Episode XVII: The Aging Headmistress With No Patience for Fairytales
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 cynical professor attempts a break from her life of academic spinsterhood: 70, female, straight, eternally single.
DAY ONE
7:35 a.m.: I sometimes feel as if I'm a character from a Dickensian novel; alternately an orphan covered in soot or an old unmarried spinster, depending on the time of day. Granted, I am one of those things all of the time, but it isn't every hour that I feel like it. Perhaps because I am in a constant state of battling mischief, which is what happens when one decides to devote one's entire sanity to the well-being of irreverent schoolchildren.
9:40 a.m.: I tell my students I have no favorites, but as I am a human woman this is obviously a lie. One of my favorite former students, whom I'll call Oliver (as in Twist) is paying me a visit this morning. He's a bright young lad, passionate and rather zestful, who most recently played in the Quidditch World Cup as a keeper for Scotland. In casual conversation we cling to our hearty brogues, and he keeps me apprised of any noteworthy advancements in magical sporting technology as well as recent injuries. (If anyone asks, I do not gamble. After all, it is not a gamble if one is sufficiently informed.)
10:15 a.m.: Over biscuits, Oliver tells me he's here to meet with a distributor, another former student (this one considerably less a favorite) who now designs and manufactures racing brooms. Naturally I'm intrigued, as I like to stay up to date on the latest advancements. The current Gryffindor house captain flies the latest model, called The Nymph. Oliver says the owner of the line was a bit cheekily eager in approaching him for sponsorship, but that he had nothing better to do and fancied a visit home. I suspect Oliver finds himself a bit lost in his off-season, which is not surprising. He needs direction or he falls apart, and he vastly prefers to be needed than wanted. I see quite a lot of myself in him; poor thing. I suspect he and I differ most notably in our capacities for solitude, and thus he may not equally enjoy the outcome of my life.
11:00 a.m.: It's not as if I've never been in love. I have, thrice in fact; once with a muggle to whom I was engaged, though I was quite young then. I thought I could share only fractions of myself with him only to eventually discover I could not, and thus we went our separate ways. Then once with an employer during my years at the Ministry, which I could not abide. Once one becomes the woman who marries her boss, she will always be the woman who married her boss and nothing more. Just as I could not be the sort of person who split myself in parts, I certainly could not bear to be a sliver. Only once did I think I loved someone with my entire soul, and that perhaps we loved each other, in some unconventional way. I wish I had known sooner that falling in love with a man's intelligence, with his talent and his remarkable mind, was not the same as loving the man himself. I'll call him Nicholas, as in Nickleby, and though his portrait sits in my office eternally within my line of sight, I still feel his absence every day.
2:10 p.m.: There are a number of former students who fill these halls now as faculty, which is discomfiting and soothing in equal measure. I have served somewhat blindly as an educator, assuming my impact would only ever manifest in the accomplishments of the pupils I produced, but now they are my proof of concept. There are two here now I find bit too eccentric to interact with much: Charley, the new Care of Magical Creatures professor, and Nancy, his incomparably odd young paramour, who owns and operates her little publication The Human Interest out of the former caretaker's hut. Charley's youngest brother, a young man I'll call Pip, manages the horrendous joke shop in Hogsmeade, and it is his wife, the lovely and formerly quite monstrous Estella who counts herself among the core of my faculty now. I am particularly fond of her; unexpectedly so, as she was not in my house, and in fact heartily tormented the members of my house, her husband Pip included. Estella has a wonderful impatience for nonsense, effortlessly brisk, but she softens unimaginably with the young ones. She seems to revel in teaching the earliest buds of magic; those first charms, and the delight in having newly cast them, bring her a quiet, solemn sort of joy.
2:30 p.m.: There is one other surprise among my current staff. I suppose that while I was teaching her, I always knew what Edith Dombey would eventually become. A beautiful girl even then, she was much more talented than she believed herself to be; more so than anyone cared to acknowledge, I imagine. The youngest of three sisters, one of whom turned out fine (due either to a generally admirable temperament or her reckless elopement), I tried specifically to teach Edith, hoping that if I encouraged her, she might disregard the attentions of the older boys whose prejudice I felt certain would destroy what fledgling chance she had of standing on her own. She did not; she married one of them at eighteen, and I thought she was lost forever. For once I am pleased to say I was quite wrong.
2:35 p.m.: I slip into Edith's classroom to observe her at work. I am technically a parole officer of sorts for her, as I took an oath on behalf of the Ministry to watch Edith in lieu of letting her waste away in an Azkaban cell. She is much too clever to be held captive for the rest of her life, and without her estranged husband, she is not incapable of moral choices. She, unlike Estella, teaches the older students, the most advanced. Edith is remarkable at occlumency, though today she is teaching defensive dueling charms. Spells zing through the air, and the student who nearly turned me to a goat is woefully chagrined. "Sorry, Headmistress," he says, looking horrified. Children, honestly. "Better aim next time," I reply, catching Edith's eye as I leave.
