Episode XV: The Wizard Detective Who Keeps Forgetting to Finish This Damn Diary
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 Ministry Auror falls in love, procrastinates: 21, male, bisexual, in a relationship (eventually).
DAY ONE
5:35 a.m.: I've never actually kept a diary. Is that surprising? I wrote in a diary once, but it was cursed. Sort of. That's a long story. I was also given a dream journal as a homework assignment in Divination, but… that story's not very long. I made all the dreams up. All in all, I'd say these are promising signs.
5:38 a.m.: What is there to say about me? I'm a wizard raised (if you can call it that) by muggles. Son of two war heroes; one pureblood, one muggleborn. Bit of an insomniac. I suppose "traumatized war veteran tries to sleep through the night, fails repeatedly" may seem like a cliché, but there it is. Explains my being awake at this hour, I suppose. Ah, and I should add I'm an Auror. My life's ambition, oddly, once my goals extended beyond not dying. I used to think I wanted to be a professional quidditch player, but… nah. One of my best friends, a brilliant girl who was coincidentally also raised by muggles, calls me a wizard detective; she bought me a deerstalker for Christmas after I got hired, and I laughed. To be honest, I kind of like her take on what I do. It feels sufficiently mundane, which I think is something of a relief, considering the life I've lived.
7:15 a.m.: I head to work early, avoiding my best friend, who generally doesn't wake until he has to. I'll call him Watson. My other best friend (the one I mentioned earlier, and Watson's girlfriend) will have to be Mycroft, I suppose, as she's a fair bit cleverer than me. Her deduction is vastly better, though let it be known that flying a dragon out of Gringotts was my idea. No, wait—that's probably proof her deduction abilities are better, so never mind. Mine just work in a pinch. Anyway, Mycroft lives in a flat by herself, still chasing some sort of independence, or identity, maybe. The war took that from us a bit. Forced other hats on us; war heroes, champions of the new administration, chosen ones. I'm finding all those hats a little restricting at the moment.
7:35 a.m.: "You're early," remarks the Minister of Magic, whom I'll call Lestrade. He's my boss a long way up the food chain, but work relationships are a bit hazy when you've fought a war together. Lestrade was once Head Auror, which is what he assumes I aspire to be, and I suppose maybe he's right. "Where's Watson?" he asks kindly, and I lie, flimsily. I'm not the greatest liar. Faults of innocence, as my former headmaster would say, which is gratuitously kind, since the alternative is simply that I'm not very quick on my feet.
7:49 a.m.: The truth is I'm writing this because last week I told my girlfriend that I loved her, and then she slept with my best friend. (Not Mycroft. Watson.) He doesn't seem to be behaving any differently, which is odd, I suppose. Sure, most people are better liars than I am, but I never thought he was. I should just ask him, but I'm worried it'll be true. Or worse, actually, I'm worried it'll be a lie. I'm worried Mary (I'm going to call her Mary, which is not really fitting, but my creativity only goes so far) lied to me, simply because she didn't love me. It's the sort of twisted thing she'd irrationally consider a kindness. Either way, I'd rather avoid him than ask him. It wouldn't be the first time. Easy to be brave, easy to fight things—easy to face death, really, because it's not that hard to die, and I would know. What's hard is considering that you might not be what everyone thinks you are.
12:34 p.m.: I'm skipping lunch when one of the other Aurors asks if I want to come out tonight. I'm not really the 'out' type, but I suppose it'll be easier to avoid Watson if I'm not at home, where we both live. I agree, and then I return to my work. I'm actually sort of good at my job, considering I'm fairly intuitive. Mycroft always says intuition isn't enough, you have to have facts, but that's why she's a lawyer and I'm an Auror. Something's been bothering me about some pureblood bank records I dug up recently, after Lestrade mentioned that Ministry reparations from the war have come up vastly short. He needs the money for repairing public works, restitution, that sort of thing. I want the world fixed too, so I agreed to look over the records. He was right. Something big is missing. By something big, I do mean millions of galleons. This is financial crime.
3:12 p.m.: I take a break from staring at numbers to doodle a little sketch for my godson, Billy. He's three. His father was a professor of mine, and a close friend of my father's. I'd prefer to spend my evening with him, only it's probably better if he doesn't see me like this. I remember feeling rather helpless while I watched my own godfather struggling, so hopefully a night out will spare Billy any similar trauma and get me back to normal. I enchant the drawing to fly (it's a quidditch player, as Billy is newly interested in quidditch) and send the drawing via owl, returning to work when I'm finished.
5:16 p.m.: "You've been here for hours," Watson comments, and I look up. "Just busy," I say, which isn't totally a lie. Half-truths, that's the sweet spot. I wish I weren't so afraid to find out why Mary couldn't be with me, only it would require me to admit a lot of things I don't particularly want to. Like how the wizarding world built me up to be something that I'm quite possibly not. She had the opposite problem; she's a pureblood, Sacred Twenty-Eight, and unfairly hated for the stance she took in the war, whereas I am unfairly revered. I don't fault her for anything that happened during the war; we were children. I understand that. We're still young, honestly. We're still changing, we're still learning who and what we are outside the scope of Hogwarts houses and old hatreds. But I'm not sure she ever understood that I was searching for meaning from her just as intently as she was seeking validation from me. Maybe that was the problem. We wanted things from each other that neither of us could give.
5:17 p.m.: Watson sees I don't want to talk and he nods, slipping out. I exhale, relieved, though I'm not particularly overjoyed to be alone. My parents famously loved each other. Madly, even. I didn't have a life with them, and I certainly can't have it now, but at the very least, I want what they had. I don't know why I said that, but I guess that's what this whole diary business is for, isn't it? Introspection.
7:45 p.m.: "Oi," says one of the Aurors, "you coming?" I rub my eyes under my glasses and nod. "See you tonight," I tell them as they shuffle out, and then I realize I've been here over twelve hours. I should eat something. I'm too skinny, Mycroft says. She's fond when she says it. Mary said it less fondly, or with less obvious fondness. I think maybe she loved me. Still, I think maybe she's relieved that I'm gone.
9:35 p.m.: I eat dinner in my office and then meet up with the other Aurors in Diagon, joining them at a pub. We drink a couple of rounds until I'm pleasantly buzzed, something unnameable dancing in my head (I tried Felix Felicis once, and a good level of tipsy is something of a comparable sensation) when they tell me that a new club just opened elsewhere in the Alley. I'm not really one for clubs. I'm not actually sure I know how to dance, or that I would want to. But I'm feeling good, I suppose, so I go with them. It's still keeping me out of the house, isn't it?
10:30 p.m.: Apparently we're not the only ones with the same idea. The minute we walk in, a number of heads turn, one of them notably pale blond and smirking. This is Moriarty, my Hogwarts rival, who drawls something about cats dragging us in. I congratulate him on his cleverness and suggest he put that on badges and distribute it for people to wear. He grimaces, displeased, and beside him, his best friend—I think it's his best friend, anyway, only this one never really goes anywhere or says anything—gives me a look of pure, unadulterated boredom. It's the kind of loftiness Moriarty strives for and doesn't achieve; he feels too much. His friend, though, clearly feels nothing. He looks as numb as I'd like to be, and then he says, with careful deliberation, "Fuck off." A classic, I think, and smile. He looks unnerved, and then my smile broadens. I think he can see what I think of him, and I think it makes him uncomfortable.
10:45 p.m.: I find a seat with the other Aurors and watch Moriarty's sidekick slump down in his seat, looking as if he thoroughly wishes he were elsewhere. He was weedy in school, too thin, like me, only he seems to have an elegant kind of thinness to him now. It's more sleek than slight. His hair is dark, neat, swept back from his face. He has something of a broadly disapproving look to him, and again, it's similar to Moriarty's natural expression, but not quite the same. He's not Moriarty's sidekick, I realize. I'd be willing to bet Moriarty wants his approval as much as he wants mine.
11:00 p.m.: I don't know what to call him. I don't know why he's important yet. Auror intuition, I suppose. He catches me looking at him and looks away. Did he catch me? Hard to tell. His eyes are difficult to read. He seems to miss nothing, but at the same time, seems impressed by nothing. Am I impressed by him? I hope not.
11:20 p.m.: I'm a few drinks past tipsy now. Am I attracted to him? I'm not going to say that I'm not. Maybe that's an odd suspicion to have about myself, but there it is. Part of me wonders if I'm not just profiling him, trying to figure him out. He's a case I'd like to solve. The curious case of the man who's definitely looked over here more than once. His fingers tap against his glass, conspicuously uninterested, and he looks like I imagine Dionysus to look. Eternally unsatisfied, longing for entertainment, unimpressed and obscenely well-dressed. Part of me feels like the image of him is incomplete without someone to feed him grapes.
11:30 p.m.: I've had a lot to drink. I head into the bathroom, trying to escape the noise for a second, and then Moriarty's friend comes in. Does he need a name? Probably not. He seems the fixture of my curiosity for the evening, but probably not more than that. He doesn't seem like something with longevity. He seems like someone who doesn't stay.
11:32 p.m.: "You know," he says, and his voice is a dry, toneless drawl, "sometimes I'd really like to punch you in the mouth." I don't think he's joking. I don't think he's lying, either. I really think he wants to punch me, and part of me is relieved, either because he's given it some thought or because I'm tired of people thinking I'm untouchable. "Do it," I say. He laughs, and his laugh transforms his face. He looks younger, bright, blinding. "Fuck, I'm drunk," he says. "I know," I say, and he takes Moriarty's signature expression—that haughty smirk, the very image of conceit—and turns it on me. It looks different when he does it. It looks like a smile got its toe caught in the door. "Go fuck yourself," he tells me, and I think he hates me. Genuinely, not like Moriarty, who pretends at hatred but is mostly full of self-doubt. I think this man could have watched me die and not batted an eye, and for whatever reason, I'm grateful. I reach forward and kiss him.
11:38 p.m.: He holds his breath, startled, and I pull away, unsure what I've just done. I lift my chin. I refuse to be sorry. He blinks, and then he steps closer, one hand curved around my jaw before he digs his fingers in gruffly. I don't flinch. I've felt pain before; I feel it all the time, or memories of it, and this isn't it. "Your mouth tastes like whisky," I tell him, and he looks startled, or pleased. Both, maybe. I think maybe he likes to be surprised and isn't very often. I find that satisfying, so I kiss him again. He tugs my head back, sliding his tongue in my mouth. He's kissing me back.
