a/n: There are more characters than usual in this diary. I did my best to signpost them clearly, but try to pay more attention to the names than you normally might.
Episode XIII: The Underdog Who Wasn't Expecting That Left Hook
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 former war hero deals with a past love, a family meltdown, and a highly uncertain future: 22, male, straight, in a casual relationship.
DAY ONE
8:17 a.m.: I wake up groggy and exhausted. Yesterday wasn't a great day for me; I'm an Auror, and the whole department's been especially busy with a boring but time-consuming case that mostly has to do with financial crimes. I've also been seeing a girl for a few months now, but we don't generally spend the night together. I was at her place until two last night, and now I'm paying for my late hours. Bloody hell, I look shit. Good morning, world.
8:35 a.m.: "You look shit," says my best friend, who I live with. I'll call him Ferris. He grew up with muggles, which has afforded me the very odd and surprisingly enjoyable experience of an entirely different world, and specifically a class of films from the 1980s that seems to generally feature miscreants getting into trouble. Ferris Bueller's Day Off, for example, is about a charismatic, much-beloved young man who wrecks shit entirely for most of the adults involved, and is therefore, not surprisingly, one of Ferris' favorites. I like the muggle films Ferris shows me from that particular time period; they're perfectly straightforward. The good guys always win. People who are twats get aptly punished for their twattery. People who belong together end up together, just like that. Everything pieces itself together so cleanly in the films, but in my experience, life isn't really like that. My life's certainly messier than I'd like it to be, personally, and I often suspect I peaked some time around sixth year at Hogwarts. "Oh, and happy birthday," Ferris adds, grinning at me over his coffee.
8:45 a.m.: I groan into my mug as Ferris informs me that my mother has invited him to a family dinner she claims to be hosting in my honor Saturday night, though I doubt that's true. More likely she's celebrating my older brother officially moving back from Romania, which is fine. Or it would be fine, that is, except I definitely don't want to go, and I still haven't asked my maybe-girlfriend (?) if she wants to meet not only my highly embarrassing parents, but all of my siblings and their respective dates as well. Bloody fuck, at least I have someone, even though my mum's probably inviting my ex to come along. Awkward. "Are you bringing someone?" I ask Ferris, and he shrugs. "Nah," he says, "I don't need to subject your mum to that. I know she's still hoping I get back with Sloane"—(my younger sister, and the one-time Sloane to his Ferris)—"so it doesn't seem right, really." I shrug. Sloane's got a girlfriend now, actually, but I'm not sure Ferris knows that, so I don't bring it up. "Cool," is all I say, taking another loud sip of coffee.
9:01 a.m.: Eventually I pull myself together and Ferris and I head to work, where we're both Aurors. He's heading up this financial crimes case—his first big case on his own—and the minute we get into the office, he disappears under a pile of paperwork. I, however, head to my desk in the Auror bullpen, chatting with some of the others before sitting down to my work. For the record, I don't envy Ferris for being promoted faster than I was, even though I've certainly envied him a lot of other things in the past. He works harder than I do (at this, anyway) which I assume is partly because he wants it more. I sometimes suspect it was a mistake for me to pick his same occupation; after all, I've been his sidekick most of my life. But then again, by that logic, why stop now? It's worked well enough for me in the past.
11:20 a.m.: Eventually I get to work. I like my job, but it's a lot more paperwork than I was expecting. I guess not everything can be a horcrux hunt—not that I was particularly good at that, either. With all the departmental memos and to-be-filed casework, I almost miss an owl from my maybe-girlfriend. I'll call her Samantha, like the girl in Sixteen Candles, who is basically an intelligent, no-nonsense person I'm extremely lucky to be with. She and I went to the Yule Ball together (to catastrophic failure on my part, I might add—but what else is new, honestly) and we reconnected a couple of months ago after I got a little too drunk at a club with my sister. Maybe the problem is that I find it hard to call someone my girlfriend when the relationship began with me vomiting in their shoes? Unknown. 'Happy birthday,' Samantha wrote, reminding me of our dinner plans this evening. I know I just saw her last night, but still. I'm looking forward to it.
12:05 p.m.: Three of my siblings live or work close to Diagon, and today they meet me for lunch. First is the oldest, the brother I'll call Jake (the perfect male specimen from Sixteen Candles, which I guess would make his gorgeous French wife Caroline, though she didn't join us today); then my brother Kevin (from Home Alone, which is about a child who terrorizes two foolish burglars and is therefore not unlike my prankster of a brother, who owns a joke shop); and lastly, my sister Sloane, who smacks me on the rear and congratulates me on my birth. "Happy day of expulsion from Mum's vagina," she says, which is revolting. I make a face, and my brother Kevin claps me on the back. "Yikes," he pronounces gravely, which is a highly correct sentiment.
12:45 p.m.: It's nice to be around my siblings, even if they're noisy and very much the worst. "So," Sloane announces, "should we decide which of us gets to scandalize Mum at your birthday party?" We all groan; we know she's dating a woman (Samantha's twin, in fact), but far be it from us to want our mother to sort that out. "What's your scandal?" I ask Kevin, who shrugs. "Older woman," he says matter-of-factly, though he hardly looks ashamed. "Luckily Jake's got nothing to worry about," Sloane adds, gesturing to our married oldest brother, who's been oddly silent. "Yes, well, I scandalized our mother a long time ago," Jake says distantly, and Kevin laughs, though I'm not totally sure it was a joke.
1:15 p.m.: Lunch goes a little long, but we part ways once Kevin decides he's going to responsibly return to work at his shop; apparently he's looking into an opportunity to buy out the Zonko's that's been at Hogsmeade forever. "Having to look over the books first, but it could be a great opportunity," he says, which is surprisingly un-Kevinlike talk. I guess having an older woman suits him. Sloane, meanwhile, adds that she has a World Cup publicity event (she's on the English National Team, and I'm mostly proud of her when I'm not wildly jealous) and I stand up, expecting Jake to make his excuses as well. Instead, he joins me on my walk back to the Ministry. "I have to talk to Ferris," he explains, which is odd. Very odd. "About what?" I ask him, and he hesitates. "I don't think I should say," Jake tells me, "but I know something about one of his cases." Uh, okay. Obviously this is highly questionable, but he doesn't go into detail, and I know better than to ask.
1:21 p.m.: Back to work. Just have to make it to five.
3:49 p.m.: It's really quite unfortunate that I can do magic, and yet my ability to control the pace of time remains completely out of reach.
4:09 p.m.: An owl drops a note and a package of my favorite sweets on my desk from my ex, who works upstairs. I'll call her Diane, after the brainy, cultured girl from Say Anything, which is another very relatable classic in which a low-achieving dope is just endearing enough to win the girl of his dreams. Her note is long and slightly rambling, but the gist is that the second half of her birthday gift to me is that she's going with Ferris to my mother's dinner rather than [insert pointy blond boyfriend's name here], which is brilliant news. Diane works with Samantha and my sister Sloane on a magazine they all started together, so she and I see each other relatively often. We bounced back from our relationship fairly well, which ended mostly because we had feelings for other people. We like to mutually pretend it was something more nuanced and complex than that, though. War trauma, maybe? Sure—that.
5:00 p.m.: Finally. I practically sprint out of the Ministry, stopping momentarily by Ferris' office to alert him I'll be out tonight. "Dinner with Samantha," I explain, and he nods, barely looking up. Poor bloke. Ferris and I had our own rough patch a bit ago when he and his ex broke up; I'll call her Claire, like the princess from The Breakfast Club. Claire told Ferris that she and I had slept together, which we hadn't (...yet), and which made for quite a resplendent mess. In fairness, though, I did kiss her. Actually, in total un-fairness, I often worry I may never forget that kiss as long as I live. I have my own history with her, obviously, but I'd rather not get into it. I try not to think about it, or her; it seems to set me back quite a bit every time I do. I don't know why I miss her. She really was a uniquely terrible human being.
6:04 p.m.: Samantha looks up as I come through the Floo, her brow creased as she stirs her paella. "Hi," she offers me distractedly, still staring at the stove. She has a tendency to want to get things right; I think it's cute. I kiss her cheek and she abruptly remembers the reason she was cooking to begin with. "Happy birthday!" she exclaims, and I laugh, wrapping my arms around her waist. She's sweet, kind, funny, smart. She seems to enjoy having sex with me, which was the missing piece with Diane, and she's not outrageously allergic to intimacy, which was the problem with Claire. I'm lucky to have Samantha. I'm really, really lucky she took me home from the bar that night.
6:15 p.m.: "Hey," I murmur, kissing the side of her neck while she stirs the paella. "Can dinner wait?" I ask, and I still can't believe my luck when she turns to smile at me, waving her wand to slow the dish's progress on the stove. "Absolutely," she says, and pulls me towards her sofa, the both of us falling back on top of it.
6:20 p.m.: Samantha shimmies out of her practical trousers and I tug her hips forward so that she's got both her legs around my waist. She has great legs, toned and smooth, and I kiss the inside of her knee as I slide my fingers under her knickers, stroking my thumb against her slit. She wriggles at my touch, one hand thrown casually over her head while her hair drapes across the sofa cushions. "It's your birthday," she reminds me, moving as if she'll sit up, and I shrug, holding her still. I don't care, honestly, and I lean forward, kissing her while I dive my fingers inside her and rub my palm against her clit. She lets out a whimper, and fuck, I love it. I spent a long time trying to ignite bare sparks of chemistry with someone who practically shrank from my touch, so yeah, this is kind of all I'm looking for. Samantha closes her eyes, and I watch her face as her hips shift to meet my hand. She's beautiful, and I love watching her breath quicken at my touch.
6:27 p.m.: "I'm supposed to be blowing you," she murmurs, and then moans again, and I laugh, kissing her swiftly. "This is all I want for my birthday," I tell her, and she's close now, I know. She's vocal and not particularly repressed, which I deeply appreciate. Her dark brow furrows and she snatches at the back of my neck as she comes, arching her hips up under my hand, and I'm… well, listen, I'm here for it. I'm here for all of it; the way I can see her nipples through the thin lace of her bra, and the way her neck elongates when she lets her head fall back, the way her lips part and her mouth falls open. I'd planned to focus on her a little longer, but I don't think I can wait. She yanks at my hips and I rise to my feet, kicking off my trousers.
