too-big grey eyes, and I turn to her before I leave, but I don't really know what else to say. I don't think I'm welcome here anymore.
8:53 a.m.: "I didn't mean to upset you," I awkwardly attempt. "I know," she says, "but I think I should leave, and I can't pack up the tent if you're in it." "Oh," I say.
8:54 a.m.: "Bye, then," I say. She nods, and I disapparate. I guess that's that.
8:56 a.m: John's door is closed, and I remember he's in there with Joan. I make my way to my bedroom, falling into bed. I suddenly remember that I'm desperately tired, and sink gradually into sleep.
1:04 p.m.: I wake up from fitful episodes of dozing to a knock at my door. "Come in," I call, and Joan materializes in my door frame; she's much more beautiful than Bird, I know, but I find her silvery hair to be not the ideal shade of blonde at the moment. "May I ask you something?" Joan says, and I nod. "Will you teach me how to care for the dragons?" she asks slowly.
1:06 p.m.: I hesitate. "Are you not going back?" I ask her, and she glances at her feet. "I don't know," she says. I find I'm more than a little irritated at this answer. "Are you just punishing my brother?" I demand, and I'm not even sure I know which brother I'm talking about. She blanches. "No," she says, and then her lovely siren's mouth tightens. "Not intentionally," she amends, but I'm too angry to feel sorry for her. "You need to decide who the fuck is important to you," I hurl at her, and she nods. She closes the door. I'd feel bad, but she needs to hear it. Someone should have said it to me when I let Anne go.
7:10 p.m.: I don't do much for the rest of the day. I stop by the reservation to check on the dragons (they don't exactly have days off, after all) and I notice Bird's tent is gone. The Empress is back in the nursery, being fed by one of our dragonhands. I give her a small wave, but she doesn't look interested in me. Melusina, too, gives me a disdainful snort, so I've officially disappointed all the women I know.
8:35 p.m.: John looks up when I come home; I get the feeling he's been waiting for me. I look around, but Joan isn't anywhere in sight. "She's in the shower," John explains. I nod, and he rises to his feet. "Can we talk?" he asks quietly. I grimace. "Fine," I say, and gesture to my bedroom.
8:45 p.m.: "Her wanting to know more about dragons has nothing to do with me or Francis," John explains, and informs me that Joan is looking for meaning in her life. "Do you want her to stay?" I ask him, and he looks away. That's a yes. "It isn't about me," he repeats. "But do you want her to stay?" I press. His face looks pained. I've been pushing a little too hard today, I think, but I think Bird is wrong; lying certainly is necessary at times, but I think in this case, telling the truth is evidence of caring. "If you want her to stay, then tell her," I inform him bluntly, "or she'll leave."
8:50 p.m.: I tell John about Anne. I tell him I should have been honest with myself about the whole thing; that for all those times she told me she knew I was leaving, I never once thought to invite her along. I tell him, too, that I made a terrible error when I didn't realize—even after she came to find me—that she was just looking for someone to ask her to stay. She never did love people who could love her properly, but that was our fault, not hers. "Does Joan love you?" I ask brusquely. John looks uncomfortable. "I think so," he says. "Then tell her to stay," I plead with him, like he's some sort of past version of myself, "or you might lose her." He smiles wanly at me. "This is different," he tells me gently. "If she wants to stay," John says, with the blissful idiocy of ignorance, "then she'll stay. She wasn't mine to have to begin with," he adds, "so if I lose her, then I will have already had more than I deserved."
9:05 p.m.: Fuck, my brother's an idiot. I argue a bit more, but he shakes his head. "I'm not you," he informs me, and I realize why that same line had hurt Bird so much when I said it earlier. Maybe telling the truth is a uniquely cruel thing to do after all, even if it's necessary.
9:30 p.m.: Eventually he leaves. I slept all day, but I go to bed early anyway. I'm tired; Bird said so, and she seems to see everything about me, whether I want it to be seen or not.
10:45 p.m.: Fuck. I should have asked her to stay.
DAY FIVE
6:45 a.m.: I didn't sleep well, so I start the day banging on John's door. "Get dressed," I bark, and John yanks open the door, looking consummately ruffled. "It's Sunday," he says. "I'm not talking to you," I inform him, and aim a gruff command over his shoulder. "Get dressed," I say again, "we're going to the reservation." Joan's eyes widen, and I catch a small smile of approval flit across John's face. "Should I come?" he asks neutrally. I shake my head. "You're useless," I inform him, having witnessed it myself several times over. "Too true," he agrees, looking subtly pleased as Joan stumbles past us, sleepily making her way to the bathroom.