3:45 p.m.: The last of my former students I'll call David, the herbology professor. He was born to have this job, though I've noticed he's been unsettled lately. He took a year's sabbatical, but it appears to have done him little good. He manages to look distractedly up from whatever he's repotting when I enter, but returns to it with little hesitation. I was never very proficient at herbology; I lack the patience to nurture something that cannot at least score a goal when pressed.
6:47 p.m.: I return to my office to look over some paperwork from the Ministry. "You ought to have an evening off," says Nicholas' portrait. "You never took evenings off," I remind him, and he scoffs, toying with his beard. "I certainly did," he says, "and anyway, don't do as I did." It's like him—or rather, like the person he once was—to think that others far exceed him, when in truth, nobody even comes close to matching him. "I'm fine here," I tell him. "Suit yourself," he says with a shrug, eyes twinkling as they have always done.
6:55 p.m.: For the record, I'm not as lonely as I appear. Nor as chaste, really. I've had my liaisons, strings of them; a few years here with a Scottish Ministry employee, a few there with a school governor, once an intense affair with a visiting professor. I simply find it difficult to get close to people, or to sacrifice my independence for their desires. I prefer to live my life as I wish to live it, without a man to get in my way. It's been some years since my last romantic prospect, though every now and then I trot out that little WANDR invention again, just to see. My most memorable date was with, as one might guess by now, a former student. Nothing came of it for obvious reasons, but he was pleasant company, and conversation is quite a lost art.
7:39 p.m.: A knock at my office door means a faculty member is looking for me, as only the teachers and staff have my password. "Yes?" I say, glancing up, and I'm surprised to find Edith standing there. She always has a regal look to her, like a fallen queen. A pale tsaritsa, as I like to think. "I don't suppose you would mind having a drink with me," she says, and it's not entirely a question. She's not used to asking for things, I suppose, having lived a fairly self-assured life. "Forgive me, but there's no one else I can speak to," she clarifies grimly, and I answer with a knowing sort of look. As former students start to populate the halls, the demographic in the castle is quite young; too young, really, for those of us who've lived through two wars. I'm old enough to be Edith's mother, but likewise, Edith is old enough to be their mother; in fact, her son was Estella's boyfriend during her school years. (During Edith's very public trial for the murder of Estella's father, it became widely known that Estella was also lover to Edith's husband—but I'll leave that little complication aside for now.) "I know a place," I say, rising to my feet.
8:15 p.m.: We pass the more populated taverns and head to the less-frequented establishment owned by Nicholas' brother. I'll call him Dawkins because I've always thought of him as the Artful Dodger, though perhaps he's not actually very artful. "You again," Dawkins says unwelcomingly when I enter. He and Nicholas had a lifelong blood feud, so I never happened upon Dawkins much and when I did, I found him egregiously unpleasant. He was always in a temper, and clearly resented me for perpetually taking Nicholas' side. Now we're both white-haired and tired, and his tavern is halfway to shambles. I only come here when I need a drink in private; likewise, he only serves me to pay his bills.
8:17 p.m.: I can see the usual look on Edith's face suggesting she wants to give the whole place a good scrub before she even considers going near her proffered bar stool. "The students don't go here," I remind her, unlike the more pleasant taverns in the village, and she manages a nod, still staring at the floor. A goat darts past, and she manages (barely) to withhold a shriek. "Builds character," Dawkins tells her, visibly suppressing a laugh at her expense. "Certainly does," Edith murmurs, draping a handkerchief down on her stool before she sits.
8:35 p.m.: Edith and I engage in a little small talk, which I never much enjoy, but I can see she needs building up to whatever she's building up to. I ask about her classes, and she tells me about her syllabi. We do chat in private from time to time, though not often. She wipes the lip of her glass and takes a sip, then a longer one. Then she drains it entirely.
8:45 p.m.: "I had an affair," she says. "Well, several."
8:47 p.m.: "Perhaps a priest would be better suited to confession," I tell her.
8:48 p.m.: She gives me a pointed glance. "He wants to come up from London and see me," she says. "He's… quite young." I wait, and she waves Dawkins down for another glass. "He's ten years younger," she clarifies with a sigh, "and we write, but I haven't seen him in nearly a year." I wonder whether it's my permission she wants, or simply my advice. "I suppose it depends what your advice would be," she tells me. Fair enough. "Do you want to see him?" I ask her.
9:04 p.m.: She drains her second glass. "So badly I think perhaps I'm going mad," she says.
9:05 p.m.: Ah yes, I see the problem. "So you plan to keep him at bay, is that it? Grow old alone?" "I'm still married," she tells me, which is not an answer, especially because we both know that doesn't mean much while her husband is currently missing. "I never cared much for that boy," I tell her, remembering her husband's seventeen year-old sneer, his vanity, the way he tried to control his wife and his son despite their potential to be much more. Edith gives me a look of both humor and gratitude. "I loved him once, desperately," she says. "I am trying to avoid ever doing anything from a similar desperation ever again."