6:31 p.m.: Samantha's more experienced than I am (though, that's really not saying much, considering I was with Diane for three years and only briefly with Claire before re-meeting Samantha) which is surprisingly great. I had some minor dalliances with people in the interim between girlfriend-adjacent beings, but I've learned, for the most part, that the partner can really make the difference. Diane wasn't very good about telling me what she wanted, but Samantha has no problem with it whatsoever. She puts my hands where she wants them, tells me where she wants to be kissed, maneuvers me around until we both figure out what feels good. By now, I have an idea of exactly what she wants, which is a relief. I never really knew what Diane liked (or if she liked anything), but I know exactly how to make Samantha come. She wants me to start slow and deep, so I do, rolling my hips against her. I've learned to never leave her clitoris unattended—a pity they didn't teach a charm for that at Hogwarts. I might have been a better student.
6:38 p.m.: Samantha comes quickly and shoves me away, repositioning me so that I'm sitting on the sofa. She clambers into my lap, sliding onto my shaft, and I shift her long hair to the side, kissing her neck. "You feel so good," I manage to say as she quickens her pace, bouncing on my cock, and she appealingly moans her approval, digging her nails into my chest. "Don't stop," she whispers as I meet her hips with mine, both of us starting to work up a sweat. To be honest, this is more physical activity than I generally get as a low-level Auror; I'm sort of lanky by design and frantic by nature, and part of me wonders if my continued insatiability has to do with me not really being in motion during the day. Whatever the case may be, I'm certainly not out of shape, and after Samantha comes a second time I pick her up and shift her around, setting her on her back. She pulls at my hair, puts her lips near my ear, and says something—my name, mostly, plus a few choice compliments on my dick—and I come with a sputter, trying not to collapse my entire weight on top of her.
6:57 p.m.: Samantha gives me a couple of minutes of naked spooning before nudging me away. "Dinner," she reminds me, and I admire the shape of her as she leaps up from the sofa, wiggling back into her clothes. Bloody hell, she's beautiful. She's beautiful, she's smart, I enjoy spending time with her—I don't know why I'm so hesitant to move forward. It's not that I'm not serious about her, seeing as I'm not seeing anyone else, and as far as I know, neither is she. I guess part of me isn't willing to experience the same failure I had with Diane; to be honest, that whole ordeal is still upsettingly fresh. "You coming?" Samantha calls, and I rise to my feet with a smile, wandering over to open the bottle of wine she's picked out for us.
7:58 p.m.: Dinner is delicious. I'm a little tipsy and a lot happy, so I finally give into my more optimistic instincts and ask Samantha if she'd like to come to my mum's dinner. "It's mostly a party for my brother," I explain, hedging a bit, but Samantha stops me, giving my hand a squeeze. "I'd love to," she assures me, and she does look pleased. I wonder for a second if she's going to ask me any more questions (if, by some chance, we have to have some sort of Talk) but she doesn't, and I find I'm grateful. I lean over and kiss her, and she smiles against my lips.
9:35 p.m.: We're both a couple of glasses in and stumbling into her bedroom. "Don't keep me up too late," she whispers, "I have a lot of contracts to review and I was a mess this morning." I mumble something like agreement, certain I can put my mouth to better use elsewhere, and we both fall back against her bed.
9:53 p.m.: We're full and a little drunk, so it's that sort of comfortable, lazy sex this evening, more slow and intimate than rough and needy. I go down on her until she comes with a little mewl of gratitude before I slide up to let her curl in my arms, parting her legs and throwing one thigh back over my hip as I enter her from behind. My view of her body from here is ideal; I roll her nipple between my fingers lightly, thumbing over it, and then slide my hand down, working at her clit while I slowly ease my cock in and out of her. We settle into each other's rhythms, her hips matching the pace of mine, and then my hands explore the planes of her stomach, running along the curves of her breasts as she reaches back, holding my head still to kiss me. She tastes like wine and strawberries and I come just after she does, holding my breath before sighing into her mouth.
10:35 p.m.: "You could stay the night," Samantha whispers to me, turning on her other side to face me as she places her hand on my waist. "If you want to," she amends, and I hesitate. I'm comfortable, sure, and it'd be a hell of a lot easier to just stay here, but the truth is that the thought of staying the night vaguely terrifies me. I don't want to tell Samantha that the last time I fell asleep with a woman in my arms, it broke my heart to open my eyes and let her go. "Better not if you have work tomorrow," I say, and I kiss her as meaningfully as I can manage.
10:41 p.m.: She's already falling asleep, so I brush my lips against her forehead and thank her for my birthday dinner before tiptoeing out of the room. I cast a few cleaning charms before I leave—my mum may prefer my brothers, but at least she trained me better than to leave dishes in the sink—and then I head through the Floo for home.
10:56 p.m.: Ferris is sitting in the kitchen and I pause before heading up to my bedroom. He looks troubled. "Just tired from the reparations case," he assures me in explanation, waving a hand, and I nod. I pause, about to leave the room, and then back up, pausing next to him. "Is she okay?" I ask quietly. I don't think I have the constitution for any more words, and certainly not for any higher volume. Ferris smiles weakly. "I wondered whether you were going to ask me," he says.
11:12 p.m.: The reparations case isn't purely a financial crime; it's a criminal conspiracy case that includes allegations of murder. The victim is a former Death Eater, and the beloved father of Claire, the girl I—well. I still don't know what to call her. I've been worried about her for a while now; her father had a degenerative mental condition and he died last week. Murder or not, she must be devastated. The moment I read about it, I wanted to drop everything and run to her, but I highly doubt I'm the person she wants to talk to. Besides, she's probably turned to someone else for comfort by now; she's never alone for long. "She's handling it as well as could be expected," Ferris tells me, and looks up. "By the way, her testimony is tomorrow," he adds innocently, "if you wanted to come."
11:15 p.m.: I ask him why on earth I would come and he merely shrugs. "It's going to be a hard day," is all he says. "She has you," I point out, and he shakes his head. "I'm the Auror in charge of stripping her fortune and investigating her father's death," he clarifies slowly, "so I'm not really what I could call a comforting presence." A valid point, albeit not helpful.
11:47 p.m.: Eventually I fall into bed and hope I'll manage enough sleep to not look like an Inferius again tomorrow, but it seems unlikely. I'm worrying about Claire again; I haven't heard from her in months. Not since we—well, not since it ended. Which is a laugh, honestly, because it was hardly anything. It was a few weeks of friendship, maybe? Of closeness, and then some terrible, undeniable wanting, and then… a few nights in her bed. Most people would call that nothing. Hard to think that needing to talk to her before I fell asleep or wanting to hold her while she fell apart was somehow 'nothing,' but I suppose it technically was.
12:01 a.m.: I think about sending Claire an owl, but I know I shouldn't. If she wanted me, she would have said something to me by now—and anyway, I'm with someone else. I'm with someone I care about, and I already know I wouldn't be able to explain to Samantha why I felt the need to talk to Claire in the middle of the night, so I shouldn't do it. I shouldn't.
12:45 a.m.: I shouldn't worry about Claire at all. She can take care of herself, I know. I have a history of being involved with women who are better and more capable than me in every possible way, and she is no exception.
1:31 a.m.: I knock on Ferris' door and he opens it slightly, squinting blearily at me. "What time is her testimony?" I ask, and he gives me something of a smug look. "Ten," he says, and then he shuts the door, and I finally make it back to bed.
DAY TWO
8:34 a.m.: When I come downstairs, I find half a pot of coffee waiting for me but no Ferris. I know Claire's the primary witness in his case, so this must be a big day for him. I put on a nicer set of robes than usual and head to work a little early as well.
8:45 a.m.: Good thing I left early. The Ministry is already swamped with journalists. Seeing as this case could take down a lot of high-standing purebloods, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.
9:57 a.m.: I'm about to head into the usual Auror chambers when I get a scribbled owl from Ferris: 'Wizengamot courtroom.' Wizengamot? They must have let in quite an audience. I sprint for the lifts.
10:03 a.m.: I'm not the only one late, nor am I the only one who doesn't belong here. There's a full crowd of people waiting to hear Claire's testimony, and I can barely see her from where I'm standing at the back of the room. She's sitting upright, poised as always, in a plain, somewhat severe green dress; her hair is pulled back in some sort of low configuration and I can see the glint from her necklace. It's her father's signet ring, I know, and briefly remember the way it looked in the morning light, which isn't helpful. Luckily, I'm distracted from that observation almost immediately; for one thing, my oldest brother Jake is here, blending into the corner, but more alarmingly, so is my ex Diane. I recall at the last second that Diane is serving as the defense attorney for the accused murderer, which happens to be her new boyfriend's mother—even though the main witness for the case is Claire, Diane's business partner. No wonder this case is so sensational… forget the Daily Prophet. Witch Weekly must be eating this up.
10:25 a.m.: Right from the start, this is brutal. "I don't have anyone to protect anymore," Claire says when the prosecutor questions her about why she's coming forward now instead of a year ago. "My father is gone," she explains, her voice stiff and unwavering, "so what does the money matter? I should have come forward sooner, but I made him a promise." "You were coerced," the attorney begins to tut sympathetically, but Diane rises to her feet, instantly shouting an objection; something about 'leading the witness,' I think (though all I can think about is the way it's just like how she shot her hand in the air to answer questions in class). "This isn't a trial," the prosecutor reminds Diane impatiently, and she glares at him. "Just do your job," she says, her voice clipped and bothered.
10:55 a.m.: Claire's testimony points to one of the most notorious former Death Eaters as the instigator of a mass effort to hide money from the Ministry. Interestingly, it's his wife that's on trial, not him, and for a moment it seems like there's nothing more to say until Diane stands up, a look on her face that's discomfitingly similar to the one she made right before she lit one of our teachers on fire.
11:06 a.m.: I'd almost lost interest entirely until Diane abruptly asks Claire if she was sleeping with the Death Eater she's now accusing of both murder and criminal conspiracy. Claire used to call him the King; I suppose I should, too (much as I'd rather call him something more accurate, like 'filthy pond scum'), which makes Diane's client the Queen. "Isn't it true that you were having an affair with the King?" Diane asks brusquely, and for a moment, Claire's face goes pale. I can see the journalists furiously scribbling, and somehow, in her hesitation, Claire's gaze finds mine. I know the answer is yes, I know it has nothing to do with the case, I know she physically can't lie—but still, I silently implore her not to say anything. "Yes," Claire says slowly, "that's true. I was in a sexual relationship with him for a time." The subsequent outburst of whispers in the courtroom is violent and sharp.
11:16 a.m.: I watch in disbelief as Diane continues to slam Claire with questions; "Isn't it a fact that you have a compelling reason to want your former lover and his wife to suffer?" seems to be the general crux of the issue, but I can't understand why Diane's doing it. Claire's hand repeatedly flies towards her necklace, a nervous tic of hers, and though her expression reveals little, I know her better than that. I know she's seeing the articles they'll write about her. She's watching her reputation circle the drain while she insists that no, it wasn't just sex; yes, she loved him, or thought she did; yes, she knew he was married; no, she wasn't thinking about his wife; no, she didn't make this deal to destroy him; yes, she knew it would save herself but no, of course she didn't know it would come to this, how could she possibly have known it would come to this?