6:55 a.m.: Joan is surprisingly low-maintenance. She brushes her teeth, ties her long blonde hair into a ponytail, and joins us in the kitchen, accepting the thermos of coffee John hands her. "You're going to need warmer clothes if you're planning to stay here," I comment, and John shoots me a piercing look of warning. Joan, however, gives me nothing. "True," she permits without elaboration.
7:02 a.m.: I look away while Joan reaches up, cupping her hand around the curve of John's cheek. I think she'd kiss him if I weren't watching; she looks like she wants to, but the little bit of contact between them seems to be enough. "See you later," she says. He gives her a fleeting half-smile, and fuck, these two are having the quietest, weirdest affair of all time, but it's impossible to miss how much they care about each other. "Let's go," I grunt unhelpfully, and Joan places a hand on my arm, letting me apparate us out.
9:45 a.m.: I'm glad I decided to do this on what is technically my day off, because I don't have to be interrupted by paperwork. There are a couple of other people around, but for the most part I'm able to lead her around unhurried. I show her the sorts of things we look for; social behaviors, patterns of communication, any bonding between the creatures themselves or with their handlers. "The more we understand them, the better we can protect them," I explain, and she nods. She doesn't say much, but I can see the gears turning; she's not stupid. She's pretty smart, actually, and though her connection with the dragons seems to be largely empathetic, she catches on quickly, managing our usual charms perfectly on the first try.
11:16 a.m.: Much as I remain torn on her presence here, I find I enjoy teaching Joan. Watching her figure things out is wildly rewarding. I rarely handle training anymore, and I'm reminded how much I enjoy it. As important as grant requests and research are to the functions of this reservation, there's nothing quite like watching someone fall in love with creatures for the first time.
2:35 p.m.: "This is the Empress," I say, feeling a pang at the sight of her. The little dragonet looks at me distrustfully, snorting her disapproval. "Looks like you've upset her," Joan notes drily. I grumble something unconvincing, but she doesn't say anything else; she steps forward, offering the Empress her hand, and then murmurs something to me over her shoulder. "Don't worry," Joan she says, tickling the Empress under her chin, and then lets her gaze slide to mine. "She knows you mean well," Joan concludes. "Thanks," I manage gruffly. She smiles.
6:37 p.m.: By the time I suggest that we head home, the other dragonologists are desperately insisting that Joan come back tomorrow. "I suppose they're not around women very often," Joan remarks to me as I gather some of our things from my office, and I turn, frowning at her. "This isn't about your looks," I say, and inform her that more than one of our dragonhands nearly lost an eye to Melusina before she got here. "One of them lost a finger just last week," I add, and she blinks. "Oh," she says, and her brow furrows, as if she's contemplating this slowly. "You've got a gift," I tell her, "and that's why they want you to come back." This seems to resonate so powerfully that I can't help feeling sad for her again. I think again about what Bird said; that a person must be pretty fucking lucky to find where they belong.
6:55 p.m.: Joan barely waits a second after setting foot in our house before calling out for John, her cheeks flaming with excitement. I can tell he's having trouble parsing out the details, especially once her accent flares up in earnest, but he's listening with rapt attention, nodding at all the obvious important bits and asking her questions. Her hand darts out for his, and when he takes it, I suffer the same sensation that I'm interrupting something private. Meanwhile, I slip into my bedroom. Clearly there's something I have to do.
7:15 p.m.: "Hey," Francis says, looking surprised when he answers my Floo call. "What's up?" he asks, and he's shirtless, and behind him I can see women's lingerie on the unmade bed. I can feel myself grimacing; this may be a private matter between husband and wife, but still, I have the happiness of two brothers at stake. I can't not say something.
7:20 p.m.: "This thing with Joan and John," I say, "it's not nothing." Francis laughs, but I can hear the tremor of something apprehensive behind it. "I'm serious," I press, uncertain why I sound so sulky. "I can see that," Francis remarks blithely, "but she's my wife. She'll come home eventually." "Even so," I persist, "if she does, you won't have all of her. She'll have given part of herself away, and you'll regret it if you don't take this seriously."