9:15 p.m.: I tell her the only thing I can tell her; I am a school administrator before anything else, so provided her visiting lover doesn't come into contact with any students (certainly possible to arrange, and I would know), it's her decision to accept his offer or not. "He could stay here," I point out, as Dawkins looks over, eyes narrowed. Astounding how he can look so like Nicholas and still so different. His blue eyes are a different shape, so often slitted with irritation where Nicholas' were always wide with good humor. "It's up to you," I tell Edith, who looks at the bottom of her glass. I can only imagine who is staring back at her from there.
9:20 p.m.: "I miss sex," says Edith bluntly. I imagine for a moment that only alcohol could have convinced her to say that aloud, but then she looks up at me, expectant. "Don't you?" she asks me, and ah, I see, we're both dried up spinsters in her eyes. "I need men for very little," I tell her, adding, "In general they're much more trouble than they're worth." She smiles wistfully. "I suppose I like the devotion," she says. "When they tell me how much they long for me, I rather unhelpfully melt." I snort a little into my ale, because of course they say things like that to her. She is inhumanly beautiful, like an ice queen, stunning and untouchable and cold. "I don't bring out much pining in men," I say. I am sensible and clever, and quite touchable indeed. They mostly find convenience with me, and I with them.
9:57 p.m.: Eventually Edith rises to her feet. "I ought to write him back," she says. I observe that she's a bit silly at the moment, and when I point out that she's been in her cups, she smiles. "I could never ask for him sober," she assures me, "so I suppose it'll have to be now. Are you coming?" I glance down at my scotch, which I've been sipping slowly. "Not yet," I say. She smiles at me like we're old friends, and then perhaps she remembers we aren't and sobers slightly. "You're a smart girl," I tell her, because I suppose she may be a woman grown, but she still needs nanny to give her a little encouragement. "You'll sort it out," I say, and she gives me a rare and breathtaking smile.
10:15 p.m.: I rise to settle my tab with Dawkins, who grunts something at me. "I beg your pardon?" I ask pointedly, because elocution is something I frequently impress upon my students and I'll be damned if I accept incoherence anywhere else. He glares at me, but says, "It's nice what you're doing for her, letting her teach at that school. People deserve second chances." "It's what your brother would have done," I point out stiffly, and Dawkins slams down a glass, glaring at me. "My brother never did anything for anyone that didn't also serve himself," Dawkins says, "and if you still don't see that, I don't know how to help you."
10:20 p.m.: I shouldn't bother with him, I know—even Nicholas would have told me not to rise to his brother's taunts—but I can't bear to hear Dawkins tarnishing his memory. "You're not half the man your brother was," I tell him, ready to begin a lecture teeming with evidence of Nicholas' character, but he cuts me off. "No, I'm not, but you're twice the woman he was," Dawkins snaps. I stop, uncertain what to do with his response. "I'm giving you a damn compliment," he grunts, and then slides another scotch across the bar to me, even though I've already settled my tab. I sit down, picking up the glass. "I don't want your compliments," I say. He pours himself a glass, and I take a sip of mine. "You've got to stop idolizing him," says Dawkins, and I know I should leave, but the scotch is smooth, and it's been a while since I've gotten to shout at an adult. "You don't know him, or me," I say accusingly. "I know you," Dawkins says, and repeats it: "I know you."
10:55 p.m.: It occurs to me he might. After all, I met Dawkins ages ago, back when I was in my twenties. I had just taken up my post at Hogwarts, and Nicholas had urged me out of my office for a friendly drink. I got into a row with the bartender that night over something I suspect was quidditch related, though I only half-remember. I was terribly embarrassed the next day, but Nicholas assured me the barkeep had found it funny. "Loves a fight, my brother," he said, "more than anything. Clings to his fight with me just to keep one around, in fact." I resolved myself to hatred then, but now, being with Dawkins makes me feel as if Nicholas is… less dead, somehow. Whether Nicholas actually was what Dawkins says he was (he wasn't), we are still the only people alive who knew him as well as we did. Nicholas was Dawkins' only brother, his one-time best friend; Nicholas was my mentor, my confidante, the master of my craft. I admired him. "You loved him," Dawkins corrects me, "and I wanted so many times to tell you it was hopeless, but you've never liked to believe me right about much of anything."
11:12 p.m.: Dawkins and I recounting our shared history makes me feel eternally old and infernally young all at once. Feelings of inadequacy are so accessible, so delightfully evergreen. "Do you think I gave her good advice?" I ask him, referring to Edith. No point pretending he couldn't hear us talking; the bar's been empty all night. "Well, it's never too late to start again," says Dawkins. "That's the only fact of life that matters."
11:34 p.m.: It's not the fruitfully cryptic puzzle Nicholas would have left me with, but it is what it is. "Thanks for the drink," I tell Dawkins, who tips an invisible hat. "Goodnight, Headmistress," he tells me.