11:43 p.m.: I pull him into a stall, not at all sure what I'm doing, but I know that I like this, I don't want it to stop. I tug at his trousers, fumbling with the button, and he, motherfucker that he is, shoves my head down, giving a command. Or giving permission. I glance up, shaking my head at him, but his dick is hard and it's not like this is rocket science. Or wizard detectiving. I know how dicks work. I slide my lips over him and he shudders, a groan ripping from his throat, and fuck if that isn't a satisfying result. I look up, and he stares down at me. He's not feminine in the slightest; his stomach is hard and lined and his hips are angular and bony and his face… there's stubble around his mouth. I know. I've been kissing him.
11:45 p.m.: "You sure?" I ask. "No," he says, and it's interesting, actually, to hear him telling the truth when we clearly both feel so uncertain. I think if he'd lied, I'd have stopped, but he didn't. "I've never done this," I say, and he shakes his head. "Neither have I," he says, running his tongue over his lips. This reminds me of the way his mouth feels under mine and I slide my lips along the length of his shaft, running my tongue along the underside. "You taste, like… really good," I say, and he laughs. I laugh a little too, because what am I saying? What am I doing? "Keep blowing me," he says, "I like it." The phrasing is crude, but the sentiment is comforting. He likes it, I think, keep going. I want to keep going. "I like it too," I admit, and slide my lips over him again.
11:50 p.m.: This is definitely not rocket science. He sort of tries to warn me when he's about to come, but I don't really know what to do, so I don't do anything. He tightens his grip on me when he comes and I swallow, finding that the best option. I rise to my feet and consider wiping my hand across my mouth, but I don't. That seems like it would send the wrong message; it would be telling him I didn't like the taste of him, and I did. So I kiss him instead. His mouth parts instantly for me and I think he likes kissing me. I don't know that I've ever kissed someone who wanted me like this.
11:54 p.m: I want to ask him something. I want to ask him why me? I need the answer. I think I need his answer. I think he's going to bolt, and I think I was right that he won't stay for long. I wish things were different. "Fuck," he whispers, and then he leaves.
11:55 p.m.: I rest my forehead against the stall when he's gone, feeling spent. I should be embarrassed, probably, but I don't think I am. I have a feeling I'll be hearing from him again. Auror's intuition. I think he saw something on my face and he's going to come back for it, and until then, I guess I'll just wait.
12:01 a.m.: I came up with a name for him. Seems obvious now.
12:15 a.m.: He's Adler.
DAY ONE
7:13 a.m.: Oops. I sort of forgot that I was supposed to be doing this, and now this should be… I don't know, day seven? But let's just start over, seeing as I definitely did get distracted. I think that's an Adler thing. He has this way of totally distracting me. I went to Skye with him yesterday. Wild, isn't it? Six days ago I thought it impossible he could be a fixture in my life, and this morning I woke up in bed with him. It's the strangest thing, but I can sleep when he's next to me. He's unpredictable and moody and senselessly ambivalent, but I find it soothing that he never does anything he doesn't want to. He isn't pretending for my benefit. That thought helps me breathe. He makes me laugh. He tastes like a forbidden thing, like an impossible thing. And he looks at me like he wants me to stay. It's the sort of thing you want to write down, to commit to memory. So I guess that's why I'm back.
9:45 a.m.: Work this morning is difficult, considering I was a little drunk with Adler last night. I'm also fielding Mycroft's text messages (being raised by muggles, we communicate via cell phone) about her breakup with Watson, who apparently never actually slept with Mary. Figures. I should have asked. Also, apparently Mycroft is involved with Moriarty. I suppose I should be surprised, but Moriarty's never been very subtle. He's sort of like a gregarious bird, like a peacock, only one who is constantly in crisis. I don't really hate him. I don't think Mycroft really did, either. I put the phone away and focus, though, as this reparations case is something sinister. And worse—I think it's very likely Mary is involved.
12:05 p.m.: "Hi," comes Mary's voice, and I look up, surprised. We haven't really spoken since our breakup, outside of her owling me in the middle of the night. I'm not angry, I'm not sad; I'm not really upset, not anymore. I'm hurt still, maybe, but mostly a little lost. It was easy to get swept up in what I had with her, because she's such a confusing collection of qualities. She's sweet, but selfish. She's bold, but lost. She needs me to be something I could never quite figure out. I want more from her than she could ever spare.
12:07 p.m.: "Hi," I reply, and she hands me a sandwich. It's a peace offering, and I wait. She tells me she's sorry in something of a soft, indulgent speech, but I've heard her say that before. It's about as easy to say sorry as it is to die—which, if you're keeping track, is easy enough if it's necessary. "There are easier ways to say you don't love me than the one you chose, you know," I tell her, and she shakes her head. She gives me one of her looks that I know to be an admonishment. "I loved you," she says, though this hardly computes. "Then why?" I ask.
12:25 p.m.: She can't explain it. I guess it's unfair to ask her to, since I barely know how to explain myself most of the time. I come around so that my desk is no longer an obstacle between us and I tell her the truth; that I've learned I should have told her what I wanted. I learned it recently, of course, from Adler, who doesn't give me things I want unless I ask for them. It's been something of a revelatory experience. "I wanted a long love affair with you," I tell Mary, remembering the foolish things I once thought within reach with her, and ask her what great love affair she knows of that starts with someone worried about what other people think. I'm known for my bravery, but I wasn't very brave with her. I think, actually, that when it comes to her, Watson might love her better. I'm not that surprised when she doesn't want to hear it, though. She's not very good at listening to me.
12:41 p.m.: We talk for a while. I've missed her company, I'll admit it. She has a strangely disenchanted way of viewing the world, in the sense that she must have had a more romantic one, once. Something about the inside of her head is very lonely and forlorn, sort of gravely picturesque. I warn her to stay away from her father's Death Eater friends—particularly Moriarty's father—and she's genuinely surprised that I care. In Mary's world, there are rules about love. Conditions. I think it's why prejudice was so easy for them, in the pocket of bloodlines where it was so easy to fail. One step out of line and boom, burned off the family tree. Funny that it was one such pureblood who taught me that light and dark aren't so easily distinguishable; that the world isn't divided by some obvious line between right and wrong. The world isn't like that. Or shouldn't be, anyway. I try very hard to live in a world that isn't.
12:55 p.m.: "I hope you find someone brave," Mary tells me, "Someone brave enough to love every impossible facet of the fucking hero that you are." I don't point out that her thinking of me as a hero was a good portion of the problem, even though it was. It is. Being a hero is exhausting. Impossible to live up to. Just one of those hats I have no choice but to wear. I tell her I've got it covered, though I wonder if I do. After all, Adler mostly comes and goes as he pleases. If I never saw him again, I'm not sure I'd even know how to find him. I don't even know where he lives.
4:34 p.m.: Work this afternoon is difficult. This reparations case might destroy a lot of lives. I'm hesitant to pursue it, but Lestrade reminds me how important it is, and how many wizarding families are relying on that money. Entire portions of the Ministry that provide essential services remain unhoused, he says, which is a bit of a monstrous sentence. Funny how "for the greater good" is such a controversial statement, and yet it's sometimes the entire basis of my job. Is it too late to change careers? I wonder if the Wimbourne Wasps need a seeker. Theirs is rubbish.
5:48 p.m.: Mycroft pops by to say hello. She's looking better than I expected, considering how things have been going. "So are you with Moriarty now?" I ask casually, and she shakes her head. "I can't just jump from one relationship to another," she scolds me, which is… true. I suppose I should be a bit warier about how things are going with Adler, and maybe shouldn't be spending weekends in Scotland with him quite yet. "I'm going to start dating," Mycroft announces, and she's so proud of herself I can't help smiling. I give it a week. Two weeks, max. "I think that's a great idea," I tell her, with my unbelievable penchant for terrible lies, and she rolls her eyes.
7:30 p.m.: I head home, wondering if I'm going to see Adler today. I told him I wanted to, but Mycroft makes some compelling points, as she usually does. Maybe I'm not ready for a relationship. Though, could I even have a relationship with Adler? Even if I wanted one, I haven't the slightest idea what that would look like. Could I hold hands with Adler? Take him to meet my (Watson's) parents? Could I date Adler, publicly? I'm one of the most prominent figures in wizarding society, whether I like it or not (I don't). Does someone who's spent the majority of his life blending into the background want the amount of speculation that comes with being with me? All very worthy questions, I suspect.
9:00 p.m.: When Adler apparates into my bedroom, though, all my doubts fade. These are future problems. My current problem is that for the past week, all of my thoughts have fixated on the man who stands before me, and I still haven't tired of looking. He is the mystery I may never solve, and yet I understand him, at least in pieces. His shirt is neat and pressed and I want to tear it from his shoulders, want to press my lips into his skin. I don't want to wait, so I don't. I stand up, walk towards him, and kiss him, and he kisses me back, letting out a breath in my mouth like he's been waiting for it. Like he wanted me to have it. Like he's giving it to me, and I accept it, and then his hands can't seem to find a place to rest, traveling with agitation under my t-shirt and across my skin.
9:10 p.m.: I shove him against the wall of my bedroom, half-laughing when he coughs an oof into my mouth. "Fuck," he mutters, which in this particular tone means be careful, and I shake my head. Both his shoulder blades are flat against the wall, his legs kicked out on either side of mine, and I kiss him with his face held tight between my hands. "We can go to my house," he says, "if you want to ruin some heirlooms." I pause for a moment to laugh helplessly, though in reality, my chest is full of something. Gratitude, again. I am so fucking grateful for him, for the way he offers himself to me. Things like that; he's giving me his space. He's sharing it. I didn't have to ask, he just wants me to have it. "I have heirlooms," I tell him. He nips at my neck. "Mine are more expensive," he says, scraping his teeth against my throat, but I think he understands what I meant.
9:24 p.m.: Things progress. I'm surprised I'm usually the one pushing things, as that's not necessarily something I would have guessed about myself, but with Adler, I can't really help it. He's sort of restrained, tied up by something. There's layers to him I can't see, but I can feel them falling away under my fingers, peeling back at my touch. I feel something when I touch him that I don't feel, even when sex is good, with anyone else. I always want more with him, and I'm someone accustomed to wanting. I have spent most of my life wanting something or another—to be free, or to free others—and still, all of it pales in comparison to this. With Adler, I always want more, and he seems to find it acceptable. He lets me be selfish. He gave me permission to have vices, and I am grateful to him for that.
9:30 p.m.: I can't wait anymore, or I don't want to, and he seems fine with that. It's awkward, the lubrication spell is cast so badly at first I end up with a palmful of what looks to be toothpaste, and I'm shaking a little but Adler holds my hands still, casting it for me. I swallow hard, reaching between his legs, and he looks me in the eye as I just… explore him. Idly, almost. Part of me wants so badly to know him, to figure him out, to understand him. It's sex and it's something else, too, something better. It's intimacy.