7:23 p.m.: I hear a woman's voice call my brother's name, and for a moment he looks torn and childlike, as if he can't quite decide what to do. He stares into nothing for a moment, looking into the flames, and when his blue eyes meet mine, I feel stupid for not having seen through him earlier. "I think I already lost part of her," he admits. I swallow hard, wanting to say something helpful, but absolutely nothing comes to mind. "Joan doesn't need me anymore," he adds. There's something vaguely spoiled to the way he says it, as if the woman calling his name needs him, and therefore that feeling is preferable. I wonder if maybe his and Joan's love was made for a different version of her; the kind that might have been like our mother, devoted and faithful and unerring, instead of the woman I saw today—the one with both immense power at her fingertips and a fragile sense of needing to be put to use.
7:27 p.m.: You can be what someone wants and not what they need, I hear Bird chirp in my mind, and it occurs to me that perhaps Francis wants to be needed, while Joan simply wants to be wanted. I think about the way John looks at her—the way he pushes his own agenda aside for her—and against my will, I can feel my allegiances shift. "Tell your wife how you feel," I tell Francis, "or you'll lose her." But just like my other brother, I can see that he won't be taking my advice. "Thanks for letting me know," Francis says, and ends the call.
9:15 p.m.: I can't help thinking about Bird as I settle back on my bed, picking up a book and then discarding it. She's right; I have a wrackspurt problem. It's draining all my energy.
10:11 p.m.: I can't sleep, so I head outside, looking up at the stars. I don't think I really looked very carefully before the last two nights with Bird; as that occurs to me, though, I can't help laughing. It was only two nights. Amazing what quality head does to my perception of time. Maybe I just need more sex.
10:37 p.m.: No, that's not it. Actually, I don't think that's it at all.
10:52 p.m.: When I come back inside, John is in the living room alone. I ask him what he's doing, and he says he's just ended a call with our younger brother, the twin. "Listen, about Joan," I begin, but John interrupts. "You'll take her with you tomorrow, won't you?" he asks, and begins a long, uninterrupted babble about how he needs to work, and he knows she's going to want to see Melusina. I stop him, holding up a hand. "I'll take her," I assure him.
10:57 p.m.: John looks down at his fingers. "I want her to be happy," he says, and I sort of hear the unspoken implication; the resounding but I don't know if I can that echoes in the fire-lit room. I rest my hand on his shoulder, and all of a sudden I realize why I never asked Anne to come with me, and why she never asked me to stay. I think it was fear. I think, in the end, we were never not afraid.
11:01 p.m.: "I hope Joan does the brave thing," I say, "and chooses you." He looks grateful. "Goodnight," he says, and rises to his feet, headed into his bedroom. "Goodnight," I agree, and head into my own.
11:15 p.m.: I wish that I had done the brave thing.
DAY SIX
6:30 a.m.: It's Monday, so I rise early. Joan is in the kitchen already, her hair pulled back and ready to go, and she gives me a nod as I enter. Aside from her presence, I can tell it's going to be the usual morning.
1:03 p.m.: I wasn't particularly attentive last week, so work occupies me well into the morning. I glance down at my watch and decide to ask if Joan wants to stop for lunch.
1:15 p.m.: Unsurprisingly, I find her with Melusina. "She's eating better," Joan remarks, looking pleased, and I nod my agreement. "She has a horde now," I remind Joan, gesturing to her, and she turns, surprised. "Is one person really a horde?" she asks, and I shrug. "Can be," I say, having seen it before. For a second, Joan looks dazed. Then she blinks, her dark blue eyes fixing intently on mine. "Are you hiring?" she asks abruptly.
1:20 p.m.: "What?" I ask. "I'd like to work here," she clarifies, shielding her eyes from the sun that shines through a set of winter clouds. "If you have room for me," she adds.
1:21 p.m.: I blink. "We only have a budget for so many dragonologists," I say, and Joan nods, as if she thought that might have been the case. "I suppose I could study a bit more first," she says thoughtfully, "and maybe there will be an opening later." I blink again. "You mean you'd… come back?" I ask, disbelieving, and she and Melusina both give me vaguely condescending looks of amusement. "Perhaps this will be difficult to understand, but I can't go back to my old life," Joan tells me. "I'd prefer the convenience of working here so that I can stay with John," she adds thoughtfully, "but seeing as there's not an opening—"
1:23 p.m.: I gape at her. "What?" she asks. "I know you're close to Francis," she sighs, wilting slightly, "but I hope you can see why I might—" "You can work here," I blurt out, and her silvery-blonde brow furrows. "But I thought you said—" "You're doing the brave thing," I tell her firmly, and she looks both touched and relieved. "And if you can be brave," I say thunderously, "then so can I."