11:45 p.m.: Part of me wants to wake Nicholas' portrait when I return home just to chat as we used to, but at my age I should know better. When something is gone, one has to let it go. I climb into bed instead, finding an owl from Oliver asking if I'd care to watch a flight trial on the pitch; new racing brooms. Ah, if only a man like this one were much, much older, or I were intensely younger, or at the very least as beautiful as Edith where age were hardly a question at all. If I regret one thing in my life, it's not my lack of husband or children, but not having whispered in bed with a muscled suitor about Dionysus Dives at the World Cup. The sort of men interested in me are all brutal academics; a shame if there ever was one.
11:52 p.m.: I confirm Oliver's appointment for Sunday and close my eyes, half interested in the vibrator I keep in my drawer. Magical technology is a marvelous thing, but I think I'm too exhausted to bother. Clearly I am living my fairytale.
DAY TWO
6:35 a.m.: I used to wake before dawn to the knowledge that if I began my day a bit too early, it was fine. In all likelihood, Nicholas had probably done so as well, which meant I would at least have the benefit of his company. He was kind and courteous to all his staff, of course, but with me he let his mask slip a little. I saw a bit more of him than other people, particularly in the early mornings. Today I open my eyes to a little flutter of anticipation until I remember he's gone; has been gone for five years. People will mourn romances, marriages. They understand if a widow wants to drag her feet and dress in black and wail over the loss of her love, her youth, her partner, but when you lose your best friend, people are much less sympathetic. When you're a woman my age, you're supposed to have collected far too much dignity to grieve.
7:15 a.m.: "Good morning, Nicholas," I say to his portrait, and he smiles broadly. It is a very good projection of him, if only a projection. Sometimes it provides me with some sort of idiom rather than Nicholas' true brand of wisdom, which always bordered slightly on madness. The real beauty of him was his unpredictability; ipso facto, the portrait gets him wrong each time it gets him right. "Have a scone," the portrait says chipperly, "you deserve it." That's not terrible, I think. The real Nicholas always did like to weigh in on what he felt I deserved.
7:45 a.m.: I make my way down to the Great Hall to find Estella is the only other person at the faculty table. She sees me and greets me with something not easily called a smile, though I grasp her intentions well enough. "Busy?" I ask, because she appears to be poring over scrolls from her first years, and she nods. "I don't suppose you'd be opposed to my silence?" she asks. "Silence away," I say, which is really my preference. Small talk can be so draining, and by now I am accustomed to the independence of my own thoughts.
8:13 a.m.: I am idly watching students come and go, heading off to whatever sorts of tomfoolery they have planned for this particular Saturday. Not many of the faculty live in the castle, so very few of them appear. David is in residence and sits briefly at the end of the table, glancing over a sketch of some sort of plant. Then he scribbles a letter, rising to his feet and venturing off to what I presume to be the owlery.
8:31 a.m.: Shortly after, the incoming owls start to arrive, and one drops in my lap. I blink with surprise, unfolding it. Thought I might offer you a pint this evening in exchange for my unseemly behavior last night. Friends?
8:35 a.m.: "You've got quite an odd look on your face," remarks Estella, startling me into looking up. She's doing a very poor job of obscuring her amusement, and in fact seems to be laughing quite inelegantly at my expense. "Did you receive a love letter or something?" she asks, the portrait of innocence, and for a moment I remember her at twelve, with her sticky-uppy nose and her total disregard for other people. A lifetime as an educator has taught me not to make presumptions about who children are at twelve, but I can't help thinking this particular moment well-suited to plaits.
8:38 a.m.: I scribble a response. Fine, I say, with no elaboration. At my age, time can't be wasted on niceties.
8:45 a.m.: His response is swift and unnecessary. Please do not accost me with these lengthy responses, he says. I am a ruthless entrepreneur and haven't the time to maintain such devoted correspondence.
8:47 a.m.: "He seems rather a chatty fellow," remarks Estella, and I glare up at her, choosing an opportune time to refer to her by her married name: Pip's name. "Oh, don't," she groans, "you win, then." She gathers up her things and flashes me a smirk, once again more teen than twenties. "Have a lovely day with your admirer," she says, and jaunts haughtily toward the doors. Doubtless she's off to meet Pip at his joke shop, where she will almost certainly stick out like a very posh, deeply sore thumb.
5:14 p.m.: I spend the rest of the day addressing my correspondence, replying to the school governors, and managing the school's budget. I wander out for dinner, observing that David is hunched over on his chair directing food to his mouth while he reads, and decide to take a plate in my office. The elves are more than happy to oblige, and Nicholas' portrait dozes off while I eat.
8:34 p.m.: "Where are you going?" Nicholas asks me later, to which I tell him (rightfully) it's rather none of his business. "Well, try to enjoy yourself," he says, adding, "you've been entirely too stiff lately. It doesn't do to dwell on work and forget to live." "Dreams," I say, and his portrait blinks at me, bemused. "What?" it says, in something of a squawk he didn't have in real life. "It doesn't do to dwell on dreams," I tell him, "and forget to live." "That's lovely," he tells me. "You should write that down."