9:42 p.m.: I have to bite the inside of my cheek while I thrust into him, trying hard not to come too fast. He looks uncomfortable, and I can't say I blame him. I move slowly, trying to find an angle that works for both of us. Sex is easy if you're not trying to be good at it, but I want him to like this. Me, I mean. I want him to like me, to enjoy the feel of me. I'm terrified he won't.
9:45 p.m.: "Feels good," he whispers, closing his eyes. My knees almost buckle with relief.
9:50 p.m.: Eventually I don't have to concentrate so hard on not hurting him and he reaches down, stroking the length of his shaft. I watch him and come almost immediately, choking slightly, and then I shove his hand aside, replacing it with mine. I want to be the one who makes him come—only I remember at the last second that Watson might be home, might hear it, and it's not like I was quiet, so I cover Adler's mouth with my free hand, catching the muffled sound he bites into my palm. "Roommate," I whisper in explanation, and he looks like he wants to laugh. He looks at me. He looks for a long, long time, and I wonder what he's seeing, what he's thinking. Then he reaches out, brushes my hair out of my eyes, and sinks to the ground, taking me with him.
10:15 p.m.: For a long time we just lie there, saying nothing. My legs are tangled up with his and he continues to be nothing like what I thought he would be, or what I thought I would want. He traces one of the scars on my shoulder. Who hurt you, he asked me once, like he would willingly fight anyone who'd ever caused me pain. Everyone, I said, not really aware I believed it until I'd confessed it out loud. Adler's never asked me to be a hero, or a victim. Never asked to see my damage. I don't have to be anything for him, but I wish I were the man everyone thinks I am, because I want to be everything for him.
10:21 p.m.: "What's this one?" he asks, pointing somewhere on my shoulder, and I look. "Basilisk fight," I say. He points to another one. "Quidditch," I reply. "Boring," he says, and I chuckle, turning on my side to face him. "What's this?" I ask, running my hand over a thin line on his chest. He doesn't answer for a second. "My scars," he tells me in an affected tone, "are not fun stories. They're not exciting. I've never fought a dragon." "I didn't fight a dragon," I remind him, "I escaped on one." He arches a brow. "Triwizard tournament," he says drily, and I blink. "Oh yeah," I recall. "You fucker," he tells me, rolling his eyes.
10:24 p.m.: "I want to know your stories," I say, my voice hushed and soft, and for a minute I think he might make fun of me. He's one of those people whose wit is so quick it's almost mean. It's biting, sharp, full of teeth. Even his smile is predatory. But he doesn't mock me; only keeps his eyes on mine when a lesser man would look away. "Once upon a time," he says, "I lived a life before you, and it was something of an unremarkable disaster." "As opposed to?" I ask. "Remarkable disasters," he drawls, "like being left on a muggle family's doorstep and turning out to be the hero of the wizarding world." I think he understands my tragedies better than I do, and oddly, I don't mind when he talks about them—but this isn't about me, and I tell him so.
10:29 p.m.: He touches my mouth, lightly. "I learned to be invisible for a reason," he murmurs. This is as much as I'm going to get, but it feels like plenty. Honestly, it feels like more than I've even earned; most things he says feel practiced in some way, but I'm almost positive that sentence has never left his lips for anyone else's benefit before. He kisses me hard, repenting for his honesty, and I let him roll over me on the floor. I permit him to take my hand and put it on his cock, which is hard again. I stroke it and he keens a little, hissing between his teeth. "Silencing spell," he reminds me, and then he yanks me up, half-throwing me onto my bed.
10:30 p.m.: It's my turn to feel him. He does a better job with the spell, and though there's something admittedly much less romantic about the way I'm face down in my mattress, I find it satisfying. I like the way he runs his hands over my hips. He kisses my spine, and it feels oddly gentle. Slowly and surely, he's ruining me. He's peeling all my armor away, and if he hurts me, I'll have brought it on myself. If he's going to break me, I'll have given him permission every step of the way.
11:00 p.m.: When we're finished, spent, both sated and exhausted and boneless heaps of too-skinny limbs, I ask him who the woman he's been seeing is. He tells me it's Moriarty's mother, a woman I can't help but immediately think of as Victoria, as in the queen. Strangely, it doesn't surprise me that Adler could love her. She's sort of terrifying, and he seems to love powerfully. I imagine you have to be something of a marvel to be enough to hold him; have to be vast, somehow, to be enough to keep Adler in one place. I guess that's sparing myself a lot of credit, but for all that I think of myself, I've certainly never considered myself small.
11:15 p.m: "We can take this slow if you want," I say, and he shakes his head. "I want it fast," he says, "like lightning. I want violence. I want it to strike. I want it to burn." I hide the longing on my tongue, or try to. "I can do that," I say, and I can, I think. I'm willing to burn, anyway, if that's what it takes to hold him, and I suspect it does. In my experience, you don't get to touch something that feels like him without facing dire consequences.
11:30 p.m.: I like the way Adler sleeps. Fitfully. I find it difficult to sleep with somebody who doesn't dream, or who doesn't wake easily. When I move, Adler moves with me. It makes me feel like we are planetary bodies, orbiting each other, and I breathe a little easier.
2:03 a.m.: "You're awake," he says. I nod. I sleep better with him beside me, but it's not a foolproof system. "Let's do something," he whispers. "Like what?" I ask. "Have some coffee and watch the sunrise," he says. I tell him the sun isn't rising anytime soon, but he seems to consider this a trivial detail. Sometimes I suspect he lives on his own clock. He slides down against my bare chest, takes my dick in his mouth, and sucks from base to tip, prompting me to shudder. "I'm sure we can amuse ourselves until then," he says.
2:13 a.m.: I swear, he's going to ruin me.
DAY ONE
5:14 a.m.: Ah, fuck. It's been… a few weeks. A month, maybe, since I started this? Hard to keep track, but it's not my fault. Work's kept me busy, which isn't to say I haven't had interesting sex in the meantime. Still with Adler. I'm surprised too, honestly, but things have been good, or something like good. He's somewhere between the regularity of a bad habit and a relationship, but he doesn't really do things like normal people. Sometimes I think he missed his calling as some sort of artist's muse. Pity he's stuck with me, and I haven't got a creative bone anywhere in my body.
5:17 a.m.: "You're staring into space again," Adler tells me. I turn my head to look at him. He looks best in the mornings. He has dark circles under his eyes, always, a burst of color against the paleness of his skin, and above that, a prominent brow. Harsh features, really. When he's dressed in his immaculate clothes with his hair swept from his face he looks like a cautionary tale for young girls; a dark, handsome stranger who could lure them to his bed with a smile, if he ever smiled. He doesn't—except with me, in the mornings, and then he's not such a prince. Well, he's demanding still, so that's not true. He leans over, bites my shoulder, throws a leg over me. "Still coming out tonight?" he asks, and I groan.
5:20 a.m.: "Remind me why you're doing this?" I ask, and he shrugs. "I haven't met my quota of misbehaviors," he says, rolling on top of me, and I shake my head. "That's no reason I have to come along," I remind him, and he tells me with a kiss that's mostly biting that he wants me there—won't it be fun, we haven't been out of this bed in ages, you're being self-important and unreasonable and I like it, keep going—"Stop biting me," I sigh, as he sinks his teeth into my shoulder. He abruptly switches tactics, gazing adoringly up at me. "Come," he whispers, his hand indiscreetly on my cock, and while I could probably knee him in the groin if I wanted, I prevent myself from doing so. "Fine," I say, and he smiles radiantly, having gotten what he wanted.
8:23 a.m.: I'm tired when I get to work, but happy. I think Adler likes having the secret, and it's fine with me. I'd rather Lestrade come into my office and ask about the case without him knowing I spent all of this morning with my hands and my mouth alternately revering the son of Death Eater. I don't get a lot of privacy, so for now, I like the secret. Besides, who knows how Adler feels about any of this. Sometimes I wonder if Adler sees his life with me in it, or if he tries not to think about anything he's doing at any given time. I suspect the latter.
12:34 p.m.: I'm so busy looking over bank records (Mary's in trouble, as I suspected, though I don't have anything concrete yet) I don't notice Watson and Mycroft standing impatiently in my doorframe. "We've been waiting downstairs for ten minutes," Mycroft says primly, and I frown at them. "Why?" I ask, until I remember we're supposed to be having lunch. "Bloody hell, mate," Watson says, "when was the last time you slept?" I suppose Adler's bad for my health. I could have guessed that by looking.
12:51 p.m.: When Watson trots off to the bathroom, I ask Mycroft how things are going with Moriarty. Her cheeks flush. "They're not things," she says coolly, or rather, in a way a cool person might say things coolly. Like an imitation of Adler, maybe, though that's rather not her style. "We're taking things slow," she adds, and I roll my eyes. If she takes this one as slow as she took her last relationship, then perhaps I'll see some progress in seven years or so. "What are you two talking about?" Watson asks, reappearing, and Mycroft arches a brow at me, swearing me to secrecy. "Quidditch," I say happily, just to punish her a bit, and Watson, true to form, launches into a tirade.
1:13 p.m.: "You two should come out tonight," I suggest, as Watson leans over and steals one of my chips. Mycroft gives me a sing-song excuse that is definitely a lie intended to obscure the fact that she'll be gallivanting with Moriarty this evening, but Watson shrugs. "Sure," he agrees. He's been out of sorts since things didn't work out with Mary (probably could have brought that up at some point earlier, but to be honest, it's not a fun train of thought), but I have a feeling it'll work itself out. The more I think about it, the more they really are suited for one another. Much more than Watson and Mycroft, and certainly more than Mary and me.
1:15 p.m.: It's nice to spend time with Watson and Mycroft. One of us has problems with one of the others once or twice a year, but generally we've made it through a variety of conflicts. It's kind of nice having a friendship that's so tested, actually. Relaxing. If we can make it through the time Mycroft aimed a bunch of rabid conjured birds at Watson or the time Watson accused me of sneaking myself into the Triwizard Tournament, then I think we're probably set through any possible squabbles about who is dating which former nemesis (or ex-girlfriend, as it were).
5:35 p.m.: "You're not staying late, are you?" Watson asks before he leaves the office. I'm pretty sure he hates his job. We were never really known for our academic prowess—we certainly have nothing on Mycroft—but I've seen Watson when he cares about something, and it doesn't look like this, which is the absolute bare minimum. He has the capacity to apply himself, but—fuck, I sound like one of our professors. I'm stopping, I'm done. "Not today," I tell him, but add the caveat that I'm going to visit Billy, my godson. Watson nods, tells me he'll see me at home and hurries off, leaving his caseload behind.