11:47 a.m.: When Diane finally stops pelting Claire with questions, Ferris clears his throat and calls for a break. Claire looks up, her dark eyes finding mine for a second, and though I have a moment to say something to her—to mouth it, at least, over the tops of the crowd's heads—nothing comes to mind, and she tears her gaze away as Ferris leads her out of the chamber, removing her from the public eye. Without thinking, I shove through the crowd, heading for the lawyers.
11:50 a.m.: "What are you doing?" I hiss at Diane, who looks startled to find me at her elbow. "Why did you—" "Look, I didn't enjoy that either," Diane interrupts me stiffly, and then drops her voice, concealing the motion of her mouth. "Everyone knows this is the King's doing, but the Queen is insisting on taking the fall for him," she whispers harshly to me. "If the King is guilty, then the Queen is guilty by extension—so if I'm going to keep her out of Azkaban, then I have to make Claire look as unreliable as possible." "By doing what, calling her a whore?" I demand, and Diane flinches. "Stay out of it," she tells me impatiently, and adds, "It isn't personal, I'm just doing my job." "You're slandering her," I protest helplessly, and Diane's expression tightens to defiance. "I've been slandered plenty by the Daily Prophet," she reminds me coldly, "as have you and Ferris, and people always get over it." Not this, I want to say, because I know better; I have a gossipy mum, don't I? I know Claire can't come back from press like this—but Diane is clearly finished talking to me about it. "I warned Ferris," Diane says tightly, "but it's my only option to keep the Queen out of Azkaban."
11:51 a.m.: This is precisely the sort of thing that wouldn't happen in one of Ferris' films.
12:35 p.m.: I leave the courtroom sick to my stomach. I didn't think we were here to ruin lives; is this really what becomes of war heroes? Is this what adulthood is like? Doing what was necessary simply because it was bloody necessary always seemed like such an easy course of action before—but what happens when the sides aren't so clear? Ferris is a brilliant Auror, and Diane is a brilliant lawyer—and now, because they both did their jobs so brilliantly, at least one person's life is ruined beyond repair. I'm almost happy I'm such an underachiever compared to them.
1:45 p.m.: Eventually I join up with another Auror on a small criminal investigation; it's just some misfiled creature permits, so it's hardly a bust (it's no taking down Voldemort, obviously) but it's an excuse to get out of the office, so I take it. I don't think I can stand working at my desk right now.
5:35 p.m.: I arrive home smelling like thestral dung to find an owl from Samantha. 'Working late,' she says, 'but you can come over later tonight if you want.' I think about it, as it's a highly tempting offer, but I don't think I could possibly bring myself to go anywhere tonight. I write back that I'm tired from a day of creature-apprehending; hopefully it sounds more interesting than it was. 'Thanks for keeping our communities safe,' she replies in her wry sort of way, and I manage half a smile, though it feels more like a grimace.
8:44 p.m.: I wait up for Ferris, but he doesn't come home. He's either working late or with someone, or both. He's been seeing someone for a while, and while I know who it is, he's being characteristically private about it—which, ironically, reminds me of the first time I stumbled on Claire blithely eating toast in our kitchen, fairly early on in her relationship with Ferris. I suppose that really says a lot more about Claire than it does about Ferris.
9:05 p.m.: Eventually I decide to go to bed early. I'm itching to say something to Claire, but I don't know what. I'm angry at Diane, sort of, even though I can't actually blame her. I consider going to Samantha's, but I don't. Instead I just take a dose of dreamless sleep and close my eyes, willing myself to stop replaying the moment I caught Claire's gaze across the courthouse.
DAY THREE
5:37 a.m.: I'm awake and staring at the ceiling when I decide I'm stuck in something that feels like an old habit. Why does any of this matter to me? It shouldn't. I decide to get out of bed, wandering into the kitchen, where I find Ferris awake and staring blankly at the opposite wall. "Hello?" I ask, waving a hand in front of his face, and he blinks. He has the small rectangle he calls a 'cell phone' out, which is how he and Diane talk to each other when they're apart. It's one of their little muggle things. "So none of us can sleep, huh?" I prompt, gesturing to it, and Ferris gives me a weak, tired smile. "Used to be easier," he remarks.
5:55 a.m.: I remind him that there wasn't actually anything easy about running for our lives. "True," he concedes, "but it seems like I always knew what to do then, and now I don't." He throws a copy of the Daily Prophet across the table, and I can see that the primary picture is not of Claire and Diane, but of Diane and Ferris. 'War Heroes Face Off in Pureblood Financial Scandal,' says the headline, followed by a smaller picture of Claire below the fold, captioned 'Disgraced pureblood heiress confesses to financial crimes and unseemly liaison in shocking revelation.' "I don't know what to do," Ferris says, and I shake my head, no more certain than he is. "Is Diane just doing this for the Prince?" I ask, which is I guess the only thing I can think to call the haughty son of the King and Queen. "I don't know," Ferris replies.
6:15 a.m.: It occurs to me that there was a time when none of the three of us would've cared about any of these people. The reparations required by the Ministry were fair, we'd thought. We hadn't said much when they were passed, and why would we? What was money, right? We thought it was the least of what they owed to us, the ones who'd fought on the right side; the ones who died for their prejudice. But suddenly, this doesn't feel much like what we fought for.
6:20 a.m.: "I'm not coming into work today," I announce, and Ferris shrugs. "I wouldn't either if I could avoid it," he says, and then adds grimly, "but after yesterday, I'm being promoted." The cell phone makes an alarming buzz, and I jump, startled. "So is she, apparently," Ferris murmurs, looking even wearier as he gestures to a message from Diane.
7:34 a.m.: I intend to go back to sleep, but instead I send an owl to my brother Kevin, who owns the novelty shop in Diagon. For some reason, I just want to spend my day doing something straightforward; hanging out with my least complicated brother and keeping away from wizarding crime for a day. 'I'm working today,' he replies, 'but I'll be alone in the shop, if you want to help me.' Strangely (or maybe not so strangely), I do, and send him back a note confirming that I'll be there later this morning.
8:24 a.m.: When I come downstairs, Ferris is gone already. I head to Diagon through the Floo and immediately come upon a newspaper stand selling the latest copies of the Daily Prophet. I see the pictures of Diane, Ferris, and Claire and lose my mind a little bit, immediately turning to the witch at the stand. "I'll take all of them," I say, and she blinks. "What?" she asks. "Give me all these copies," I say, and search around in my pocket for as many galleons as I can find.
8:44 a.m.: I struggle into Kevin's workshop beneath a heavy pile of newspapers and he glances up, bemused. "What the—" "Nothing," I say brusquely, and deposit all the papers in his fire. He grins at me, which is unhelpful, but after a moment, I can't help laughing too. "You know there's a lot more newspapers than just that one stand," he informs me. I know, I know, I know. "I just had to do something," I insist gruffly, and he shakes his head. "Being a celebrated war hero's changed you, bro," he jokes, and I give him a shove. "Just give me something to do," I say, and he instructs me to restock the shelves in the shop. "I'll be out there in a bit," he adds, gesturing to some paperwork he's finishing, and I nod, heading out to load some pocket Sneakoscopes and a new display for Wandr (which is the dating contraption that I tried for a bit, but no longer use—obviously).
10:13 a.m.: By the time Kevin joins me in the shop, I've moved onto the shelves stocking the magazine The Human Interest, which is the one written and edited by Diane, Claire, Sloane, and Samantha, among others we know. "Flies off the shelves," Kevin tells me, and adds that the weekly column written by an anonymous woman called 'the Nymph' is especially popular. "That, and the sports updates," he adds, pointing to the articles our sister Sloane writes. "So," he adds casually as I flip through the pages, "what's brought you here?"
10:35 a.m.: I hesitate to answer; Kevin wasn't the easiest person to talk to when we were kids. Probably the result of him and his twin brother (who died during the war) once turning my teddy bear into a gigantic spider, which made emotional conversations somewhat… difficult. So I skirt the issue, complaining vaguely about how being an Auror isn't what I thought it would be. "Well, it's what we fought for, isn't it?" Kevin asks, grinning again. "We won ourselves the right to have boring lives," he muses, and it's strange to think of it that way, but I suppose he's right. I ask about his boring life and he mentions he has the money to buy the Zonko's in Hogsmeade, but he isn't sure he wants to. "I can't manage both stores," he says, "and I can't leave Diagon right now." "Why not?" I ask, and the corners of his mouth twitch. "I just can't," he says, and changes the subject, asking me about Samantha.
11:06 a.m.: Somehow, Kevin traps me into admitting that I'm not sure how serious things are with Samantha. "Maybe I just don't want to be serious with anyone after Diane," I suggest wildly, though even I think that sounds unlikely. I'm sort of a relationship person; I generally prefer to have someone than not. "Well, when it's the right person, I don't think you'll have any doubts," Kevin says sagely. I tell him it's unlike him to be so wise, and he shrugs. "Well, I also charmed your shoelaces to trip you," he says, just as I take a step and stumble clumsily to the ground.
12:14 p.m.: Kevin leaves to take his lunch and I wander into his office, which is extremely neat and orderly. It reminds me of how my desk used to look after Diane got to it, which probably means a woman usually works in here. I sit at the desk, contemplating lunch, and an owl taps at the window, jarring my thoughts away from sandwiches and revealing a note written to me. 'I'm sorry you had to see that yesterday,' the note says, in Claire's handwriting. My heart stops, but after a minute or so of panic, I ask her owl to wait.
12:23 p.m.: 'I'm sorry it had to happen. How are you?' I ask.
12:32 p.m.: 'Eh. I've been better,' she replies.
12:35 p.m.: 'I'm sorry about your father.' Underwhelming, but it's something.
12:38 p.m.: 'Why, did you kill him?' She's the worst.
12:41 p.m.: 'I just meant that I hope you're okay.'
12:43 p.m.: 'I know what you meant. It's just easier to be a dick.'
12:45 p.m.: 'True, you are good at that.'
12:49 p.m.: 'Well, you would know better than anyone, I suppose.'
12:51 p.m.: I write out the words I miss you and immediately throw the parchment away. 'I just want you to be happy,' I say.
12:57 p.m.: 'Well, I guess it's hardly a secret that I've pretty much lost everything. But that aside, I think I'm okay.' I know you are, I want to say, but all of this is so tenuous and difficult that I don't know what I can or can't say to her. When did I even start to care about her? Wasn't she just the girl I hated at Hogwarts, and then just the girl my best friend was dating after that? When did this happen? When she kissed me, I guess. No, before that. No, I sigh internally, it definitely happened before that. Somehow, she got under my stupid freckled skin.