9:13 p.m.: "Oh good, you're here, then," says Dawkins, who inexplicably looks busy with dishes. I glance around, anticipating the usual crowd of nobody, but then I spy a robe on the hook. "Oh, you have a guest," I observe, half-amazed, and Dawkins gives me a sort of grunt in reply. "Not that he leaves the room much," he says with a look of salacity, which is both excessively vulgar and wonderfully informative. It appears Edith's young man is here, which explains why I haven't seen her all day.
9:16 p.m.: Dawkins pours me a pint in that expert sort of way, tossing the cloth he uses to mop up the bar over his shoulder and fussing with taps, all forearms and furrowed brows. It's an interesting thing to watch my attractions change as I've gotten older. Not to say that Dawkins is particularly attractive—he looks, essentially, like Nicholas but younger and somewhat dirtier, which is how Dawkins has always looked—but it's difficult not to recognize how much I've changed by observing him. When Dawkins was in the first version of the Order, he still had unruly auburn hair he tied back from his face and those blue eyes, same as Nicholas. We rarely spoke then, and I seem to exclusively remember him getting in rows and storming out, perpetually in motion. Now, his motions are quieter. He isn't young anymore, and I appreciate that about him. The impulsivity, the aggression of youth, it's been lost to the solemnity of age. He pours me a pint as if the art of the pour alone is a craft he's perfected for generations.
9:18 p.m.: "What?" he asks gruffly, peering at me. I wonder if he went grey in stages, salt-and-peppered like Nicholas for years until the auburn faded out, or if it all went white one morning. "Nothing," I say. I was a blonde once, though not quite like Edith. I was a mousier blonde; the sort of girl that blonde hair is wasted on, because boys were always surprised to find it wasn't brown. I adored it the moment it turned grey, because it meant I was finally something. I have always embraced my age, never feeling at home in the role of ingenue, though perhaps it's because I always preferred my men older. Only now do I find myself craving the silliness of boyhood, perhaps because most of my own silliness is gone. "You're thinking quite loudly," says Dawkins disapprovingly. "Am I?" I say. "Practically shouting," he says, and pours his own pint.
9:23 p.m.: "Do you ever feel alone?" I ask him. "No, never," he says, "and frankly I wish most people would leave." If it weren't so Estella of me to do, I'd roll my eyes. I think my personal form of disdain probably gets the message across, though, and Dawkins adds, "Stupid question, stupid answer." I am affronted, of course. "It is not a stupid question," I tell him curtly. "Everyone gets lonely," he says, "but that wasn't what you asked." "I'm merely making conversation," I say. "Well, don't," he replies.
9:34 p.m.: We sit in silence for a moment—the ale is quite good; you'd be surprised what sorts of things vampires can get up to in the northern bits of Scotland, but rest assured, brewing seems to be one of their finer talents—and I ask if he summoned me here simply to drink beer in silence. "I've got whisky too, if you like," he says. I consider telling him that's not what I meant, but change my mind. "Pour it, then," I say, and he does.
9:45 p.m.: I haven't the faintest idea what sort of person Dawkins is, besides an angry one. I don't know what he likes or dislikes. All I know is he has wonderful taste in whisky, because this one goes down as smooth as anything. "Blissful," I say, sipping it like cocoa. He looks at me with amusement. "Someone with your taste shouldn't have fancied my brother for so long," he says. I tell him not to ruin it. "This," I tell him, "is magic." He tells me it's goblin made; enchanted spirits are the best, and he's "got a guy," which is a rather dishy way to say he's got a contract with a quality distributor. As one gets older, one no longer wants the guy—one wants the man who knows to hire the guy. Wisdom is what's sexy about age.
10:13 p.m.: I run into fledgling romance all the time. The school is full of it, young sweethearts who think they've found their little forever-afters. Unfortunately there's no good opportunity to tell them that if they think sex is good after one or two goes at it, try sex with someone who's actually brought a woman to orgasm one or two thousand times. They'll learn on their own, eventually. So many of them will inevitably drift apart, or possibly drift together in unexpected ways, like Estella and Pip. The person you are at seventeen hardly merits much consideration of forever, I want to tell them.
10:14 p.m.: I think most of my students are afraid of ending up like me, because they see me as alone, and therefore presume me to be lonely. Ah—I see now why Dawkins thought I asked a stupid question.
10:15 p.m.: "I like myself," I say aloud, and he glances up. "I've never met anyone who likes me as much as I do," I say, "which is why I suppose I don't feel lonely, no. It was rather a silly question, now that I think about it." He gives me a distant half-smirk of acknowledgement. "I like myself quite a lot," he agrees, "though I imagine a woman like you would find most of what I am to be repugnant." "What does that mean, a woman like me?" I ask him. "You," he says, lifting his glass to toast me, "are far too clever and interesting to have a man bumbling about underfoot." I tell him that's not what I asked, and what does he think is so repugnant about him? (I know my answer to that question, but I'd like to know his.)
10:33 p.m.: "I'll let you find out for yourself," he says.