6:45 p.m.: I meet up with Billy and Clara (his rather young grandmother, who's raising him after both his parents died in the war) in Diagon after work. I've been promising to get him a few quidditch things, a child-sized broom included, and he is positively pink with excitement. No, really, he's pink, but when he sees me, his hair turns into a perfect replica of mine. "Should we get a broom?" I ask, and he smiles brilliantly. "You're spoiling him," Clara sighs, and I nod cheerfully. "I know," I agree, pleased that I'm able to. My godfather spoiled me when he could. There are worse crimes.
7:13 p.m.: I head back to Billy's house and run around after him for a bit as Clara looks on, fondly disapproving. I haven't told Adler about Billy yet, naturally. That seems a serious piece of information. It's not as if I have a child, but it's fairly close to it. I see Billy as often as I can, generally whenever I'm not working, and I wouldn't introduce him to someone unless I thought they were going to be around. Adler doesn't ask me a lot of questions about what I do from day to day, but sometimes I'd like to tell him. Sometimes I want Billy to meet him, actually. Adler reminds me a bit of my godfather sometimes. They both have a lofty quality, a certain coolness, and I suspect Billy would be in awe of him. I know I often am.
9:24 p.m.: Watson and I have dinner, shower, and then head out to the club in Diagon, which is still novel enough to have drawn quite a crowd. Adler isn't here yet; I find I'm looking for him almost immediately, and then force myself not to be so damned enthusiastic. Some of our other friends (and a number of acquaintances) are here, and before I know it, I'm well on my way to intoxicated, smiling vacantly from where I'm sitting.
10:27 p.m.: I spot Adler in the crowd the moment he walks in. He's unmistakable, looking like a king from afar, though I suspect that may only be my personal view of him. He hasn't seen me yet, and I'm kind of pleased about it at the moment. He remains a mystery I'm trying to solve. Sometimes, though, I think I might be getting close, because I try to see him the way other people see him and find it difficult. Part of me knows Adler went seven years only attracting my attention once or twice, but it's hard to believe that now. I'm not sure how I missed him. Oblivious, Mycroft would say.
10:53 p.m.: Adler zeroes in on me and smiles, walking towards me without hesitation. I excuse myself and meet him in the middle, somewhere near the crowded dance floor, which is disgustingly overheated. "Hi," I say, and watch him pull at his lip with his teeth. "Fuck off," he says, which in this tone means something like funny seeing you here. Ah, romance. He's drunk, I know, but I can read precisely what he wants. What I want. I tilt my head, gesturing to the back entrance. He nods, and I feel his fingers discreetly tracing my spine after I turn, the graze of it sending a shiver that expels from my shoulders.
11:09 p.m.: It's cold outside, and uninteresting, so nobody else is here. Adler shoves me against the wall, pulling me into the shadows. "It's cold," I say, though I'm not sure why I'm bothering with speaking. His mouth is hot enough on mine. "Poor little chosen one," he murmurs, and dives his hand into my trousers.
11:25 p.m.: Things are progressing as things normally progress—"Here?" I hiss in disbelief, but Adler shrugs; I think he likes toeing the prospect of being caught, so, Auror that I am, I keep my wand at the ready, just in case—and the warmth of Adler's mouth drops to my neck as he slicks his thumb across my dick. I shove him a little, just because, and he smiles gloriously, just as I notice there's somebody watching from the entrance to the club. For a second, I panic a bit; it's a friend of Adler's and Moriarty's, so not the worst possible thing, but I grab hold of the hair at the back of Adler's head, holding him still. "We've got company," I mutter, and Adler turns, glancing over his shoulder. "Trivial matters," he says, and then he kisses my neck, still staring over his shoulder.
11:28 p.m.: I'm ready to stop, assuming he won't want his friend to see what's almost certainly about to happen, but Adler seems uninterested. Or rather, he seems more interested in me. On a whim, I grant his friend a prominent view of my middle finger, feeling delirious as Adler drops to his knees. He slides his tongue over me and I groan, closing my eyes, and the door shuts, indicating our audience has fled the scene. "Is that going to be a problem?" I ask Adler, who scrapes his teeth against my cock, prompting me to jolt forward with alarm. He smiles up at me, radiant with intoxication, and when I curl my hand around his cheek, he licks my palm. "Let's just solve one problem at a time, shall we?" he says, and returns his mouth to my cock.
11:35 p.m.: I come in his mouth shortly after because of course I do, but we've had our scrape with publicity and we apparate to my house. I never get tired of undressing him. Is that weird? Is that a strange thing to enjoy? It always seems so indulgent. His clothes are always so nice, so pressed, made of such fine materials, the skin beneath it so prone to reddening when I dig my fingers in. Tonight he slows down, oddly, and kisses each of my scars. "This'll take a while," I comment drily, but my eyes are closed. It's soothing. He soothes me.
11:56 p.m.: He runs his hand over my torso while he curls himself around me, his lips on my shoulders and my back. "You should tell someone," he murmurs, and I turn, frowning. "I have an acute sense of fairness," he explains grandly, and I realize he means his friend who saw us earlier. "You realize if I tell someone, people will know," I point out. He doesn't smile. He takes my jaw in his hand and I bite the tips of his fingers, which are splattered with ink. They always are. He's got the hands of a writer, an artist.
12:04 a.m.: "Do you even know how I feel about you?" he asks me. An insane question. Of course I don't, he hasn't told me, though the moment he says it, I think I do. He doesn't need to tell me. He tells me in his own way each time he returns to my bed. "Do you know how I feel about you?" I reply, and he kisses me gruffly, his hand still on my jaw. "Of course I do. I'm fucking smart as shit," he tells me, and I roll over him, satisfied. My turn.
12:47 a.m.: When Watson arrives home, Adler and I are in the kitchen, shirtless, drinking herbal tea. An odd choice, but the night's been filled with odd choices. The whole month has been full of odd choices, come to think of it. "What's this?" Watson asks, frowning between us, though he's not an idiot. He can see Adler's marks on my back and can probably guess where my fingers have slid through Adler's hair. "I wanted you to know," I explain, and Adler, astoundingly, continues to say nothing. Doesn't even attempt his usual derogatory scoffs, which are like a romance language for him. Watson nods slowly, and abruptly, Adler rises to his feet. "Tired," he announces, making it clear he's sleeping in my bed, and then he pads barefoot out of the room.
12:51 a.m.: "Seriously?" Watson asks me, falling into the seat Adler was just in. I nod. Watson looks… well, he doesn't look like anything, and I'm relieved. I guess I was a little afraid, though I don't think I would have admitted it. "He's terrible," Watson points out, "but you dated my sister, so you must be immune." An excellent observation, I tell him, and he sits back in his chair, smiling vacantly. "Well, if you're happy," he says, and closes his eyes.
12:56 a.m.: I am. But I don't say that out loud. It seems a secret better kept for me, and for Adler, if I ever find the words to say it.
DAY ONE
5:17 a.m.: Fuck. I'd write it down somewhere that I need to remember to continue this bloody thing, but I think I'd lose the reminder. Might as well start over, seeing as it's been… some time. A bit of time. Not too much time? Fuck, I can't find the other pages. I'll look later. Or not. Adler nudges my shoulder. "You sure you want me to meet your godson?" he asks. I think he's nervous. I am too, a bit. I've never seen him interact with children. "I'm positive," I say, which is something of a flimsy lie, and he kisses me with a laugh.
5:34 a.m.: I wake up this morning in Adler's bed, which is obscenely nice, considering he spends very little time here. Well, correction, he spends very little time sleeping here. He doesn't seem to enjoy being in this house, so it's a bit of a rarity to be here with him. It's funny, actually, that we both live in these pureblood mansions—his being more of an estate, though much of it was emptied to pay his considerable reparations—and make an absolute mockery of them with the way we touch each other within their walls. Mycroft would call that irony, I think. Speaking of reparations, that case is gaining ground, which has kept me busy. Maybe that's my excuse for being such a shoddy diarist? I feel like I haven't had a moment of peace in a while.
6:45 a.m.: It's not often that Adler and I have sex in the mornings, though it's rare we rouse immediately (he communicates largely in touch, and this morning, his touch merely says good morning rather than an alternate message of take off your fucking clothes). Oddly, I think we both enjoy the contemplative silence of the early hours, and I rather like spending them at his house, much as I know he'd probably prefer to burn the structure to the ground. I like space, open spaces, and when I get out of bed, he already knows where I'm going and follows without a word. The gardens here are the only thing he still maintains, and I suspect it's because he knows I like them. I settle with a cup of coffee in a lawn chair I conjure up to face myself east, beneath the rising sun. It's a quiet, lazy morning, and Adler dons a pair of ostentatious sunglasses that sit halfway down his nose. He drops onto the grass beside me, brushing his lips against my knuckles, and begins quietly humming what I suspect might be Stravinsky under his breath.
7:35 a.m.: Adler's nervous about meeting Billy today, but doesn't want to tell me so. That's fair. I'm nervous, too. I'm making a statement with the introduction and I'm not sure Adler realizes what that statement is—and neither do I, come to think of it. Mary, my ex, never met Billy. Even Watson and Mycroft don't usually accompany me when I visit him, because Billy's company is something of a reward to myself; a pocket of simplicity in a world much more chaotic than I'd like. Though, I think it's because spending time with him is such a simple pleasure that I feel compelled to have Adler be part of it. For now, Adler fidgets beside me, pretending to read a book I'm positive he's read before, and I know he's trying to give me my moments of quiet, but he's helplessly fidgety, his fingers drumming against my thigh. I catch his hand, holding it still. "Take your clothes off," I say. He smiles, relieved.
8:15 a.m.: The grass is damp with morning and Adler makes a muted noise of complaint when I push him back against it, but the moment my mouth is on him, he relents. "There's a perfectly good bed inside," he tells me through carefully gritted teeth, but I shake my head. Here, I say, as I slide my lips against him, but then I remember he enjoys other things I do with my tongue. I give his thigh a slap, nudging him to turn over, and he loftily pretends at dismay, shifting to his knees. This is pretense, of course. His legs look unsteady the moment I put my mouth on him.
9:37 a.m.: "I have grass stains," he says in his haughty prince voice, "positively everywhere."