1:08 p.m.: Kevin returns and I still have no answer for Claire, so I send the owl back empty-handed. I don't think I should say any of the things I'm thinking, so eventually I simply give up and get back to work.
6:15 p.m.: "You can go, you know," Kevin tells me, interrupting me while I'm fiddling with the charm on one of the flying toy birds he has on display. I didn't even realize how late it was, and he's grinning mercilessly at me again, which is a sure sign that he's done something to me while I wasn't looking. "What did you do?" I ask exasperatedly, and he shrugs. "I guess you'll see," he tells me, like the demon that he is. "See you at dinner tomorrow," he adds, giving me a fraternal shove towards the Floo.
6:29 p.m.: I head home and then pause, turning around. There's something else I have to do, or say, or simply just see for myself, so I take a handful of powder and call out Claire's name, heading back through the flames.
6:31 p.m.: Immediately, I collide with a charmed sign that says 'Property of Gringotts Bank.' Behind it, I can see the house is very nearly demolished; all the furniture is gone, the frames are hanging empty on the walls, and it looks as though the house has been thoroughly searched. I blink, startled, but clearly nobody lives here anymore. I don't know where to find her, and I am reminded (loudly) by my conscience that I shouldn't be looking for her anyway. She's not the one I should be running after anymore.
6:38 p.m.: "Hi," Samantha says when I walk into her Floo, looking pleased to see me. "I didn't think I'd see you today," she adds, and I tell her that I was with my brother today instead of going to work. She gives me a knowing sort of nod, walking towards me and spreading her fingers over the planes of my shoulders, easing the tension from them. "You haven't really been happy at work for a while now," she tells me, which for some reason startles me, even though it really shouldn't. I guess I've known that for a while myself, but I didn't think it was that obvious to other people. Maybe I misjudged her perception. That, or I'm much less subtle than I think, which is probably also true.
7:15 p.m.: I cook a meager bolognese for dinner while she tells me about her day. I make a point not to ask about Diane or Claire, but Samantha brings it up on her own. "They're being very cordial," she says carefully, reflecting on a meeting they all must have had yesterday, "but Sloane's not exactly being subtle about not liking it." Well, that's my sister. She's hardly ever subtle about anything. "Sloane thinks Diane shouldn't have brought up anything about Claire's personal life, but I don't know," Samantha says slowly. She's in magical law herself, so I figure she must know something I don't. A lot of things I don't, probably. "I think Diane did what she had to, and I think Claire knows that," Samantha concedes, "but really, the whole thing is ugly." I nod, and then I pour her a glass of wine, doing my best to change the subject.
8:36 p.m.: Eventually we're kissing on Samantha's sofa, her legs twined around me again. I know where this is going and she seems eager to get there, but when the moment arrives to escalate things, I pull away before I even realize what I'm doing. "What is it?" Samantha asks, brushing my hair back from my forehead, but even that motion pains me. Something, somewhere, is throbbing painfully through my limbs and my veins and my chest, and the last thing I want right now is sex. "Kind of nervous about tomorrow," I lie, but if she can see that I'm lying, Samantha generously plays along. "Worried I won't impress your parents?" she asks wryly, and I tell her no, I'm not worried about that in the slightest—they'll love her more than me, easily. "It's just a lot of vaguely unstable people in one room," I tell her, and she smiles. "Better get some rest, then," she suggests, and fuck, I'm lucky. I'm so bloody lucky, and I've never felt worse about it.
9:05 p.m.: I kiss her goodnight and head home. I think Ferris is here, but his door is shut. That's fine; I can't think what I would say. Out of nowhere, I suddenly recall one of the first conversations I had with Claire (a real one, other than "what are you doing in my kitchen" and "can you please not describe my best friend's dick like that? thanks," along with "of course I haven't seen it" and "because I just haven't" and also "PLEASE stop talking about it"). It was about how no matter what might happen to Ferris, Diane, and me in the future, I would always be the only one out of the three of us who ran when push came to shove. "It's amazing what you can't undo," I lamented to Claire, and she reminded me that it's not like I was actually trying to undo anything. "Are you just living some kind of echo of Ferris' life so you can continuously watch yourself fail to be him? There's no point punishing yourself," she'd said carelessly, in her sharp, flippant way.
9:27 p.m.: Well, she was always flippant until she wasn't. "Ferris and Diane didn't have wizarding families, wizarding names, not like we did—they were outsiders to this world. It was easy for them see everything that was wrong with it. But us? We were born to it. We had people to protect, bad blood to settle, vendettas to consider. We had centuries of precedent to determine how we acted towards each other—and honestly, how hard was it really for an orphan and a muggleborn to abandon their lives? Not very. Not very fucking hard at all. But you? Or me? We could never have turned our backs on what we were born into. Not easily. At least you did, eventually. Why would you punish yourself for that?"
9:56 p.m.: I never liked putting the cause before everything else. It never came easily to me the way it did to Ferris and Diane. Ferris and I were certainly never made up of the same hero material—so why am I here now, working his same job, living in his house, thinking about a woman that he loved first? No, I reason internally, scratch that last part. Whatever Claire's relationship with Ferris was like, I know that what she had with me was different. I know that much, at the very least, because she and I always saw ourselves as the cowards who were living in Ferris' shadow. She and I were the underdogs, and short of everything else, I'm positive we're both still trying not to be trampled by the weight of our own regrets.
DAY FOUR
11:15 a.m.: I sleep in this morning, planning a full day of doing absolutely nothing.
3:11 p.m.: Success! I've accomplished nothing. Eventually Ferris barges into my room, standing expectantly in the doorway. "Is this going to be a total disaster?" he asks me, and I stare at him, uncertain how to possibly answer. "I mean, I can only assume," I manage, and he nods, disappearing from view.
4:30 p.m.: Fast-forward (a thing you can do to muggle items and yet not magically in real life, which seems backwards) and I've managed to put on a decently respectable outfit, I think, before Samantha comes through the Floo. She's wearing a bright teal dress and looks stunning, but she also looks nervous. "Apparently your sister has convinced my sister to come," she grumbles. "Well, low pressure for you, then," I remark, and Samantha gives me a wry grimace. "Yes, I only have your ex-girlfriend to live up to," she mutters under her breath, and I frown, surprised, but Ferris walks in before I can say anything. "Shall we?" he asks, gesturing ahead.
4:55 p.m.: We arrive at my family home to find that a number of people are already there. Diane, for one, who is nodding uncomfortably as my mother presses her about something (no idea what, but it can't be anything good, and Diane nearly sprints to grab Ferris when we arrive) while my oldest brother Jake stands in the corner with his French wife, Caroline. They look sort of stiff with each other, but that's easy to forget as soon as I notice my second-oldest brother—who is really the reason we're all here, as he just accepted a job at Hogwarts after finally deciding he was done with training dragons in Romania. I'll call him Andrew, after the jock from The Breakfast Club (he is, after all, a quidditch star) and conveniently, the girl by his side can be Allison, the basket case. She's a blonde, waif-like friend of ours from Hogwarts who is probably best described as 'loony,' and she's also my sister Sloane's roommate. Alarmingly, she's holding my brother Andrew's hand, so I'm beginning to think we may have unknowingly entered a competition for who is going to be the most disruptive sibling here.
5:05 p.m.: I hear my brother Kevin's voice behind me and turn to find that he's talking to my third oldest brother (yes, I know, I have a lot of them) who I'll call Brian, after the nerd from The Breakfast Club. This isn't very remarkable until I realize that Brian also has someone on his arm, and then I see who it is. "Oh no," Ferris mumbles, and beside him, Diane goes slightly queasy-looking as she notices Claire standing at Brian's side. Immediately, my stomach ties itself in knots, and the room falls uncomfortably silent. "Oh," says my mother, faintly.
5:10 p.m.: "This is Claire," Brian supplies unnecessarily, as if we haven't seen the papers; well, in fairness, he's recently moved to Romania, so maybe he doesn't know the many reasons this is a terrible, unwakeable nightmare. "Well, the more the merrier," my father attempts brightly, and I'm positive my grip tightens on Samantha's waist, but I don't know what to say. I don't even know where to begin. My brother Jake clears his throat, gesturing to the kitchen. "We should get a bottle of something," he suggests, and my brother Andrew hastily nods his agreement. "We'll be back, Mum," they say, and leave us alone as we all try not to stare at Claire and Brian. The only person who seems to be successfully avoiding eye contact is Caroline, Jake's wife, though I suppose that makes sense. She was never very interested in any of us to begin with.
5:14 p.m.: "It's very tense in here," Allison chirps, her wide grey eyes slightly vacant. "Is it because—" "Oh my god, don't say anything," Sloane blurts out quickly, hastily tugging Allison into the corridor.
5:17 p.m.: "You didn't tell me Claire was dating my brother," I say to Samantha, who looks up with surprise. "As far as I know, she isn't," Samantha says with a hint of impatience, "though even if I had known that, I didn't realize you would care." "I don't," I say quickly. "I just—your whole magazine staff is here," I point out, waving a hand around the room, and to that, Samantha spares a wearied nod. "Yes, I suppose we could have discussed that matter beforehand," she agrees glumly.
5:37 p.m.: Eventually Jake and Andrew have distributed glasses of something—I barely care what, and nearly drain it in one gulp—around the room, and my mother is frantically trying to put us at ease. "Why don't we eat?" she suggests, but when she looks around for my father, we realize that Jake is speaking to him in a low voice. "What's going on?" asks my mother, who has a nose for gossip, and bizarrely, Jake and Caroline exchange a glance. "Nothing," Jake says quickly, but my father never could hide the guilty look on his face. "Tell me what's going on right now!" my mother insists shrilly, and Jake glances at Brian before gesturing to speak privately to my parents.
5:39 p.m.: Jake goes, then my mother and father, then Caroline—and then Brian? And then Andrew—"What's going on?" I demand loudly, stepping forward, but to my surprise, Ferris pulls me back. "Don't," he warns, his voice sounding oddly informed, and then he looks up, meeting Diane's gaze. She nods, and then gestures for us to go into the hallway. Needless to say, I am not pleased. "What the—" "Just come here," Ferris says, giving me a brisk tug forward.
5:48 p.m.: "Jake is a witness in the Queen's case," Ferris explains, and I frown. "Why?" I ask, and Ferris and Diane exchange another glance. "It's sort of, um—" "WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'RE SEPARATING?" comes my mother's shrill voice, and Ferris sighs. "Well, it's probably just going to come up, then," he growls under his breath, as from the kitchen, the voices continue.