10:45 p.m.: Eventually I thank him for the drink and head home. He courteously (again gruffly, but courteously) wraps my robes about my shoulders and squints at me. "I think I'd like to make a real mess of you," he says, and I laugh, because the beer and whisky have combined to render me a bit giddy. "If I were forty years younger, you mean?" I ask. "Nah," he says, "forty years ago I wouldn't have known what to do with a lass like you," and then he sends me out the door.
11:15 p.m.: This time when I get home I do pay a visit to the vibrator, though I hardly need to. Dawkins is so very crass, so deeply unlike Nicholas. I climax from the high of flirtation alone, then remind myself that's more than enough for me, thank you very much. The last thing I need is a lifelong bachelor with too many farm animals and no reasonable expectation of cleanliness to muddy up the peaceful solitude I deserve.
11:35 p.m.: I imagine if we kissed he'd get soot all over my breasts. I shiver, then reach for the vibrator again. Waste not, want not, even in the realm of dirty thoughts.
DAY THREE
6:15 a.m.: I awake so early this morning I happen to catch sight of someone returning from their evening debauchery. "Oh, hello," I say loudly, as Edith shushes me with every ounce of aristocracy she possesses. In fairness to her, the castle poltergeist overhearing would indeed be a terrible scenario, so I spare her the humiliation of further mockery and ask simply, "All done, then?" She's much too icy to flush, but her eyes go a bit distant as the corners of her lips tilt up. Reliving the highlights of her evening, I assume. "Hush," she says, proceeding up the stairs with every fiber of her conceit.
7:23 a.m.: "Have a productive day," I call as Edith slinks back out the door, freshly showered and by all accounts returning to her bedridden carnalities. She glares at me, and I toast her with my cup of Lady Grey.
11:28 a.m.: Many tiresome correspondences later, I finally make my way to the pitch to meet Oliver. He's there early, which is no surprise, though he looks… clean. I suppose that's an odd thing to say but I've come to expect a certain amount of dishevelment from Oliver, and at the moment he practically sparkles with effort. "Is your shirt pressed?" I ask in amazement, because on no occasion previously did I not have to scold him for having left his uniform wrinkled. We are wizards, I used to tell him constantly, it shouldn't be too much to ask that we not traipse about the world in a constant state of chaos. Now seems an odd time for my lessons to sink in, but when the broom vendor finally arrives, I think I see the problem.
11:41 a.m.: The young man I'll call Noah (unflattering by Dickensian standards, but so be it, I'm running out of names) was always a bit of a conceited youth. He once chased quite shamelessly after a young woman with whom Pip and his associate—another favorite of mine—were habitually consorting. Noah had dear ambitions of being on the Gryffindor quidditch team but never made it as more than a reserve for Pip, which at the time I could hardly stand to lament. I never took Noah as the sort of lad willing to do the legwork, but once again, I am clearly wrong. Not only is Noah still invested in quidditch (after all, he owns a broom company) but he also seems… subdued. Someone has had an excellent effect on him. "Oi, you're early," Noah says to Oliver, who gives a surly sort of sigh. "You're late," he says flatly, and Noah checks his watch, astonished. "Bloody thing's eight minutes slow," he says, which is only remarkable because he seems to be genuinely dismayed with himself. He plucks it from his wrist and tosses it (along with his jacket) aside.
11:43 a.m.: Noah says some moderately polite things to me but I tell him to hurry it up and get to flying. I am here to look at brooms, not to wonder at what sort of bewildering taste Oliver might have. Noah gleams in reply, so positively golden it takes some effort not to shade my eyes. "Well, let's have at it then, shall we?" he says to Oliver as if they're stepping out to the Royal Ascot, opening the trunk he's got floating around behind him and withdrawing a broom that he tosses in Oliver's direction. Oliver catches it, effortless, and with hardly any time to waste he's off and flying, Noah kicking off behind him.
11:54 a.m.: I take a seat in the stands to watch Noah and Oliver run some agility drills and realize that David is already sitting. "What on earth are you doing here?" I ask, because as far as I can recall, David has never shown any interest in quidditch. His cheeks immediately redden and he mumbles something about Noah, to which I can only inwardly sigh. So the boyish tribulations continue beyond school years, it seems. "Were you not seeing someone? I thought that was the reason for all your little post-sabbatical weekend sojourns," I tell David, who can scarcely look me in the eye. "No, not anym- no," he amends, withering. "No, I'm not."
12:36 p.m.: It's obvious Noah and Oliver could stay in the air all day, but my time is not so easily squandered (watching the game of quidditch is one thing, but this is merely lads at play). "How is the weight balance?" I yell to Oliver. "What?" he yells back, dodging a bludger that Noah's whipped his way. "Never mind," I tell him briskly. "What?" he shouts, at which point I decide it's high time I take my leave. With the way David's gaze is following Noah, I'm not sure I plan to be here for the afternoon's conclusion.