1:30 p.m.: "You ready?" I ask him, once we've both showered and finally look presentable, though I'm wearing a t-shirt and jeans (read: appropriate clothing) while he wears his usual crisp white oxford and a pair of dark trousers. I roll my eyes, grabbing his arm and folding the sleeves up past his forearms. "You're going to play," I tell him. "You know," I add, "with a child." "I was never very good at juvenile antics," he replies stiffly. I tell him he is a juvenile antic. He catches the back of my head and pulls me close, kisses me gruffly. "I will try very hard not to fuck this up," he whispers to me. It's helplessly endearing. I kiss him back. "Just try not to swear," I say, though I highly doubt he can manage it. He has many languages: touches, scoffs, theatrical quotes, witticisms, expletives. Someday I hope to be fluent in all of them.
1:35 p.m.: Billy is, of course, overjoyed to see me. He's suspicious of Adler for a moment, but that's not my concern just yet. I won't lie, I was much more apprehensive about what Billy's adoptive mother Clara would say when she met Adler, and for good reason. She looks helplessly stunned when he walks behind me through the Floo, hanging back while Billy instantly tells me about his latest improvement on his broom. "You look surprised," Adler says to Clara, in his confrontation voice. I turn over my shoulder, flashing him a warning glance. "What?" he sniffs, "she does." Behave, I mouth. Clara merely manages an uncertain smile.
1:45 p.m.: Billy drags me outside to the garden, which is fine with me. Why waste a minute? We're similar that way, which I suppose says more about me than it does about him. Clara is considering a job at Hogwarts, which means I may not have such an easy time seeing Billy. Getting to the castle is no easy feat; apparation wards, school permits, etc. I'm trying to make use of the time I have with Billy, if she does decide to go, and that's why I brought Adler, I think. I want him to see what my life is really like, and the ways it's not what he thinks it is, or even what he's used to. I think I'm very foreign to him sometimes. I spent most of my life trying to recreate some semblance of the family I never had, but that's not Adler's reflex. He loathes family, considers it restricting, tries to escape it. I want him to see there's a way to have something better than what he had. For now, though, he hangs back, uncertain.
2:03 p.m.: I see Adler and Clara talking quietly and worry for a moment. Adler's not universally likable, I'll admit. It's a bit like owning a charming but unfriendly cat, where the first few moments of it being introduced to a new person you're never quite sure if it'll work out. Will the cat permit itself to be petted, or at least not scratch anyone's eye out? Or will the cat have a mutiny and piss on the sofa? Hard to say. Still, Clara's a rather kind person, and I think he'll like her. I think she'll like him, too, if he lets her catch any glimpses of him as he is, rather than one of his many personas.
2:20 p.m.: To my surprise, Adler comes over to chat while I'm teaching Billy about how to stop properly, though Billy's much more concerned with speed. I encourage it, in my way—I think it's best that children not learn fear from adults, even if I hardly am one—but Adler looks uneasy. It occurs to me, hilariously, that he's very worried for Billy's safety. He's not particularly good on a broom himself, having fallen from one more than once, so this isn't a surprise. It is, however, kind of funny. "Stop laughing," he mutters to me, which makes me laugh harder. "Adler here is terrible in the air," I tell Billy, who grins. "It's easy," Billy says to Adler, "you just fly." "If that's a metaphor—" Adler begins, and I laugh again. "You should show him how," I suggest to Billy, who instantly takes off, and I watch as Adler fights the reflex to lunge after him, to hold him back. "Let the kid have some fun," I say, and reach over, tracing the shape of an old scar on his arm. It's not my story to tell, but it's essentially a disciplinary marking, not unlike the words I must not tell lies which remain carved into the back of my hand. Adler wasn't permitted much fun as a child, and he and I both know this. He understands immediately and lets out a breath. "Right," he says, "right."
4:05 p.m.: Eventually I recognize that Billy and Adler are beginning to speak to each other without my help, so I slip away, heading into the kitchen to help Clara with the dishes from lunch. "Sorry about him," I say, because Adler isn't exactly a mother's dream, but she seems to disagree. She gestures outside, to where Adler is telling Billy a story; King Arthur, I'd guess, which is one of Adler's favorites. I watch him wield an imaginary sword and realize he must be talking about Excalibur. For someone who scoffs so freely at so many things, Adler isn't actually a cynic. He believes in destiny, in fate, in inevitability. He's as academic as Mycroft, only far less pragmatic. Not pragmatic at all, actually, and he reminds me of the way I felt when I first found out I was a wizard. I feel, with him, the way I felt when I first discovered magic was real. He is magic itself to me, impossibility incarnate. "I like him," Clara says, and I can't help but swallow hard. "So do I," I confess.
4:15 p.m.: Adler comes in from the garden with Billy clinging to his hand (I knew it would happen eventually, I remind myself, exhaling with relief; Auror's instincts, after all) just as someone enters through the Floo. I'm watching Adler, so I notice his expression going stiff first before I turn to realize it's Victoria, who I only now register is Clara's younger sister. She will always be Moriarty's mother first, though right now, all I can think is that she is a piece of Adler's past. Not so far gone, even, as Adler is clearly failing to breathe.
4:18 p.m.: "What's going on?" Clara asks me. What's going on, I don't say, is that there's a piece of my chest being torn out for a moment, because while I've always known about Adler and Victoria from some sort of figurative rearview mirror, I've never actually seen the way they looked at each other before. I thought it was about sex, and maybe it was, but that wasn't all of it. Victoria can't take her eyes from Adler, and she's looking at him the way I look at him. As if she knows each motion from his limbs and is reading him like a book, skipping to her favorite pages. His eyes, his mouth, the shape of his shoulders, the glint that seems eternally coming off him from every improbable light source. I hate that she and I have read the same book, and worse, that we both seem to know the passages. That's my favorite part, I think, when her gaze scans the little pieces of him, and that, and that—"Maybe we should leave," I say, and suggest that we take Billy for the night. I think my use of the word 'we' is intentional. I think maybe I hope it will hurt her a little, like this is hurting me.
4:20 p.m.: She hears it. She suffers it. "We?" she asks, not from me, but from Adler. The moment I turn my attention to him, I kick myself for being selfish. I didn't even think about what seeing her had done to him, and now I can see it, written plainly on his features even as he gives her a steady nod. "We," he confirms, which is as good as telling her decisively it's me in his bed now. It's me he wants.
4:21 p.m.: Billy shouts his excitement and takes Adler's hand again, dragging him to his bedroom to pack his things. I glance at Victoria for a moment, thinking about telling her something, but I don't know what to say. How exactly am I supposed to put into words that I'm sorry she's hurting, but also, he's mine now? I'm sad for you, I think to say, because I know precisely what you've lost, but you can't have his heart, because I want it? These are ridiculous thoughts and I don't entertain them. I turn and follow Adler and Billy instead.
4:30 p.m.: While Billy shows Adler every single one of his toys, I brush my fingertips against his palm. "I'm sorry," he says to me, curtly. I think he means he's sorry he reacted at all, which makes sense. He was just very vulnerable for a moment, which he hates. He detests it, the way other people detest flies. I watch him shake it away, though it's not completely gone. Now's not the time to say anything, though. He's concentrating very hard on not disappointing Billy at the moment, and I wouldn't dare interrupt his efforts.
4:45 p.m.: We head back to leave and I discuss some logistics with Clara. She's not unused to this, as I've taken Billy for the night from time to time, but I know she's always sad to watch him go. Having lost as much as she has, it's no wonder there's a grip of fear every time someone she loves is gone from her sight. Billy calls her Mummy, which Clara's been trying to fix; by contrast, I don't correct him when he calls me Dad. I can relate to wanting to use the term, and while I know Clara feels like she's stealing hers, I think maybe she just doesn't quite get it—that sensation of wanting to belong, to be normal, to fill the holes for yourself. There are no rightful titles. Adler had a father and still grew up starving for approval, for warmth, for affection. I have never known my father, but I found love wherever I needed it. Billy's doing the same thing I did. Rightful titles are nothing.
4:48 p.m.: Adler releases Billy's hand for a moment to speak to Clara. "Whatever happens next," he says, "and whatever you learn about me, know that this is real." He glances back at me and I duck my head, pretending I wasn't listening. The words aren't for me; I shouldn't have heard them. Still, I'm more than a little relieved. Clara smiles at him. I think he's won her over. I know the feeling. He isn't very likable, but it's impossible not to fall for him.
4:53 p.m.: Sometimes I have this fantasy where I win some sort of magical key; I'd unlock all the levels to Adler and open him up to see all of him at once, but that seems more than a little unlikely. Also, I think it would blind me. When we get through the Floo, I tell Billy to say hello to Watson, and then I turn and kiss Adler quickly; a hard kiss, a firm one, but nothing too lengthy. He looks surprised. "Why?" he asks, and I say nothing. "Oh," he says, and smiles.
5:16 p.m.: "What should we do?" I ask Billy, who has already run at top speeds through all the rooms in my house. "Tell me another story," Billy insists from Adler. "My goodness," Adler replies, "someone is quite a demanding little monster, isn't he?" Immediately, I have an idea. Time to call in my secret weapon.
5:34 p.m.: "Alright," Mycroft sighs when she comes through the Floo, juggling a variety of items: a DVD player and corresponding films, the board game Clue, and what I think might be a mat for Twister. Muggle things never cease to catch the interest of a magical child, which is ironic, but how better to impress a child who can fly and change the shape of his nose than with something that does exactly none of those things? Besides, Mycroft herself will never admit it, but she's a master at Twister. Watson isn't half bad either, actually, though that's much funnier to watch.
5:45 p.m.: "What's this?" Mycroft asks me quietly, gesturing to Adler, who is just as curious as Billy about all the things she's brought over. She's clearly deduced already, though, expert that she is, so no need to explain. "Don't tell Moriarty," I warn her, "that's something he'll have to do when he's ready." She nods. She's very good at secrets. I kiss her forehead and she smiles, offering a hand to Billy. "Now," she says crisply, as Watson and my elf emerge with a pizza, "who wants to play?"
7:35 p.m.: If you'd told me a year ago I'd be eating pizza with Adler and Mycroft on my living room floor while my godson placed a garish tiara on top of Watson's head, I wouldn't have believed you. But for the moment, I choke on my laughter, as Mycroft declares Watson the prettiest, prettiest princess in all the land. "I, for one, love a healthy disdain for gender stereotypes," Adler says, and adds, with a toast to Watson, "Brava." Mycroft nods appreciatively, and for a moment I think she might begin one of her lectures, but instead she simply snorts into her apple juice (tonight's digestif) as Billy offers Watson a feather boa. "Thank you, my child," Watson says, wrapping it proudly around his neck.