1:25 p.m.: "Where are you going?" Joan calls after me, but I don't have time to answer her. I sprint for one of the other head dragonologists, bumping into him in the corridor. "Hey," I say, "you can handle all my research, can't you?" He looks bewildered. "Yes," he concedes, and I nod firmly. "Good," I say, "because I quit."
1:29 p.m.: I point to Joan, who's following behind me, and instruct him to hire her. I hear her calling my name, too, but I'm in a hurry. I don't have an international permit from the Ministry, so I'll have to travel the muggle way. "Tell John thank you," I bellow to her, and then I summon some things in a small leather pouch and take off. I'd say goodbye to the dragons—and John—but I know they're in good hands. The Empress watches me go, crowing her approval.
7:35 p.m.: By the time I manage to get to London, I'm exhausted and half-shaking, wondering the entire way if I've done something reckless (I definitely have) or something stupid (always a possibility), or worse, something unrequited (my stomach bottoms out, but this is the brave thing, isn't it? So there has to be some fear involved). My sister Amelia pulls the door to her flat open, looking surprised. "What are you doing here?" she asks bluntly, and I glance over her shoulder. "Is Bird here?" I ask, and then I catch a glimpse of dirty blonde hair as my sister nods dumbly, letting Bird take her place in the door frame. "Hello," Bird says, in her slightly dizzying way.
7:36 p.m.: "So, here's the thing," I tell her quickly, wishing my sister weren't looking on with a mix of amusement and disbelief, but determining I'm going to have to continue. "Sometimes telling the truth is caring, too," I explain, "even when it doesn't sound like it is. I'm sorry about what I said—I'm sorry that it hurt you—but the truth is that you don't belong just anywhere. You aren't like other people, and you don't belong with the rest of the world, but take it from someone who's looked: the rest of the world is nothing," I pronounce vigorously. "I've seen it, and you can spend your whole life looking—you can explore every fucking corner of this world for the rest of your life—or you can give me the chance to tell you a few more things that are just as true. For example, here's some more true things: you shouldn't own a dragon. You're too lenient. They need rules." She blinks. "Also," I exhale, "I can't prove it, I haven't seen it, and I can't say for sure, but—" I break off, forcing the words out. "I think you might belong with me," I confess. Bird blinks again. "It's just a theory," I mumble, wondering now if I've done something horrifyingly stupid.
7:38 p.m.: "Christ," my sister remarks unhelpfully.
7:39 p.m.: "Oh," says Bird. She reaches up, brushing her thumb across my temple. "Your wrackspurts are gone," she muses. I exhale shakily. "So," I attempt, "what do you think?" Bird tilts her head, but before she can speak a woman walks out of one of the bedrooms, dressed only in a t-shirt and her underwear. "Oh, oops," she says, exchanging a sheepish glance with my sister, and I frown, glancing at Amelia. "I thought you only had one roommate," I say, noting the particular state of undress of her guest. My sister's cheeks flame bright red. "Yeah, well, you fucked my best friend," she retorts.
7:43 p.m.: I don't bother to correct her, and in the midst of Amelia silently threatening me not to tell our mother, Bird pulls me past the half-scorched living room to her bedroom, shutting the door behind me. There's a lamp flickering in the corner, and I can just make out the painting of the night sky overhead. I can smell fresh paint; in the corner I see what looks like the newest edition: the constellation Draco, the dragon. I turn, glancing down at Bird, and she looks up at me. "I haven't been sleeping well since I left," she admits, and I lean down, bringing her lips to mine.
7:46 p.m.: She kisses me tentatively, and I wonder if she isn't more used to fleeing. I wonder, too, if she ran so that I wouldn't. I wonder what her secret neuroses are, what her little fractures will be, and determine that if this ends badly, then so be it. At least I won't have wasted any time. Bird pulls away, looking up at me, and fuck, those grey eyes might have haunted me for a lifetime if I'd let them. "I think we should test out your theory," she whispers. I kiss her again, and her hand drops to my zipper. I yank her shirt over her head, which is surprisingly only the third most impulsive thing I've done today.
7:52 p.m.: I stumble back onto her bed and she hurriedly climbs on top of me, shoving my trousers down. I'm not even undressed all the way, but she doesn't seem like she can wait, and neither can I. I may not last very long, but I can make up for it later. I plan to make up for it all night if I have to.