12:45 p.m.: "Are you leaving, Professor?" asks David, and I hesitate, because the poor thing looks as if he'd like to ask me about twenty things I'd hate to have to answer. Rock and a hard place, it seems. "Well, I just don't see that I'm at all useful," I say, but immediately flounder, because of course if I'm useless to Noah and Oliver (they're out of sight now, well above the cloud cover testing the seeker advantage), then David is exceedingly more so. "Oh," he says, and then rises hastily to his feet. "I'll join you."
12:47 p.m.: Noah and Oliver hurtle back to earth and narrowly avoid a crash, pulling expertly upwards as Oliver marvels hoarsely (all the shouting to Noah seems to have cost him his voice) at the broom's precision. He's going on about the suspension in the cushioning charm when I catch Noah reflexively reaching out to slide a leaf from a ranting Oliver's hair, Noah's lips twisting up in amusement.
12:55 p.m.: Noah's fingers accidentally grazing Oliver's cheek causes both of them to blink at the unexpected contact. Oliver falters, visibly sucking in a breath, and beside me, David turns dejectedly away. "So, how have you been, Professor?" David asks me, artificially brightening. I don't have the heart to tell him it's probably for the best that he doesn't get caught up in whatever Noah might have had to offer him. One thing for a professional quidditch player like Oliver to have a dalliance with a golden-haired lothario; another for David, who doesn't know how to do something without his whole heart getting mixed up in the business. "Quite well," I manage to say, plucking from my head the first thing I can think of and beginning to ask about his grandmother.
1:15 p.m.: David and I part at the castle and I return to my office, hoping to get a bit of work done. Eventually there's a tapping at my door, and an owl presents me with a letter.
4:21 p.m.: It occurs to me I might have been a bit too forward last night.
4:22 p.m.: How bewildering of Dawkins. He must mean the bit of innuendo, which is hardly enough to frighten the likes of me. After all, I'm not some Victorian bonnet, and certainly no blushing virgin. Don't be silly, I write back, we were both entirely sauced. I know you didn't mean a word of it.
4:38 p.m.: Then I suppose I wasn't forward enough, he writes back.
4:45 p.m.: I sit for several long minutes that were supposed to be reserved for securing Ministry funding grants to ponder a response to Dawkins. "What are you concentrating on so hard?" asks Nicholas, and my first instinct is to hide the owl, which positively inflames me. What on earth am I on about, hiding a nonsensical letter from a portrait? I need some tea.
4:57 p.m.: I'm trying to decide between a platter of tea options (nothing seems sufficiently soothing to my present temperament) when I notice Edith slipping back into the castle. She steps toward the stairs looking pale, or certainly paler than usual. "Has your gentleman caller gone back to London, then?" I ask her, and she starts as if she didn't realize I was standing there. "What?" she asks me, breathless. "Your young man," I say, and when she still seems befuddled, I clear my throat, plucking an arbitrary bag of tea from the tray and sending the elf scampering back to the kitchen. I'll want milk, but that's a problem for later. "The visitor you've had over the past two days?" I remind her slowly. "Oh, yes I…" She swallows and holds one hand to her lips. "Yes, he's just gone back about an hour ago."
5:03 p.m.: "An hour ago," I echo, and she shakes herself of something. "Yes, but… yes," she concludes, turning to fix her attention fully on me. "Yes, he's gone," she says, and then after a meager excuse about needing to send a letter before the evening post concludes, she hurries away.
9:34 p.m.: Eventually I procure some milk, but find I've forgotten Dawkins' letter in the wake of Edith's strange behavior. It isn't in my nature to pry, but I've scarcely seen her so rattled. Never, in fact. Still, it's not my business—neither this nor David, whom I did not see at dinner—so I pluck up a book and immediately start to nod off over its pages.
11:07 p.m.: I drag myself from my desk and pour into my sheets as I discover an owl from Oliver. Might be staying in the village another day. I chuckle to myself, tossing it onto the nightstand. Yes, I rather think he might.
DAY FOUR
5:45 a.m.: Haven't the slightest idea what's keeping me from sleeping as long as I ought, but Monday hits me like a bolt of lightning. Perhaps getting older is its own sort of wake-up call, reminding me not to fall for the stupor of my inevitable demise. How thoughtful. I summon a pair of slippers and trod out to my desk, busying myself with what needs to be done for the day.
9:04 a.m.: Children, children underfoot, children everywhere. This morning I confiscate two dungbombs, two Extendable Ears, and what appears to be a joke wand. (Confirmed: a foul smelling odor upon swish-and-flick. Hardly the cleverest thing I've ever seen, but at least it's not a portable swamp.) I also have to remind the Gryffindor captain that her transfiguration class is not the time to be sketching chaser formations, but those I do not confiscate. She's clearly onto something and will surely revisit them at her earliest non-academic convenience.
11:25 a.m.: David summons me to ask if I can secure funding for some new greenhouse necessities. He and I are discussing the logistics of the orders that will need to be placed with our purveyor in Diagon Alley when Charley comes by to alert me of some sort of thestral virus going around. I'm halfway through sorting with that when a note plummets from the sky, ostensibly from the poltergeist: evidently Oliver has come to bid me farewell. I tell him (Oliver, not the poltergeist) to help himself to some biscuits in my office while he waits.