8:15 p.m.: Billy refuses to sleep until Adler tucks him in, which is the final seal of approval. Adler follows helplessly, giving me a laughable look of uncertainty as I wave him off. My elf offers to clean the mess, but per usual, Mycroft insists we take care of it ourselves, so I help her collect everything. "Adler's an unusual choice," she tells me. "So's Moriarty," I remind her, and she hides a smile, albeit not very well. "I like him," she says, and as of that moment, everyone who matters to me knows, and I am happy.
8:34 p.m.: I come into Billy's room and find that Billy isn't even close to sleeping. In fact, Adler is on his feet, apparently teaching Billy the art of dueling, though thankfully the swords are merely pretend. "Adler," I exhale, and he jumps, immediately guilty. "It was important context for the story," he explains, though Billy's shrill giggle suggests otherwise. "Look what you've done," Adler scolds Billy with feigned disapproval. The giggles continue.
8:46 p.m.: Eventually we get Billy into bed, where he looks affectionately between us and then grabs my face with both hands. "Dad," he says very seriously, his eyes an unnerving replica of Adler's, "I'm not tired." His lids are drooping, of course, and the moment his head hits the pillow, he'll be asleep. "See? He's not tired," Adler says, "and I say he's old enough to know." "You," I tell Adler, "are a terror." "Tell me a story," Billy insists, and I sigh, conceding. "One time your dad taught me how to defeat a dementor," I tell him, because my stories aren't as good as Adler's, but I draw from an irreplaceable vault. Billy's eyes widen, and so do Adler's, as he's never heard this story either. He probably doesn't know how to cast a Patronus, I realize, but for now I've already started, so I continue with the story.
9:19 p.m.: Adler crawls into my bed and falls limply beside me, exhausted. "Children are demons," he says, but my plans for the evening aren't finished. "Get your wand," I say, and he frowns at me. "Think of a happy memory," I tell him. He swallows with difficulty, sparing me a brief and fleeting smile. "I'm not sure I could have before you," he says, which might be a remark about Victoria, or perhaps everything that led him to her; but then he adds stiffly, "which, to clarify, is not me being dramatic." I roll my eyes. "Just do it," I say.
9:34 p.m.: After a couple of tries, his falcon perches on top of my stag's antlers, peering around my room with a sharp, possessive glance. Adler looks satisfied, and turns to me. "I'm going to tell Moriarty," he assures me, "but not yet. I want to keep this for me a little longer, and he's hopelessly self-involved." I laugh, and the Patronus charms dissipate when I turn, bringing his lips to mine. "Tell whoever you want," I say, "whenever you want to. I'm not going anywhere."
10:15 p.m.: Sex tonight is quick and rough and hushed. I cast a Muffliato but we're both nervous Billy could wake up and wander in at any moment, so we don't take any more time than we have to, except for a brief moment of pause. "Thank you," he says, covering my hand with his, and I bend my forehead to the line of his shoulder. He could be thanking me for understanding about Victoria, or for introducing him to my godson, or for telling Mycroft about him, or just for generally letting him into my life. I could say any number of things—I'm grateful, too—but it's rare he says precisely what he means when he means it, so it doesn't seem worth it. He knows how I feel. "You're welcome," I promise him.
3:15 a.m.: "Dad," Billy whispers, his eyes big and green when he pops up beside my bed, "I'm not tired." "I told you he wasn't tired," says Adler, before I elbow him into silence.
3:17 a.m.: "Come on," I say, gesturing for Billy to climb into bed beside me, but Adler's already on his feet. "Stay in bed," he tells me, brushing his thumb over my temple, "I'll entertain your son."
3:18 a.m.: For some reason, my chest feels absolutely full to bursting. "No need," I tell him, "I'm up."
DAY ONE
3:35 a.m.: Shit. In my defense, I was really tired after last time. I'm really tired now, too, but I'm also extremely stressed. The reparations case is not going well. I won't go into detail, mostly because it would take much too long, but basically Victoria has decided to be noble in a way that makes me understand why people really couldn't stand me for some of my teenage years. Mycroft, meanwhile, is a mess. Watson is… Watson's mostly normal, if you don't know him at all, but unfortunately I do, so I can see that he's basically falling apart at the seams. Everything is tense and terrible, including Adler, who has a disgraced and destitute Moriarty living in his house. It's rare that I see Adler now, except for late hours. One or two, here and there. I need him, but Moriarty needs him more. To say I'm longing for the exhaustion of having my godson be the thing to wake me at three in the morning rather than simply the assault of my thoughts is an understatement.
4:47 a.m.: Speak of the devil. Adler materializes in my room with a pop and wrests me back against my bed, forcefully shoving his mouth on mine. "Fuck, I've missed you," he exhales, and I don't fight him when he shoves my wrists over my head, kissing his way down my torso. I've missed him too, but I don't feel like speaking. "You're not eating enough," he says, and I close my eyes as his half-bitten nails dig into my thighs. "You never eat," I remind him. He puts my dick in his mouth. "Busy with other things," he mumbles around it, which makes me groan.
5:05 a.m.: I fuck him this morning, not very carefully, and certainly not very slowly. I have a lot of aggression to get out, but he seems to like it. I'm also pretty sure he leaves the imprint of his teeth on any number of places I wouldn't want Watson's mum to find. I'll have to spell them away before her dinner party this evening. "Ouch," Adler mutters, glaring at me when I apprehensively bite his lip at the thought. He sucks at it a little, giving me a look of disapproval. "You need to chill," he says. I pause for a moment, a little remorseful, but then he ruts purposefully against me. "Might as well keep going," he says, and kisses me again. I have missed him, and missed him, and missed him.
5:34 a.m.: Adler kisses me swiftly and is gone sooner than I'd like, but I have things to do before this inevitably terrible dinner party. I don't think Watson is coming out of his room anytime soon, which is probably best. He's still struggling with his feelings for Mary, and I have my own things to sort out.
6:01 a.m.: "Kind of early, don't you think?" Mycroft says when I meet her at the Ministry. It's eerily quiet, which is often the case in the wee hours of Saturday morning. "Were you sleeping?" I ask bluntly. The answer, we both know perfectly well, is no. She grimaces. "Moriarty isn't doing well," she says. I know as much from Adler. "Fuck," I exhale, "let's go, then."
6:34 a.m.: I shouldn't be seeing Victoria, considering that I am currently investigating her for the reparations conspiracy (which was, as I discovered several weeks ago, orchestrated by her husband), but Mycroft seems to understand that a lot of this is weighing on my conscience. Ah, my conscience, which used to be praised and is now mostly a hindrance to me getting anything done. Lestrade is breathing down my neck about this, which makes me more than a little gruff. "We need to talk," I say to Victoria, who turns in all her queenly splendor. It's not the first time I've said as much. "And here I thought we were done speaking," she replies, glancing at Mycroft, who looks away.
6:45 a.m.: Mycroft is Victoria's lawyer. A favor to Moriarty, though at the moment, it's doing their relationship far more harm than good. "You have to stop this," I say to Victoria. She glances up at me, lips pursed. My Patronus is keeping the dementor away at the moment, but it's still cold and unpleasant in here. My anger is heightened, my patience thin. "Why?" she asks. "Your son doesn't enjoy seeing you like this," I say. She says nothing. Well, she doesn't answer, but she doesn't flinch, either. "He's fine," she says, "he's with Adler. Among others," she adds, her gaze flicking to Mycroft.
6:57 a.m.: "Adler can't save him," I say, frustrated, and Victoria smiles thinly. "Why not? He saved you," she says, and I am furious that she can say that. I'm furious she saved me once, too, and I'm angrier than all hell until Mycroft sets a hand on my shoulder, muffling my distress. "Have you told him you love him yet?" Victoria asks me neutrally, which is an unfair question. I turn away, gathering myself, and then turn back. "I'm doing what I can for you," I remind her, "and for Moriarty. But my hands are tied unless you tell the truth." Victoria shrugs. "I deserve to be here," she says. "Moriarty would disagree," I snap. Why am I so angry? Maybe because I can feel Adler's pain and I hate it. Maybe because only I know his secret and it is killing me to watch him suffer. Maybe because this case means the newspapers are pitting me against people I love and I thought I was done with that, with this feeling, with all of it. "Adler," I say, "hates this." Only then does Victoria look a little bit ashamed.
7:15 a.m.: It's a quick visit, since I'm obviously not getting what I came for. "See you tonight?" Mycroft asks gently. This must be hard on her. I pull her in for a hug. "Yeah," I say. It's the first time I'm not relieved at all to be going to Watson's family home.
10:34 a.m.: I try to get through the rest of the day but it just feels like a regression. There had been a time I wouldn't have thought twice about going to the Leaky Cauldron with Adler and chancing being seen (we've always been private, but hardly careful) but now is a different matter. I can't step outside my house without being ambushed about the reparations case, which is its own kind of war. I miss the peace of Adler's gardens. I miss feeling normal, feeling human for a change. The Chosen One hat is back on my head and I loathe it, I wish it were gone, I wish I had opted for any other job but this one. I think Watson feels it too. Mycroft certainly does.
3:11 p.m.: "Is this going to be a total disaster?" I ask Watson, who is staring into space in his bedroom. The resurgence of Mary in his life has not been a great thing for his concentration. "I mean, I assume so," he says. I wish I'd made other plans.
4:55 p.m.: I arrive with Watson and his girlfriend (not Mary, though a nice enough girl) and catch Mycroft's exhalation of relief as she hurries over to me. A number of Watson's family members are here, including his sister, who's also my ex, and a number of significant others. I have a terrible feeling about this. I wish Adler were here to make some sort of dismal proclamation of gloom. It would make me feel better. Instead I have Mycroft, who is hopelessly optimistic. "Maybe everything will be fine," she whispers. "You know perfectly well it won't," I mutter back.
5:10 p.m.: Naturally, trouble starts when Mary arrives. Which—who knew Mary was going to arrive? Not Watson, by the look of it. Certainly not Mycroft, whose grip tightens on my arm. She notably cross-examined Mary to disastrous consequences; already I've heard rumors that Mary is considering leaving town once the trial is over because of the damage to her reputation.
5:37 p.m.: Watson looks sweaty and nervous. "Does he know?" Mycroft asks me, sounding nervous, and I shake my head. "You know I can't tell him anything about the case," I murmur, "so if you haven't told him, and Mary hasn't told him—" "Oh no," Mycroft laments, aptly. Meanwhile, Watson is staring at Mary. His brothers have pulled his parents aside. This, I know, can only go badly.