5:51 p.m.: "Some things are going to come out about me during the trial," my brother Jake's even voice is saying, "some much worse things than this, and I just wanted to be sure you were prepared for it before it happened—" "WHAT COULD BE WORSE THAN DIVORCE?" my mother wails, and I look at Claire, whose eyes are wide. Something else is said at a mumble, and then an incoherent, garbled sound that's almost a mournful moan pierces the house as my mother continues, "WITH HER? AND WHAT WERE YOU DOING WHILE HE WAS SLEEPING WITH—WHAT DO YOU MEAN BRIAN?"
6:12 p.m.: There's so much shouting that I hardly notice that Claire has slid over next to me. "So, this is going well," she remarks, and I turn to glance at her, taking a good look at her for the first time in several months. She's less done up than usual, and she's wearing a dress I've seen before (a rare thing for her, though I suppose she is down a considerable fortune now) and she looks incredibly beautiful, her cheeks slightly flushed as her dark brows remain arched, amused. This, of course, kills me. She's amused, she's here with my brother, and these thoughts in juxtaposition make my heart ache, and ache, and ache. "My brother, really?" I mumble to her, unable to prevent it, and she looks up, frowning. "Aren't you listening?" she asks me, and I can't bear to tell her that of course I'm not listening; my heart's been breaking since she walked in the room, so what the bloody fuck would I be capable of listening to?
6:15 p.m.: "I'm not involved with him," Claire tells me matter-of-factly, "we're just friends. He just needed a friend here, because he knew he had to watch Jake and Caroline be together, so—" "Wait, what?" I demand, blinking, but her brow furrows. "I didn't think—I thought you'd know," she says, and I hold my breath, even as the shouting gets louder from the kitchen. "You told me not to go to anyone else for comfort," she remarks with a quiet laugh, "so I haven't."
6:21 p.m.: I'm staring at her, completely unsure what to say as her brow furrows, and I realize that my mother's yelling has not remotely eased. "A MARRIED WOMAN, JAKE? I KNEW THIS MARRIAGE BETWEEN YOU WAS A MISTAKE! YOU WERE SUCH A GOOD BOY, AND WHAT DID SHE DO TO YOU—" "Don't talk to Caroline like that," my brother Jake's voice cuts in, louder and sharper than I can ever recall having heard it. I glance at Ferris, who is pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose, and Diane, who is wearing her best frightened-deer expression. "I was worse than she was, much worse," Jake continues. "I barely waited before I started sleeping with a much younger married woman, actually, and there's a good chance that's all going to come out in any testimony I give too, Mum—" I turn to ask Claire what's going on, but I realize she's gone. Then, alarmingly, I realize she's heading into the kitchen, and before I even know why I've done it, I've chased after her, sprinting in her wake.
6:24 p.m.: "You're the one?" Claire demands from Jake angrily, and I worry for a second about what may have happened between them, but he merely frowns at her, bewildered. "You slept with my best friend!" Claire exclaims, and in typical fashion for me today, I fail to see it coming when Claire winds up, slamming her slender fist directly into the side of Jake's jaw. My mother gasps—everyone gasps, I gasp, I'm pretty sure dead Voldemort gasps—and then I lunge forward without another thought, taking hold of Claire with one arm around her waist to drag her backwards from my brother. "She loved you, you idiot!" Claire shouts at Jake, and in her struggle to continue admonishing him, she smacks her elbow into my eye, sending me doubled over with a groan before she whirls on me, instantly apologetic. "Sorry, oh my god, I'm so sorry—" "WHAT IS GOING ON HERE," my mother sobs, throwing herself into my father's arms.
6:29 p.m.: Claire yanks me from the room, having forgotten whatever she was angry about (my brother sleeping with her married best friend, I take it) and smoothing her hands on either side of my face, checking me for damage. "It was just an elbow," I tell her gruffly, and her eyes widen. "But—but your face—" She conjures a mirror and I look into it with a groan, shaking my head. "This is Kevin's doing," I assure her, noticing that both my eyes are a deep-set shade of violet that comes from one of his signature pressure-induced charms, designed almost exclusively to make me look stupid.
6:34 p.m.: "This wasn't you," I promise her with a laugh, and she lets out a breath, growling her disgruntled disbelief until we're both laughing, half-clinging to each other. At first it's breathless gulps of laughter, heaves of it, until she slowly starts to shake; then, suddenly, the gasps turn to tears, and she's crying in my arms. I pull her into me without hesitation, soothingly stroking her hair, and she collapses against my chest, her fingers tightening in the material of my shirt.
6:39 p.m.: "I'm sorry," she whispers, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—" "For what?" I ask, shifting to look at her, and she is a bloody glorious mess, her hair charms fading and her makeup smeared as she tilts her chin up to look at me. "For punching your brother in the face," she mutters, and for a second, everything stops as I rail against pressing the need to kiss her so firmly it sends us both back in time.
6:40 p.m.: "Is that all you're sorry for?" I ask her, my mouth dry, and Claire shakes her head. "No," she says, and doesn't say more. But really, I don't need her to say more. I'd forgive her anything, I know I would. I have before. It seems to be a habit I can't quite shake.
6:41 p.m.: I hear the sound of a throat clearing and look up to find Samantha standing there. I blink, and Claire pulls herself from my arms, swiping delicately at her eyes. "Sorry," she says to Samantha, "I was just—I was just having a minor breakdown. I should go," she adds, more to herself than to either of us. "Sorry," she says again, and disappears without saying more, wandering back to the living room.
6:45 p.m.: I let a few moments pass in silence. "Nothing happened," I eventually say to Samantha, and she sighs, shaking her head. "You know, I always knew there was someone else," she tells me, sounding at once fond and saddened as she runs her thumb over the charmed bruising on my face. "I thought it was Diane," she adds, gesturing to where my ex is probably still standing with Ferris in the living room, "but I always knew there was someone. I was just waiting to see if you'd tell me." I feel horribly, horribly guilty. "It's not like that," I promise Samantha. "I didn't know I still felt this way, and I—I never did anything with her, I swear, I didn't even speak to her for months, not until two days ago—" "It's not your fault," Samantha tells me, "but I can't just sit here and pretend everything's normal."
6:57 p.m.: Samantha withdraws her wand and taps my face, brushing her fingers over my cheeks again. "Kevin, I take it?" she asks, gesturing to the faux-bruising, and I manage a weak chuckle, pressing my lips to her palm as she curves her hand around my cheek. "I'm so sorry," I tell her, as meaningfully as I can manage it, but she shakes her head. "Just don't lie to me," she says carefully, and then looks up. "Are you in love with Claire?" she asks, and I shut my eyes. "Yes," I confess miserably.
7:01 p.m.: There doesn't seem to be anything else to say. Samantha leans forward and kisses me lightly, a careful brush against my lips, and then pulls out of my reach. When I open my eyes again, she's already gone.
7:17 p.m.: When I come back, Sloane is perched alone on the arm of Kevin's chair; I assume Samantha's sister went home with Samantha. Ferris and Diane are shoved into an armchair together, Diane's cheek resting on Ferris' shoulder, and Jake is standing beside Andrew, staring contemplatively at the floor. "So, to recap," Jake announces slowly, "Caroline and I are splitting up. She and Brian are living together in Romania. And I—" he sucks a laugh through his teeth, "I can't really afford to have any other secrets right now." Andrew rests a hand on Jake's shoulder, but I don't know where to begin with any of this, so I simply sink to the floor until Sloane holds out a box of something. "Biscuit?" she offers me, and adds, "Mum sort of, um. Destroyed dinner? With her wand. And also her hands," she remarks, chuckling as she bites into a biscuit. "It was really impressive, honestly."
7:24 p.m.: "Hold on," Allison says dreamily as I jump, not having noticed she was standing beside me. "Does this mean there are no more secrets? So can we finally talk about Sloane's—" "NO," Sloane yelps, frantically swatting at her, and I shake my head. I've had enough family drama for one day, and I pass through the Floo back to my kitchen without speaking a word to anyone.
7:45 p.m.: Ferris and Diane come through the Floo to sit on either side of me, Ferris' grip loose on my shoulder as Diane tentatively reaches for my hand. "Are you okay?" Diane asks me, and glances at Ferris. "We saw Samantha leave," she explains regretfully, and I exhale.
7:48 p.m.: "I have to quit my job," I say, and Ferris blinks. "Okay," he says, glancing questioningly at Diane, who signals for him not to argue. "Anything else?" she asks me gently, and I pause. "I also need to move out," I add, and this time, Ferris' brow furrows, dismayed. "Not because of you," I add quickly, reassuring him, "I just feel really stuck here, you know? Stuck on everything I've ever done wrong."
7:59 p.m.: After a few minutes, Diane rises to her feet, kissing my cheek. "I have to go," she says, making some excuse, but I know she's just leaving me to talk alone with Ferris. We watch her go, and then Ferris sighs. "I thought you were happy with Samantha," he tells me. I was, and I tell him so. "But Claire?" he prompts knowingly, and I grimace. "Just, with everything, with you, and Diane—the timing with Claire was bad," I say slowly, "and it could never have happened."
8:05 p.m.: "Timing's always bad," Ferris points out, sounding like someone who would know, but I shake my head. "You weren't speaking to me at the time," I remind him, and then I frown, remembering something I never really sorted. "Why did you believe I'd slept with her?" I ask him, referring to the reason he and Claire had broken up in the first place, and he shrugged. "I was pretty sure you were at least partially in love with her," he says, "and I guess it just seemed like an easy thing to believe."
8:15 p.m.: "She's different now," Ferris tells me about Claire, but I already know as much. She would never have taken responsibility for anything before, but now? I shake my head. "I want to take care of her," I remark with a mournful laugh, "and I'll always want to, but that's not what she wants from me." "Maybe not," Ferris agrees, "but just because she doesn't need you to take care of her doesn't mean she doesn't still need you."
8:31 p.m.: Eventually Ferris rises to his feet, letting out a slow exhale. "By the way," he adds, "Kevin's upset he missed your black eye. Eyes," he amends, chuckling. "Such a stupid prank," I growl disapprovingly, and Ferris shrugs, grinning. "You used to love those stupid pranks," he reminds me, and then he slides his hands into his pockets and heads up the stairs, nodding to me as he goes.
10:12 p.m.: I want to say something to Claire, but I can't imagine what. I consider writing something, but no words formulate. What good would we even be together, especially now that I have no idea what I'm doing next?
1:17 a.m.: What the bloody fuck am I going to do next?