7:57 p.m.: The moment I slide inside her, everything around me fades away. I remember the way she said she liked my hands, and so I use them unrepentantly; I rest my fingers in the crevices of her ribs, I slide my palms against her waist, I brush my thumbs across her nipples. I curl my hands into the long strands of her hair, holding her with them, and she leans forward, giving me another tentative kiss. I cup her jaw, sliding my tongue against hers, and she shivers; I tell her with every way I know how that I'm not leaving this bed until she wants me to. I tell her, as firmly as I can manage, that I am here to stay.
8:05 p.m.: Sex is needy and frantic; it's entirely without restraint, all an arrhythmic series of onomatopoeic sensations: smack, pound, creak, moan, gasp. It's like the buzz of something between us; that same sense of fire I'm so uniquely accustomed to, of something lit ablaze. She whispers in my ear where to touch her and I do, I do, I do, everywhere and all at once, and the sound she makes when she comes is enough to satisfy me until it isn't, until it never will be, until I can't imagine not hearing the sound of her breath in my ear. Whatever this is, I hope it haunts me, I hope it hurts me, I hope it scars me, so that I remember what it took to bring me here. I hope it burns me like a dragon flame. I hope I live my life this way, ignited, and I hope that this—her and me and us, the way she fits around me, the way I wrap around her—is only just the start.
10:35 p.m.: We fuck with breaks; this is the sort of sex that requires a few intermissions, if only so we can breathe, and between the tasting of her on my lips and the grip of her fingers in my hair, I stop to look at her. "Why did you want to write about me?" I finally ask her, and she gives me one of her strangely alluring stares. "You may know creatures," she permits simply, "but I know stories. I know a good story when I see one."
10:45 p.m.: When I slide between her legs again, hitching them up around my hips, I tell her to write her story with mine, which is obviously corny and stupid, but she seems to appreciate the thought. I think to myself that corny and stupid will go a long way with her, and then, before long, I stop thinking altogether. This is sex in its purest form, and I don't intend to waste a moment.
DAY SEVEN:
6:40 a.m.: It's early when Bird turns to me in bed, settling her gaze on mine. "So," she says, "why'd you choose to come here?"
6:41 a.m.: I hold her closer. "I woke up, determined that this was the place in the world I most wanted to be, and deliberately carried on with that decision," I say. Funny how that seemed a strange way to live my life only a matter of days ago, but she nods as if it's reasonable. "I don't really know what to do now, to be honest," I tell her, as there are certainly no dragons to be studied here. Bird considers it. "Well, what did you like best about your job?" she asks me. Joan pops into my head; she and John will be heading to work around now, and I find the thought oddly comforting. I consider that Joan is going to start the day using the spells I taught her; she'll be caring for the creatures that I showed her how to live beside.
6:44 a.m.: "Teaching," I admit.
6:45 a.m.: "Well, they're looking for teachers at Hogwarts," Bird says. I'd never thought of teaching as an option, but the moment she says it, the idea settles comfortably in my brain; almost as if it had just been sitting there languidly, waiting to be brought out and presented to me for consideration. "That's an idea," I murmur, letting it take root.
7:34 a.m.: Later, I know, I'm going to have to do things like go see my brother Francis, call my brother John, owl my former professor. I'm going to have to find a place to live. I'm going to have to sort out the messy details of my life. I'm going to have to settle somewhere, and despite what I've so long thought of myself and the people around me, the prospect of that seems more singularly exciting than any place I've ever explored. For now, though, I watch Bird hitch her heels up, sliding her hand down her torso. "What are you doing?" I ask her, and she glances over at me. "Masturbating," she says, without any sort of hesitation. "Do you mind if I think about you?" she asks hopefully.
7:36 a.m.: "You realize we could just have sex," I remind her, a little insulted, and she looks bemused. "You seemed a bit physically exhausted," she says, as if she's genuinely concerned about my health, "and I didn't want to inconvenience you." Fuck, she's weird. She's so fucking weird, and I don't think anyone else will ever compare. I can't wait to fall in love with her, however long it takes; days, weeks, months. Hours, even, because I really don't think it will take long—but still, I hope I savor it. I think I'll have my greatest adventures while falling in love with her, and I hope to god it lasts.
7:41 a.m.: Instead of arguing, I simply reach a hand over, sliding it between her legs. In response, she lets out a blissful sigh, closing her eyes.
7:42 a.m.: I'm going to spend the rest of the morning exploring her, I decide. The rest of the world will have to wait.
a/n: Happy new year, my loves! Wanted to get this out as my last post for 2017, so will have to skip the dedications. Double next round. Thank you for another amazing year, and see you in 2018 (barring last minute locusts and plagues)!