5:45 p.m.: Watson's confusion begins to cause me a bit of stomach pain. "We have to tell him," Mycroft hisses to me, and I can't summon the energy to disagree. "What's going on?" Watson says, stepping forward, and I finally lunge after him, pulling him back. "Don't," I warn, but he never listens to me. In fairness, I rarely listen to him. "Just come here," I say impatiently, pulling him into the corridor.
5:48 p.m.: I begin to explain that Watson's oldest brother is a witness in Victoria's case, but find I'm not quite comfortable explaining why (Mycroft, too, mostly looks nervous. There's a lot of unpleasantness surrounding this whole mess). "Um," I begin, but his mother's voice cuts me off. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'RE SEPARATING?" she demands, and I give up. Honestly, I knew this would happen. Auror instincts win again. "It's probably just going to come up, then," I remark with irritation, nudging him back into the living room.
5:58 p.m.: Watson's mother's yelling only increases the more information she learns. Watson, meanwhile, is speaking in undertones to Mary, and his girlfriend is watching with heightening amounts of concern, or perhaps suspicion. I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. I suddenly have a terrible headache. Mycroft, meanwhile, who isn't particularly great with confrontation, simply looks increasingly apprehensive. I think we're all just waiting for the inevitable crash.
6:24 p.m.: "You slept with my best friend!" Mary accuses Watson's brother, along with the audible sound of knuckles hitting skin. Watson's gone after her, of course. "Damn," says Watson's older brother, "I think I'm missing Watson's black eye." "What black eye?" Mycroft asks, alarmed, but I simply fall into one of the living room chairs, exhausted.
6:35 p.m.: Eventually, after scolding Watson's brother for what would admittedly be a brilliant prank if I were more in the mood, Mycroft sits down beside me. "Sometimes I wish I had siblings," she remarks, "and then sometimes…" "I know the feeling," I exhale, and she chuckles weakly, resting her head on my shoulder.
6:39 p.m.: "What's wrong?" Mycroft murmurs to me, tapping her fingers on my knuckles. "Everything," I say. The truth is my career is going extraordinarily well. Lestrade promoted me. I currently stand about one step (one solid case, one guilty verdict, one high profile apprehension) away from being the youngest Head Auror in the Ministry's history. Of course, once I'm Head Auror, that just means more publicity. More scrutiny. More difficult choices. It used to be relatively easy to maintain the division between my personal life and my professional life, but that is no longer the case. My morals are crumbling. My personal interests in Adler, in Victoria, should not be affecting my decisions as an Auror, but they unquestionably are. I'm a man in crisis, which is not something I'm historically good at. "At least you're not shouting," Mycroft assures me, and to that, I permit a laugh. Fifth year was very shouty indeed.
7:30 p.m.: Eventually things quiet down. People leave. Watson, notably, leaves without a word. Mycroft and I exchange a glance; our obligations are to him first. "Come on," she murmurs, taking my hand, and then we pass through the Floo.
7:45 p.m.: Watson is sitting in my kitchen, looking morose. Luckily, Mycroft's abilities to comfort Watson have improved considerably since their breakup. She mentions something briefly about seeing his girlfriend leave, which both of us expect to prompt a confession about their breakup. Instead, though, he announces something arbitrary and confusing: "I have to quit my job."
7:48 p.m.: "Okay," I say. This isn't a surprise, after all. I know he hates it, but still, we started out in this department together; any time I leave the office for field work, Watson is my partner. He's my partner, always has been. My partner, my best friend, my roommate—"I also need to move out," Watson says, and at that, I'm stunned. "I just feel really stuck here," he says, and he assures me it's not my fault, but I can't help feeling that it is. He's always compared to me, mostly unfavorably, and as much as I wish that wasn't the case, I still instinctively understand he's been living in my shadow for ten years. I want to point out that I need him, that he's my friend—that I'm his—but I can see that would do me no good. He needs a fresh start, and even I know he won't find that here.
7:59 p.m.: Mycroft, whose own instincts are improving, seems to recognize that Watson and I need to be alone. "Mary?" I ask Watson when she leaves, because I saw the way he looked at her. I saw the way she looked at him, too, and more importantly, I don't want to talk about how I currently feel about the prospect of him leaving, which is very, very alone. Watson asks me why I didn't ask him if he'd slept with her. I barely remember my relationship with her, but I very clearly recall my feelings of ineptitude, and I don't want to bring them up now. I tell him a half-truth: it was an easy thing to believe, knowing he was in love with her.
8:31 p.m.: Eventually I feel the dull pounding in my head start to come back, so I rise to my feet, excusing myself and heading up the stairs. I'm suddenly very conscious of my own feelings about Watson, and my envy of him, which he genuinely doesn't understand. He is so loved, so supported by his family. I know Mary loves him, more than she loved me, and I know why, too. I carry the burden of my past around with me. People want me to be something, always. Something I can never really be. I miss Adler fiercely, wish I could wrap myself around him until I feel like myself again, but I feel it would be selfish to ask.
12:45 a.m.: Eventually Adler crawls into my bed and I don't say anything. He looks at me for a moment, reading the expression on my face, and then shifts onto his back, lying still with his shoulder deliberately pressing into mine. "What's wrong?" he says. I tell him Victoria won't change her story. I tell him Watson is moving out. I tell him I'm being promoted. I tell him my life isn't my own again, same as it was before. He listens. He says nothing. Then he reaches out and rests his hand on mine.
2:23 a.m.: "I love you," Adler says, and I turn, startled, to look at him. "Don't make a big thing of it," he says, and I stare at him. I stare and stare and keep staring until we both hear a noise from downstairs. It's the sound of Watson in the kitchen, probably getting a glass of water or something equally dull to my current senses. "Will you excuse me?" Adler asks, sitting upright. "I just need to take care of something."
2:31 a.m.: When Adler returns, I'm sitting upright, waiting. "What did you do?" I ask. He climbs into my bed and even though I'm an Auror, even though I regularly run training drills and I'm really quite good at hand-to-hand combat, even though I defeated a Dark Lord, I let him pin my shoulders down, forcing me onto my back. "You don't have to be a hero," he says, as if he can read my thoughts. "You're a good man who could have been any number of things, who could have been a coward, who could have been heartless, who could have been cruel, who could have treated the world how it treated you, but you aren't. You're a good man, and whether it counts for anything or not, I love you."
2:33 a.m.: "I love you," I say, and though it makes me feel unbearably small to do it, I add, "Please don't leave."
2:35 a.m.: Adler makes a practice of never making promises he can't keep. He lives his life from day to day, a constant wanderer. His feet have never met a landscape worth standing on for long. He is destructive and beautiful and untouchable. He is unlike anything I have ever seen, and I love him. "I'm not going anywhere," he says, and settles in beside me.
3:01 a.m.: He's it for me. I'm done looking. For the first time in days, I fall asleep, satisfied.
DAY ONE
7:47 a.m.: I'm starting to see why Mycroft considers me irresponsible. I'm not a very good diarist, am I? To be fair, I've been very distracted for the past several months. Now that the reparations case is over, I have a highly unruly partner. He's a lot to manage. "A bit late, aren't you?" Moriarty drawls impatiently, waiting for me on the bullpen floor as I emerge from the Floo in my office. "You're my subordinate," I remind him. "I also kept you from touching that cursed necklace last week," he replies. "Yes, very good, you have an excellent nose for poison," I say, rolling my eyes.
8:14 a.m.: "Adler came by to pester me this morning," Moriarty remarks, which is something of a complaint, I suppose. He and Mycroft recently moved in together in Diagon. Adler, meanwhile, is in the process of selling his house, for reasons I'm not entirely sure about. I'll be sorry to lose the gardens, but it's always been something of a surprise that he even still lives there, occupying a space full of memories he hates. "He was up early," I say, which is a lie, or at least a half-truth. Adler doesn't sleep, and we certainly didn't for most of last night. He did leave my bed early, though, for reasons I don't know. He likes to be secretive from time to time and I permit it. "Well, keep him on a better leash," Moriarty says, though I think what he's actually doing is thanking me. His friendship with Adler remains as it always was, and he's clearly relieved. "I could say the same to you," I reply.
8:35 a.m.: Moriarty and I are investigating a rather exciting case about a smuggler in Knockturn Alley. It's a relief to be working on something that isn't so divisive; I think we can all agree that smugglers deserve to be apprehended. That being said, of course, it's highly confidential. I'm glad Adler convinced me to stay with the department, even through the difficulties of the past few months. Actually, the title 'Head Auror' is being tossed around almost daily by Lestrade, so I told him yesterday about Adler. "If scrutiny of my relationship is going to be a problem," I said, "then you should give it to someone else." Lestrade simply arched a brow. "I didn't almost die in two separate wars to simply coddle the status quo," he replied.
2:36 p.m.: Canvassing Knockturn Alley lasts most of the day, resulting in a few smaller arrests, though I leave that to Moriarty to take care of. For someone less than six months on the job, he has quite an air about him. He always was naturally authoritative, probably more so than I am, so I point to him as lead while I'm gone and the other Aurors nod, shifting to go about their orders. Moriarty pauses to give me a sharp nudge. "Enjoy your trip," he says, which is oddly sincere of him, so he fixes it by insulting my hair. "Ah, and tell Watson that Mycroft's very sorry she can't come," he adds, though I stop him. "He knows," I assure him. Mycroft's got a lot on her plate these days, though I think she enjoys the work. She seems happy. Moriarty smirks. "I, of course, have her rather… tied up," he remarks. I roll my eyes. "Gross," I say, and apparate back to my office. I'm already ten minutes late.
3:15 p.m.: "You're late," says Adler. "Is there a reason this couldn't wait?" I ask indignantly, as Watson isn't expecting us until later this afternoon. "Yes," Adler replies crisply, without explanation. "Excuse me," I begin to say, but Adler cuts me off with a shake of his head. "Come on," he says, "or we'll be even later, and I simply won't tolerate any dawdling."
3:35 p.m.: "Oh, and by the way, I sold the house," he announces, and I congratulate him, though I ask him where he plans to live. "I'm so glad you asked," he says, and then places a hand on my shoulder, apparating us elsewhere.
3:36 p.m.: My feet touch the ground on soft earth, the grass beneath me rustling at a surprisingly refreshing breeze. This isn't anywhere in London. "Happy belated birthday," Adler says, and I glance at him, surprised. I'd said I didn't want anything, but it doesn't surprise me that he didn't listen. Especially since my birthday was exactly three months ago. "What's this?" I ask, looking around. We're somewhere near the sea, I suspect. I can smell it on the air. Cornwall, if I had to guess. "Well, I bought it," he tells me. "From a muggle," he explains, "for a very fair price, although the exchange rate is appalling. Someone should warn them." I stare at him. "This is extremely too much for a birthday gift," I say, even though we both know it isn't one. "Good," he says, "as I don't plan to give you any others."