2:25 a.m.: "Hey," says a voice from the kitchen and I turn, suffering a not-insignificant heart murmur as I nearly drop my glass of water. "Don't move out," says someone I'm going to call Cameron, a lanky, foul-mouthed arsehole who, for some reason I can't begin to fathom, Ferris seems to like. I'd be surprised to see him, but there's only so long Ferris and I can keep secrets from each other while we occupy the same house, so this one came out a couple of months ago. "Whatever you're trying to prove, you don't need to prove it to him," Cameron says, and I can't help a very Claire-esque scoff. "What do you care?" I ask bluntly, and he shrugs, rising to his feet. "You're his best friend," Cameron says, inclining his head slightly, and then he disappears without another word, heading up the stairs again.
DAY FIVE
8:34 a.m.: When I wake up, I still have no idea what I want to do. I figure there's about one other person in the world who probably feels worse this morning than I do, so I set out to visit him.
9:01 a.m.: "Hi," I say, walking through the Floo to find my oldest brother Jake standing shirtless in the middle of his living room, staring into what looks like a vacant corner. The whole house seems slightly emptier, actually, though I can't really sort out why for a few seconds until I realize that Caroline must have taken some of her things. "You okay?" I ask him, and he looks up, a little startled by my presence. "Yeah, I'm—" He pauses, thinking about it. "I can't really decide how I am," he says slowly, and I nod. I know the feeling. "I'll make coffee," I offer, and he nods, falling back onto the sofa as I wander into the kitchen.
9:32 a.m.: He tells me the truth about what's been going on with Caroline, and I have to say, suddenly my life seems a lot less fucked up. I echo my disbelief at random intervals ("an open marriage?" "... with her?" "... with HER?") but it seems to be helping him to talk about it, especially when he reveals why he had to tell our parents. "I can prove that the Queen didn't kill that Death Eater," Jake tells me, explaining that he was with her during the time they say it happened, "and I can at least make sure she doesn't get life in Azkaban, or worse." "But why her?" I ask, aghast, because Caroline was one thing, but the Queen is certainly another. Jake merely shrugs. "Don't tell me you've never gotten involved with someone you shouldn't," he comments expectantly, and I grimace. "Claire's not what she seems like," I say, and Jake shrugs. "Nobody is," he assures me.
10:14 a.m.: I ask if he's worried about our mum's reaction, and he shakes his head. "She'll be fine eventually," he says, "she just has an exceptionally clear vision of the lives she wants for us, and we keep letting her down. All except Ferris," he amends with a laugh, and I shake my head, definitely not about to bring up Cameron. "And what about Brian?" I ask carefully, wondering if there's any sort of feud between the brothers over Caroline, and Jake shrugs. "I think they really have something," he says slowly, "and I'm certainly glad that they'll both be at a safe distance once my name inevitably gets dragged through the mud."
10:26 a.m.: This makes me think of Claire again, of course. Part of me is itching to see her, but most of me knows this shouldn't be like last time; it can't be like last time. I can't just run to her and hide in her bed while I have my own mess to sort out. Again, I wish things were as easy to sort out as they are in the films, or even simply as easy as they were at Hogwarts, where there always seemed to be such an easy right and wrong answer. "I don't know what I'm going to do now," I tell Jake, and he shrugs. "I think you've earned the right to be lost for a while," he tells me, which ends up settling in my gut like a massive relief.
11:01 a.m.: Jake seems a little better after a while, and suggests that we go see our brother Kevin. I agree, having no better way to distract myself for the time being.
11:21 a.m.: Kevin is once again hard at work, though he doesn't seem to mind our interruption. "I'd hoped the bruising charm would kick in while you were apprehending someone," he tells me, lamenting that it was much less funny this way. "Though it wasn't entirely unfunny the way it happened," he concedes, brightening, and I roll my eyes. "Was it a one time charm?" I ask, and he nods, grinning. "Just something I'm refining," he tells me, and adds that he gets less time to do any inventing while he's busy running the store.
11:24 a.m.: "Did you end up buying out Zonko's?" Jake asks innocently, and Kevin shakes his head. "Deal closes tonight," he says, "but I think I'm going to have to say no. I don't have anyone to run it, and I can't travel back and forth that much." Suddenly, I realize why Jake's brought me here.
11:28 a.m.: "I can run it for you," I offer, and Kevin turns to me, still wearing that unbearable grin. He and Jake must have already discussed this; they both look equally amused at my expense. "Can you, though?" Kevin asks, and adds, "it's a very dangerous job." I sigh. "I'm a bloody Auror," I remind them, and Kevin laughs. "Oh, right, I forgot, he's highly skilled," he tells Jake, who nods solemnly. "Practically a seasoned warrior," Jake remarks into his hand as he curls it solemnly around his mouth. Needless to say, I both love and loathe my older brothers.
12:35 p.m: We agree that it'll be a couple of weeks before I actually move—I need to give my notice, and I want to wrap up some of my open cases before tossing them back to Ferris—but by the time I leave Kevin's store, I'm feeling freer, more hopeful. When Ferris and Diane are good at their jobs, someone else suffers by necessity. But if I can be good at this, I'll be working with my family, bringing a little more lightness into the world—and isn't that ultimately all we ever wanted? I recall what my brother Kevin said about how we fought for the right to a normal, boring life, and now, facing down that possibility, I've never been more optimistic. Maybe I'm not a hero, but the world sure is simpler when you're making people laugh.
5:23 p.m.: By the time I get home, I feel like I've worked towards something a little clearer. It occurs to me again that I want to talk to Claire, but my brain reminds me that I don't even know where to find her. More pressingly, I don't know if I can stand to have my heart break over her again.
6:57 p.m.: I'm sorting through my things, aimlessly wandering my bedroom and waiting for Ferris to come home when I come across that little box marked with the letters WANDR. I suddenly recall a story that Claire once told me about a woman and her destiny; that the girl presented with her destiny chose to suffer in her youth, so as to one day have a happily ever after. It occurs to me that maybe that's what Claire chose, and maybe it's what I should choose, too—to suffer now, so that maybe I'll be reasonably well-adjusted later. After all, I'm leaving, aren't I? I can't exactly confess my feelings only to announce I'm moving to Hogsmeade. I decide to spare her the trauma of subjecting her to my life and wave my wand over Wandr, waiting for the letters to appear on the screen. I definitely don't want to ruin her life, but I also don't particularly want to be alone.
6:59 p.m.: 'Are you ready to find love?' Wandr asks, and I look down. Clean t-shirt, clean-ish trousers—sure, close enough. "Yes," I say, and wave my wand again, disapparating to wherever (and whoever) it is Wandr has chosen for me.
7:01 p.m.: I'm there first, so I sit down and let my gaze rove around the room. It's a nice restaurant, small but comfortable, and for half a second I'm content to sit quietly and wait until I suddenly catch a whiff of perfume that smells, unsettlingly, like Claire.
7:02 p.m.: Abruptly, my senses are brutally flooded with the way Claire felt in my arms, and the precise framing of her lashes around her widened eyes. It's funny, really, that when I first saw her again after the war, I could have described her so easily. Dark hair, dark eyes, one of those noses that isn't quite right because it should be narrower, longer, more pleasing. But half the world has dark hair—and how rare are the color of her eyes, really?—only no one on earth looks like her. No one carries their pain the way she does, or surveys the room with her sharp perception, or looks at me with her sincerity (sees me, not my name or my siblings or my famous best friends but me, me, me) and all of a sudden my throat closes up as I register the terrible, terrible mistake I'm making—not even in being here now, or in trying helplessly to date, but in imagining that I can live my life without her; without telling her. I can't breathe, and I can't speak, and in the midst of my panic I rise to my feet, ready to disapparate.
7:04 p.m.: I collide with someone on the other side of the table, just catching their shoulders with my outstretched hands. "Fuck," says my Wandr date, straightening to glare at me, and in the moment her eyes meet mine, my heart stops.
7:05 p.m.: "Claire," I manage to say, half-choking on her name, and her brow hastily furrows and then smooths over. "I was trying to forget you," she tells me irritably, as if she's annoyed that she hasn't been able to, and I blink. "Why?" I ask, and then she blinks. "Because you're with—" She hesitates. "I thought you were with—" "I'm not," I say, swallowing hard. "Not anymore," I clarify, and Claire and I stare at each other. "Why not?" she asks softly.
7:08 p.m.: I can barely find the words. "Don't tell me you don't know," I determine eventually, and she shivers slightly, casting her gaze down to my chest and back up again. "Tell me anyway," she beckons like the princess she is, and fuck it. Bloody fuck it. I pull her into me and press my forehead to hers, one shaky hand around her cheek as I tangle my fingers in her hair with the other, drawing her chin up towards mine. "Because I would love you if you'd let me," I tell her, and feel her inhale sharply. "And if I were to let you?" she prompts, but I hesitate. I stare at her, wanting to believe I won't get hurt again, or at least hoping that the fact that we're both here somehow means something—even though it would have meant absolutely nothing if it had been anyone else but her.
7:10 p.m.: My proximity to her is killing me, but I can't bring myself to speak. Gratifyingly, she talks for me. "I kept hearing your fucking voice," Claire remarks, her fingers wrapping around my wrist where I'm holding her close. "Every time I thought I didn't need you, I kept hearing you telling me you were coming back, and I was—I couldn't—" She inhales again, closing her eyes, and then meets my gaze without faltering.
7:11 p.m.: "I wasn't ready then," she admits, and trails off. I want to ask her—to beg her—for what that means, but I can't. I can't move, and after a beat of torment, her mouth quirks slightly. "I'm ready now," she promises me, rolling her eyes as if nothing's ever been more obvious, and in victory, in triumph, in utter fucking ascendancy I bend my head, preparing to euphorically brush my lips against hers—just as a waiter clears his throat. "Are you ready to order?" he asks bluntly, and Claire and I turn to look at him before glancing at each other. I'm still not sure any of this is real, but impetuously, my stomach has the nerve to growl, awkwardly punctuating the fact that we're still in a restaurant.
7:14 p.m.: "Well, we've waited this long," I say helplessly, and Claire shrugs. "I could eat," she agrees, and my god, I could kiss her just for that, but I don't. Not yet. More fitting that way, I think. We always were a slow burn.
7:15 p.m.: The reflex to be close to her hasn't gone away. She and I speak similar languages, and when it comes to expressing thoughts of any kind, we both find them easier to say with touch. She orders some sort of salad while I play with her fingers across the table, and then she strokes my knuckles with her thumb while I mindlessly ask for some sort of, I don't know—chicken, I guess. Claire orders a glass of wine, I order a pint. It's all distressingly normal, and I realize again that this is precisely what I fought for: the right to sit across from a girl who once stood on the opposite side from me, and know there are no monsters coming for us, and no politicians trying to destroy us (aside from the ones we already know about), and yes, I may be leaving—but for right now there's nothing keeping me from holding her hand, so I do.