3:45 p.m.: I wander around as he points to things. "There is, as you can see, a rather nice breakfast spot up there," he says, gesturing upwards at one point. "A guest house," he explains at another, "for when Billy is a teenager and needs to throw his inevitable anarchist raves—" "What are you doing?" I ask, turning to look at him. He merely shades his eyes from the sun. "Over there," he continues, pointing, "is the open space you need for a quidditch pitch, where I shall, of course, never join you—" "What," I demand, "are you doing?"
4:10 p.m.: "Planning our future," he says, and my heart stops.
4:12 p.m.: Immediately, I launch into a nervous tirade of questions. How is he affording this? Reparations cost him quite a bit, and I would know. "The house," he reminds me, exasperated, "which I just sold—sorry about costing you the gardens, by the way, but this is better, as it's less house and more gardens; preferable, I assume, being the spatial creature that you are—" "Why now?" I ask. "Why not?" he replies. It's a difficult argument. "You didn't ask me," I remind him. "No," he agrees, and adds, innocently, "why, do you not like it?"
4:24 p.m.: I grimace. "It's fucking perfect," I admit, and then I turn around, punching him only hard enough that he coughs his opposition. "Don't buy country manor houses without asking me first," I tell him. "Well, your taste is highly predictable," he tells me, slightly doubled-over, "garish, even, so it was really not very difficult to find something you'd like—"
4:26 p.m.: I cut him off with a kiss, which is really more of a groan of exasperation. "You can't just give me things like this," I say, "it's mad. It's irresponsible." "My top two qualities," he says. I have absolutely no idea what I'm going to do with him. I kiss him again, and he kisses me back, shoving me up against what is admittedly a glorious tree. I spread my hand over the bark, knowing I will surely take several fantastic naps somewhere at the base of it, and let his mouth shift to my neck. "We should go," I remind him, as it's getting late, and the apparation permit I got us has a very limited window. He growls his disapproval with his fingers coiled in my belt loops. "Come on," I say, tugging him after me and taking a deep breath of sea-sprayed air, apparating us away.
4:30 p.m.: "Right on time," Watson says cheerfully, as we arrive with a pop just outside his shop in Hogsmeade. "Mary's just finishing up her last class for the day," he explains, gesturing for us to follow him inside as Adler's gaze darts around the merchandise, unimpressed. He's not really one for whimsy, though surprisingly, wonder goes a far way with him. "What's she teaching?" I ask. "A few things," Watson says, and adds proudly that Mary's especially good with the first and second years. "Victoria's teaching the N.E.W.T.-level Defense Against the Dark Arts—'Advanced Wizarding Defensive Tactics' they call it now, to get around the jinx on it—can you believe that?" Watson says, all in one rushed sentence, and for a second Adler blinks at Victoria's name, but I shake my head. "She used occlumency against the world's best legilimens," I say. "She's also very good at wandless charms," Adler adds. "Well, there you go, then," Watson says, shrugging. I glance at Adler, but he doesn't look shaken at the mention of her the way he used to. He looks satisfied, I think, or relieved. I suppose I'm relieved, too.
5:58 p.m.: We're chatting outside the Three Broomsticks when Watson's brother joins us along with Mary, and I recall that he's the Care of Magical Creatures professor now. "You must be very popular," I tell Mary, considering she's married to the joke shop owner (as of about August this year, at a very nice and thankfully small ceremony wherein no family fights were had) and sister-in-law to a former dragonologist. "They know which one's the cool Professor Watson," she sniffs, though she looks undoubtedly happier than I've seen her. "Mycroft is sorry she couldn't come," I say, but Mary waves a hand. She tells me they spoke this morning about their magazine, The Human Interest, which they're both still working on. Apparently even Watson's sister, who's playing in the World Cup Tournament as we speak, also found the time to join them. All is well, it seems.
8:17 p.m.: Dinner lasts well into the night, all of us full of food and ale and eventually firewhisky, enjoying the Three Broomsticks' seasonal specialties. It's been a while since I had a pumpkin pasty this good, or maybe it's the company that improves the flavor. Mary and Watson are holding hands, and under the table, Adler's hand is sliding up my thigh. I turn, raising a brow, and he pretends at innocence, giving my leg a squeeze without glancing at me. "I think we're going to go to bed early," I say apologetically, my voice probably too loud. "On Halloween?" Mary asks skeptically, and I shrug. "Long day," I explain. Adler very cleverly feigns a yawn, and after agreeing we'll meet up with Mary and Watson tomorrow for lunch, we slip out, stumbling in the dark with a laugh at our escape until he pushes me against a cobbled stone wall, kissing me like he always does. Hard, sure, and full of tomorrows.
8:47 p.m.: "To bed?" he asks, but I shake my head. "We're not old yet," I say, and pull him after me, making my way to the castle. I knew the castle better than anyone, and I still remember all the ways to get there. I pull him after me, pausing every now and then to kiss him, and gradually we make our way down to the lake, just on the edge of the woods.
10:34 p.m.: Inevitably we're on the ground, tangled up like always, and then he traces the shape of my mouth and my nose with his fingers, knocking my glasses askew. "Why do you wear these?" he asks with a laugh. His breath is spiced with cinnamon and whisky, his voice a bit slurred. "So I can see you better," I say, and he kisses me again, his tongue slipping between my lips. I shiver. "Cold?" he asks. "A bit," I say. "Good," he says, and gives me his troubling smirk. "Let's break into Hogwarts."
11:17 p.m.: I run my fingers along the castle walls, passing my hand over the stones. "Hello, old friend," I murmur, and Adler glances at me, half-smiling. "I always liked it here," he says. I nod my agreement. "I hated being at home," he adds, softer, and I nod. On that, too, we agree. We take the paths we used to walk, though we were never together when we walked them. Our paths rarely even crossed. We whisper to each other about where we had our first kisses, our first loves, our first this and that and this. "Sometimes I wish I'd known you," I say, swallowing hard, but he shakes his head. "If I get to have all your afters," he says, "then I don't mind missing the befores."
11:59 p.m.: We're kissing slowly in the courtyard, his hand sliding under my shirt and over the pebbled skin of my torso, when we're interrupted by the sound of the old caretaker, who apparently still lives here. "STUDENTS OUT OF BED," he shouts, until I sigh, hurriedly shushing him. "Remember me?" I say, pointing to my scar, "we're not students." "That's what they all say," he replies. Luckily my house ghost comes to my rescue, or tries to, and then the poltergeist breaks something further down the hall. "Run," Adler advises me, and I wave to the ghost over my shoulder as we sprint back down to the lake.
1:45 a.m.: "Let's do something tomorrow morning," Adler says to me in bed, once we've finally procured our usual room at the Hog's Head. "Like what?" I ask. He thinks about it. "I think I'd like to be aloft," he says grandly. I give his hair a tug so he knows he's being pretentious, but I nod in concession. "I can do that," I say, before we finally settle down to sleep.
2:01 a.m.: This is the day my parents died, which in previous years has always made me sad. I always wanted a love like theirs, though, and I think I found one. I think they'd be happy for me. "Thanks for our house," I say as we're drifting off. Adler's mouth twitches to a smile, eyes still closed. "Don't thank me yet," he murmurs, "seeing as there's still plenty of time for me to ruin you."
2:05 a.m.: I don't tell him that he already has. I'm sure he already knows as much, and is probably dreadfully pleased with himself over it.
DAY ONE
6:45 a.m.: Amazingly, this isn't actually day one. For once, I remembered to keep going, but every day with Adler feels like the first day of something new, something exciting, something beyond my flimsy understanding—so why stop now? "Where should we go?" Adler asks me, his hair neat and slicked to the side and his clothes as impeccable as always. "I thought of a place I think you'd like," I tell him, and muss his hair a bit when I kiss him good morning.
7:15 a.m.: We apparate in after pouring coffee into enchanted containers, both of them charmed to keep the drinks hot. Sometimes the real fun in being a wizard is less the defeating of genocidal lords and more the warming of caffeinated beverages. "It's called Arthur's Seat," I explain, pointing to the top of a grassy slope. Adler smiles slowly. "I love when you grasp my affinity for poeticism," he remarks, heading up the slope without hesitation.
7:35 a.m.: We take the walk slowly, and while at first there are a handful of people here, I notice they falter when we approach them, abruptly deciding to pause or turn back. I glance askance, noticing Adler's wand is resting against the heel of his hand. "Adler," I admonish, and he bats his lashes at me, forever the coquet. "It's illegal," I remind him. Confunding muggles is hardly something permissible, and even he knows that. "But," I concede gruffly, "it is nice that it's so quiet." "I won't tell the Ministry if you won't," he says, taking a loud sip of his coffee.
8:15 a.m.: I really don't think I will ever solve him. I don't know that I'll ever understand every impossible facet of what he is. I think I could be a wizard detective my whole life and never find anything that confounds me, that tests me, that ignites me as much as he does. Still, I trust my instincts. I trust that I'm on the path to something interesting, to something that will keep my attention. The curious case of the man to build a life on. To spend a thousand first days with, each one better than the last.
8:45 a.m.: He sits in the grass and looks out over Edinburgh as I sneak a glance at him. He eclipses and predominates everything I have ever known, though I can never tell him. It would go directly to his head. "We're going to be late," Adler remarks. We're not supposed to be at lunch for a number of hours, but I think I know what he means. We won't be leaving here until we're ready, until he and I and Arthur's Seat itself have collectively committed all of this to memory, and that will take some time. We're going to be late. We exist in this precise moment, however long this moment lasts, and I do hope it goes on forever. At the very least, well past lunch.
8:47 a.m.: We're going to be late. "Yeah," I say, and then I lean back to let the sun's rays spread across my face, perfectly satisfied.
FIN
a/n: I am unfortunately rushing to get this posted, but to be clear, this is not necessarily the final installment of this series. The plot portion of the series is wrapped up, but there are some minor characters with unrelated subplots I may visit if time permits, so do continue to follow the fic if you have any interest. Thank you for being here, for joining me in this venture into obscenely high word counts, and for playing my silly little game of who's-who. I know some people have asked for a list of who everyone was, but that may take me some time. If you would like me to do so, let me know and I'll try to pull together some sort of list or, more likely, some very complicated web.
My heart is full. Thank you for being here. As always, it has been an honor to put these words down for you, and I hope you enjoyed the story.
xx Olivie