7:24 p.m.: "Tell me the truth," I say quietly, and Claire looks up at me, waiting. "How are you really?" I ask, and she gives me a hardened grimace. "I have nothing," she says. "No reputation that hasn't been smeared, no money that hasn't been taken, no family that I can turn to, no friends I haven't betrayed, except for one. And I shouldn't even be here—I can't afford it," she adds with a laugh, "but I was tired of taking up her space. I need to move on," she murmurs, "from everything. From all of it. From you, too, I thought," she adds, and pauses. "I think if I hadn't run into you like this," she confesses, "I would have slipped out in the middle of the night and never come back." It occurs to me to be grateful for my brother's invention, but I don't know—maybe I want to believe I would have managed to find her somehow regardless, with or without it. Maybe I've seen a few too many muggle films, but I like to think the universe wanted me to be here.
7:46 p.m.: Dinner loosens our tongues a little bit and I confess I wasn't particularly abstinent in Claire's absence. I thought she didn't want me; I had been so certain of it, and I was trying to move on. To forget her, to give her what she wanted. Claire laughs a little at my distress. "Your problems were never my problems," she says, and assures me that while I'd needed to see what was out there, she'd needed to prove she could be okay on her own. I remind her that while we were apart, she'd built a business; she cut out the people who were bad for her; she befriended her enemies (and worse, my sister); she was brave enough to volunteer the intricacies of her personal life for public consumption. Claire listens to my recollections of her accomplishments and nods to them, acknowledging them neutrally. "Still, I had to know I could stand alone before I tried standing with someone else," she says, and then spares me a rare truth: "And I wanted to believe you when you told me what I deserved," she says, discreetly eyeing her plate.
8:13 p.m.: I have her in my arms before I even realize I've gotten to my feet, hastily discarding my more reasonable impulse to wait for the right time or the right place. Her eyes widen with surprise, but I kiss her without hesitation, without pause. She closes her eyes, one hand rising to curl around the back of my neck, and I can feel every single piece of her, every inch of her that's pulsing in tune with me, with my breath, with my heart. She tastes like the tartness of the wine, citrus-sweet, and I fumble with my pocket to pay the bill when she stops me, shaking her head.
8:15 p.m.: "Let me get this," Claire says. I hardly feel she needs reminding that she's been stripped of her wealth by the Ministry, but I open my mouth to do it anyway until she shakes her head, placing her fingers against my lips. "Consider it a 'happy late-as-fuck birthday' gift," she tells me, revealing, astoundingly, that she even knew my birthday to begin with. Funnily enough, I opt not to argue. I didn't grow up with money, so I know better than most that resolving to spend what little of it you have on someone you care about is a uniquely rewarding thing; a blessing in a strange, circuitous way. So I take the offering, letting her set the galleons on the table, and then take her hands in mine, pressing my lips to her knuckles. "Thank you," I say, as honestly as I can, and I know it was worth doing. Her sharp gaze softens, and she rises up on her toes to kiss me again. "Stay the night with me," she says, and I don't even have to think. "Yes," I say, "bloody hell, yes."
8:28 p.m.: I apparate us into my bedroom and kiss her swiftly, barely able to wait until my feet touch the ground before pulling her into me again. "We don't have to have sex," I assure her, sweeping her hair back from her face, and she glares at me. "Don't be an idiot. I haven't had sex in months," she informs me, shoving me back on my bed and straddling me in one alarming motion. "I thought sex was easy?" I prompt, attempting to be suave, but she rolls her eyes. "No one was you," she accuses gruffly, and despite wanting to capture the words and hold them hostage indefinitely, my awe at touching her briefly suspends in favor of a sudden, gripping terror that this could all end too soon… again.
8:37 p.m.: "If I'm going to open my eyes in the morning and know that it's over, stop me now," I plead with her, and Claire pauses to sit upright, looking down at me with her hands flat against my chest. She shifts, the heel of her right hand pressing down into my sternum. "This means something to me," she promises me, swearing it over my heart, and I close my eyes, ready to engrave those words on my fucking tombstone.
8:41 p.m.: She yanks hastily at my shirt, eager to move forward, but I don't want to rush this. Instead I slide forward, shifting my shoulders under her legs, and press my lips to the fabric of her knickers, sweeping the broad plane of my tongue against the lace. She keens and shivers, letting out a whisper of a sigh, and I keep going, pressing my lips against her and then my tongue, first with the thin fabric between us and then, once I've slid it to the side, sucking lightly. She groans, and I slide my hands under her dress, burying my fingers in the bare skin of her thighs as she parts her legs wider, permitting me a better angle. "What do you want?" I ask between kisses, between touches and licks, and I hear her breath start to come in pants. "Want—to make you come," she manages, which is all well and good (and hot as fuck, fine, what do you want from me?) but any impending orgasm I may have is not presently my concern. I wait until she sputters out a cry, her legs tightening around my head, and once her breathing returns to normal I set her on her back, one of my hands sliding under her dress.
9:03 p.m.: "I want to feel you inside me," Claire says in my ear, biting lightly on the lobe of it, and holy hell, she's so fucking hot, but I don't give in yet. Not yet. Sex comes easily to her, sure, but I have something to prove. I shift around, pinning her hips in place while I stroke the swollen slickness of her pussy, my eyes locked on hers. I can see the strain of her breath and I watch the shape of her mouth, the parting of her lips, and surprisingly, I manage not to be distracted by the feel of her breasts rising to press against my chest, or the motion of her hips shifting restlessly beneath my hand. I'm focused, content to watch her face until she comes, digging her nails into the back of my neck and dragging my lips down to hers.
9:15 p.m.: I shift lower, about to go down on her again (I said I had something to prove, didn't I?) but she kicks me away, rolling me onto my back and pinning my arms down. "Unless your penis has suffered a recent injury," she growls, her dark hair falling in a curtain around her face, "you're putting it inside me. Now." "Or else what?" I ask indignantly, and she shimmies around on top of me, not even bothering to drag my trousers any lower than my thighs. "Like I'd let you live to find out," she scoffs, and after a collective inhale, she slides easily onto my shaft, both of us choking on anticipation.
9:32 p.m.: I missed her, everything about her. I missed the way she feels, the way she tastes, the way she sounds, the way she comes, the way she shivers against me, the way she fits so perfectly in my arms. I wanted it to be complicated—I assumed it had to be, because everything else was—but it's always been simple, hasn't it? I loved her, I love her still, I may very well love her until the end of time, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. What could be more simple than that?
12:17 a.m.: "Sometimes I think I peaked at Hogwarts," I say, stroking her hair where her head rests against my chest. She doesn't bother to laugh. She simply gifts me another of her regal scoffs and looks up, shameless, as she says, "Impossible. You hadn't fucked me yet at Hogwarts."
12:20 a.m.: Bloody christ, I'm fucking ruined for this girl.
DAY SIX
8:14 a.m.: I stir to find her sliding her legs out of the duvet, preparing to leave, and I suffer a sinking weight in my chest. I stare at the shape of her spine as she reaches down for her clothes, but then she stops abruptly and turns, apparently catching the sound of my halted breath. Per usual, I can't speak, so she rolls her eyes, lying back down on her side to face me. "Monday," she says to me, and I blink, realizing that I should probably get up to get ready for work. "I'm starving," she adds, preparing to get out of bed a second time before pausing suddenly to frown at me. "Did you think I was leaving?" she asks brusquely, and I wish I could laugh, only I'm afraid it'll come out as some sort of very sad, very forceful wailing. "You dumb stupid idiot," she says, and kisses me.
8:21 a.m.: "If you can't believe I'm capable of change, then who else possibly will?" she jokes, about to get up again, but I take her arm and pull her close to me, holding her as tightly as skin and science will allow. Suddenly, I'm not sure I can take the job with Kevin anymore. What good is any job where I wake up without her? I'm sure I'm holding her far too tightly (in my head I imagine she has bones like a bird, hollow and fragile and highly breakable) but she merely permits me to crush her, relaxing into my grip after a while. "We should make plans," she says, and out of nowhere, my heart fills to bursting.
8:23 a.m.: I look down, and she looks up. "Plans," she repeats, "you know, for later today." Yes, I think, plans. "I want to have you the moment I leave the office," I say boldly, "until I inevitably die of exhaustion." "Right, okay," she permits, relatively unbothered (I assume she already had plans to outlive me; possibly by way of murder, but I'm still fine with that), "but I'll try to factor in food somewhere." She smiles. I think she's happy, though it's always hard to tell, and I hate to guess. "See you tonight," she tells me, brushing her lips against my forehead, and then she dresses quickly and tiptoes out, disappearing with only the smell of her perfume to prove she was ever here to begin with.
8:31 a.m.: Well, that, and my nosy best friend. "How was it?" Ferris asks neutrally, and I take the newspaper from him to give him a firm, affectionate smack on the nose with it. "Fine," he says, grumbling at me, "don't tell me, then." I tell him I don't want to get ahead of myself; I haven't told her I'm leaving yet. Oh, and as I say it, I realize I haven't told him, either. Pity, that. "Well, that's a much better reason to leave," Ferris says, considering it, and pauses. "Though I'll miss you," he remarks after a second, looking as though he means it. Still, I think he understands.
8:45 a.m.: "Wonder if your mum'll have another party for you," Ferris muses, and I smack him with the newspaper again. "What? I think the last one went well," he insists, apparently hoping to die face-down in his granola.
11:12 a.m.: I can't focus at all.
3:31 p.m.: Well, the afternoon seems like a decent time for an existential crisis, which is at least a fun distraction from paperwork (and the news spreading through the department with feverish urgency that Diane is apparently not able to convince the Queen to do the obvious thing and… retract her confession). I think again about my decision to leave, and more pressingly, about whether it's the right time to bring it up to Claire. Do I ask her to come with me? That seems mad. I mean yes, I want her to come with me, but if she wasn't ready for a normal relationship before, dragging her to Scotland seems like a vaguely undeniable misstep. I should say something, at least. Shouldn't I? Or maybe this won't work out. Maybe it won't even last the week. Or maybe if I say anything, then it definitely won't work out.
4:45 p.m.: Luckily my afternoon panic takes me almost to the end of the day. Marvelous.
5:12 p.m.: I sprint through my Floo to be greeted by the peculiarly inviting smell of food cooking—which is not something that happens often, given the sad bachelor-adjacent combination of Ferris and me. "You're here," I say, dazedly discovering a surprisingly casual Claire in the kitchen, and she glances at me from where she's just sipped directly from a bottle of wine. "You should drink some of this," she suggests, holding the bottle out for me. I'd say no, only my brain is still buzzing from several hours of mystifying hypotheticals. The wine seems like a good idea, actually. "Okay," I say, taking it from her. A little wine never hurt anyone.
6:49 p.m.: Well, eventually dinner gets cooked, but more pressingly, another bottle of wine is somehow (oops! tripped and fell) mysteriously opened. Also, Claire's back to her old tricks of eating my food. It's a silly, annoying thing she does that I stupidly permit, wherein she declares herself high empress of my plate. Still, I can tell I'm giving her a goofy, slavish grin, and she gets up to sit in my lap, slinging her legs around my waist and making the rest of me part of her vast dominion. "More wine?" she offers me grandly, and runs the tip of her finger along my bottom lip, drawing my mouth open before she pours a little directly into my mouth.
7:18 p.m.: "Put the wine down," I say, finding the words difficult to conjure after nearly two bottles, and she gives me a squinty sort of blink. "Why?" she protests, making a face, and I, who have never in historic memory strung a sentence together this poorly, respond with this: "Because we're going to do the sex now." "Now?" she echoes, and I hoist her up, successfully managing not to tumble to the floor while I curl a hand protectively around the back of her head, like a safety helmet. "Right now," I say firmly, and begin carrying her up to my room.
7:28 p.m.: I never realized what a fucking long walk it is to my bedroom. I'd apparate if I wasn't fully convinced I'd get us both splinched, but as it is I take advantage of every opportunity to shove Claire against the walls, kissing her neck and tightening my hands around her perfect, unbelievably tempting arse. "Wait, wait," she says in my ear, whimpering slightly, "I should walk." "Your feet are too good for the floor," I inform her ceremonially, nearly falling over in my attempts to prove it, "and also, the floor is lava."
7:34 p.m.: We make it to my bed and she yanks my trousers down, pulling both of us onto the duvet. I for one am going to need hangover potion, and lots of it. I might actually die tonight, especially once she rolls over me and shimmies down, sliding her tongue over the tip of my cock. "Oh no oh no oh no," I say, because my god, she gives magnificent head. She blows me so well I want to cry in anticipation for it. I want to commemorate her with a statue, or a festive topiary, or a bank holiday. She looks up, squinting at me. "No?" she echoes, dubious, and I sigh. "Yes," I amend, and groan the moment she slips me between her lips.
7:59 p.m.: It occurs to me when she's on all fours and I'm digging my fingers into her perfect curves that maybe it means something that she got me this drunk tonight. Unfortunately, my brain and my penis are not communicating all that well, and when she looks over her shoulder and tosses her hair so I can reach forward to trace the shape of her scapulae, I just about convulse with heart failure. Communication will have to wait, and I take a handful of her hair, giving it just enough of a tug that I can put my lips on the side of her neck. Fuck, she tastes extravagant—tastes expensive, like wine or jewelry I'll never afford—and I don't think I'll ever get tired of it.
8:16 p.m.: I have her on her back, my thumb circling her clit with her legs spread wide when she looks up at me and says, "I'm leaving." I stop, blinking, and she moans. "Don't stop!" she begs, and I point out that I can't very well focus on digitally beguiling her when she's just said something like that, so she sighs, tugging me forward until I fall against her. "Make me come," she says, her hand drifting as my breath immediately goes shallow, "and then we'll talk."
8:33 p.m.: Well, that orgasm was hardly a victory. "What do you mean you're leaving?" I demand, and she grimaces, turning to face me. We're naked and pressed together and still so clearly affected by alcohol and sweat and too many months apart, but I force my head to stop spinning so my ears can do something reasonable, like listen. "I took a job somewhere else," she says, "because I have to get out. Once my role in the trial is over, I have to get out of here, but I don't—" She swallows hard, and then says firmly, "I don't want to go without you." I hold my breath. "Where are you going?" I ask, even as I instinctively tighten my grip on her, wondering if I can keep her there by sheer will alone.
8:37 p.m.: She looks down. "Hogwarts," she says, and I immediately start laughing.
8:48 p.m.: "Stop laughing!" she half-shouts, but I'm drunk, and once I've started, neither of us can stop. "Stop—stop it," she says, trying to be stern, but even the sharpness of her gaze isn't enough to make me stop. I swipe at the tears in my eyes. "I'm moving to Hogsmeade," I tell her, and of course, she recognizes now why this is so funny. Of course she does, because the joke is: we're idiots. We're the dumbest kids in school. We are the stupid, underachieving, emotionally stunted underdogs, and we had to be roaring drunk to tell each other that we don't want to be apart; that after months of longing, we can't take another minute of it. So yeah, it's pretty funny. Funny and dumb, like us.
8:57 p.m.: Eventually we quiet slightly, and she curls up in my arms. "I'm going to teach," she says, "and continue to work on the Interest, of course—though, who knows how much the distance will really help." She holds her hands up to mine and I willingly slide my fingers between hers. "Why wouldn't it help?" I ask, and Claire shrugs. "No matter where I go, everyone will always see my name before they see me," she says, and I know she's thinking about the newspaper covers, the headlines, the captions, every word in apathetic black and white that made her out to be a monster. That's what they'll see—it's what she sees, even now—and I understand her fear. I understand her sorrow, and because of it, I want to give her something. I want to take one of her problems and ease it, to soothe beneath my fingers, to make it something lovely and shiny and new.
9:01 p.m.: "If your name is the problem," I say without thinking, "then take mine."
9:02 p.m.: She freezes, and for a second so do I, because I haven't necessarily thought it through. "Did you just—" she begins, and I blink. "Well, I—I don't know," I say, because I'm clearly wildly unstable, and my god, I can't ruin this now. Not this stupidly. I knew I was a mess, but this is a level of lunacy that only my brother's girlfriend Allison should ever reach. "I was just—" I hold up my hands, helpless, and she contemplates them. "I just have to know what you meant," she tells me slowly, "because if you meant I should, I don't know, steal your identity and run away with it, then that's one thing, but—" "I meant marry me," I blurt out, because apparently I and my mouth and my penis cannot be stopped. They're all on someone else's team tonight, though I can't imagine whose.
9:10 p.m.: It's silent for a few long minutes, and then Claire rolls on top of me. "We're drunk," she says. I nod. "We're very drunk," she clarifies, and I nod again. "So you didn't mean that," she assures me, and I nod a final time. She's giving me an out, and I'd be a fool not to take it. "Of course not," I exhale, and laugh again, though it sort of hurts my chest this time.
8:49 p.m.: She saves us both by sliding her hand down, stroking my cock a few times. Still, I really am drunk. My dick is tired. My heart is inexplicably sore. I pull her up and hold her against my chest, press my lips to her hair, and spill what remains of my efforts into making her feel wanted and adored before I tell her that we should sleep. We should really, definitely sleep. All that matters is that I want her. "All that matters is that I want you," I say, and I can feel her smile against my chest.
1:13 a.m.: I wake up with a jolt to find the moonlight from the window coming in across the planes of her back where she's sleeping beside me, her face uncharacteristically innocent and sweet. It's her mouth that spoils the illusion, really. Much like mine, it opens things and warps the entire picture, only I wouldn't change it. Not a thing.
1:14 a.m.: I watch her sleep for a few seconds and feel my chest tighten again, wondering if anything will ever be the same. Doubtful. As far as I can tell, my life has somehow been reduced to a single, undeniable purpose: doing everything I can to make sure she keeps sleeping beside me, every night, for what I hope will be the rest of my life.
DAY SEVEN
7:45 a.m.: "Fucking hell," Claire mutters groggily, reaching up to rub exhaustedly at her temples, and I turn to look at her.
7:46 a.m.: "I meant it," I say, and she blinks, staring at me.
7:47 a.m.: I swallow. "You don't have to give me an answer right aw-"
7:48 a.m.: "I have nothing," she interrupts me, looking lost and unusually small and uncharacteristically fearful.
7:49 a.m.: "Do you love me?" I ask plainly, and her eyes widen.
7:50 a.m.: "I have absolutely nothing to offer you," she implores instead of answering, and there's a tone of pleading to her voice. "I have nothing figured out, and your mother will hate me, and right now everyone hates me, and I can't subject you to th-"
7:51 a.m.: "But do you love me?" I cut in, and she blinks. Takes a moment. Takes a breath.
7:52 a.m.: "Fuck, I love you," she tells me eventually, and inhales it; exhales. "I love you," she repeats, more firmly each time she says it. "I love you. I love y-"
7:53 a.m.: I cut her off with a dry-lipped, cotton-mouthed, thoroughly unsexy and unforgivably sincere kiss. It's all or nothing. For her, it's all. "Then marry me," I say.
7:54 a.m.: She looks down, probably contemplating committing me to the loony wing of St Mungo's, but I persist. "It'll be fun," I suggest weakly, and abruptly, she laughs—only it's possible she's crying. It's hard to tell the distinction, and she really does look terrified and euphoric all at once.
7:55 a.m.: I almost don't hear it when she answers. It leaves her lips like a sigh. "Yes."
7:56 a.m.: I bolt upright, which sends my head into a ruthless tailspin, and I wince. "Yes?" I ask, and groan, pinching my fingers around my nose. "Because I love you," I clarify, though I can't look directly at her or her two heads; a result of last night's intoxication, obviously, which is now proving to be highly inefficient. "Because I know you're the one," I add, as she uses my forearm to drag herself up, the duvet falling to pool around our slovenly, dehydrated waists. "And because I meant it," I conclude. "You can have my name instead of yours, if you want it. If you'd rather hide who you are, then so be it. I'll help you do it. But whether you do or you don't—" "Your name is utter rubbish too," she interrupts me, and then she's definitely crying, holding my palm to her lips as her tears drip down her cheeks. "But I want it," she says, "I want it."
8:01 a.m.: If I could throw my fist triumphantly in the air, I would. But I'm too busy holding her in my arms, and frankly, I'd rather not waste my energy. I'm going to need it, without question, because she certainly keeps my hands full.
2:34 p.m.: Sometimes life is complicated. Things aren't as black and white as I thought before. The world is nothing like I thought it was, actually, and yes, knowing that is complicated, and life in general is messy. Life is a mess, that's certainly true, but it's our mess. It's the mess we make of it. We choose who we put in it, and if we're lucky, that part is very simple. Sometimes all you need to know isn't where you need to be or what you need to do, but who you want to be beside you while you do it.
2:35 p.m.: Sometimes, like now, things are very, very simple, and I'm glad for it—but more importantly, I'm grateful. At the moment I can hold in my hands everything I could possibly need, and somehow, it's both more and less than I thought it would be. My life is nothing like I expected, but today, I am grateful.
2:36 p.m.: I have her to thank for that.
a/n: Dedicated to anon91, haefnesa193, LaurelKing. Thank you for reading!