12:14 p.m.: When I finally arrive, Oliver is having a row with one of the portraits on the wall about the suitability of a reverse pass versus a Porskoff Ploy. Oliver is of course correct, though I don't bother to point it out. If he wants to bicker with an enchantment, so be it. "You're off, then?" I ask, a touch surprised. "I thought you would be staying."
12:18 p.m.: I expect him to look sheepish, but instead his expression is chagrined, chastely solemn. "Do you suppose it's possible to love someone's echo?" he asks me. "To feel their reverberations in the world," he clarifies, clearing a little tickle of vulnerability from his throat, "and be drawn to them against your will." It seems I have an opportunity to teach him something once again.
12:21 p.m.: I am aware of the irony of being asked this particular question. The time I spend talking to Nicholas' portrait while accepting flirtatious letters from Nicholas' brother suggest I am intimately familiar with matters of misplaced affections. Then again, I think Nicholas himself would agree that people leave marks on the world, traces of themselves for others to find. The way I love one particular jazz album because Nicholas loved it, for example. I've had lovers attribute that to me, as if it were my own, when really it was entirely him. An echo, as Oliver puts it.
12:22 p.m.: "Love is not something one can so easily relinquish," I tell Oliver briskly. "It takes time to truly love. When it is real, it becomes a necessary part of the fabric. There is no excising it without its absence being felt by all the interlocking threads of what we are."
12:23 p.m.: "So will it always be this way? Me wanting things because I see h-" He stops. "Go on," I tell him. I suspect we have stumbled over a pronoun. "Him," he finishes, glancing at his hands. "Because I see him in them."
12:24 p.m.: I want very much to say no, this feeling will not last forever, but Nicholas' portrait behind me makes that relatively impossible. "Possibly it will," I say, and then I slide a tin of biscuits towards Oliver. "Possibly you will realize that something you think you once loved about him is actually your own now, belonging solely to you. Possibly you will come to resolve one love with another. Possibly you will be brave enough to accept certain fractures; not to see yourself as incomplete because you have them. Possibly someone's love, even if it is your own, will allow you to feel as if nothing was ever taken from you, only given freely by your own hand—and possibly one day you will forgive yourself your reckless nature." I pause, biting into a biscuit myself, and add, "Possibly not."
12:32 p.m.: Oliver's attention drifts out the window to where the pitch is visible from afar. "I don't think it was just the echo," he says quietly to himself.
12:45 p.m.: Eventually silence resolves to conversation, which increases in volume when it becomes a matter of whether or not he will accept Noah's offer. Evidently Noah would like Oliver to use his racing broom during the professional season. It won't pay handsomely (unless it is Noah's handsomeness in consideration) but it will position both Noah and Oliver well as they go into the forthcoming season. "Unless you dislike the merchandise, I don't see the problem," I tell Oliver. He grimaces, a half-smile that's ironically pained, and says, "I like the merchandise very much. Perhaps too much. And I'll have to encounter the merchandise quite often if I agree, but I'm afraid the merchandise is… rather not exclusive to my patronage. Immensely not, in fact."
12:48 p.m.: "Well Twist, for heaven's sake, exclusivity is paramount when it comes to securing sponsorship of this nature," I scold him before realizing we are of course speaking in euphemisms, having strayed from the topic of Oliver's quidditch career back to the subject of his inamoratos. Well, there's certainly nothing I can do about that. I give Oliver a look that says I am not here to gossip about his love life and certainly not to hear about any inadvisable trysts, and he chuckles to himself. "Well, I'll be off, then," he says, thanking me for my time as we both agree never to discuss this again.
1:12 p.m.: I'm requesting a plate from an elf when an owl comes in with another message. Come by tonight. You owe me an answer.
1:15 p.m.: What absolute bollockery. I owe him nothing. "My goodness, you're positively flushed," remarks Estella, whom I did not realize was watching me from her little crow's nest on the stairs. "Love letters again, Headmistress?" she asks, smirking at me like the pompous little barbarian she is. "Do you not have a class beginning shortly, Professor?" I ask her. "Certainly none so delightful as this," she replies irreverently, hardly bothering to smother a laugh as she takes to the corridor.
4:43 p.m.: Of course I am not going. There is nothing to discuss. I have piles of paperwork to attend to. I'll be lucky if I can leave my office for dinner. The idea anyone can presume my attendance is repugnant and I will not have it.
7:45 p.m.: "I am Headmistress of the school," I announce as I manifest through the doors of Dawkins' grungy tavern. "You cannot go about making ludicrous suggestions as to where or how I should spend my time. Furthermore—" "Sit down," he says, pouring a glass of something and sliding it towards me. "I beg your pardon, I am speaking," I tell him stiffly. "Yes I know, it's impossible not to hear you," he says, and adds, "Don't waste it. It's meant to be drunk chilled."
7:57 p.m.: I can't tell whether I am more annoyed that what he has poured is a beautifully broad wine or the fact that I'm being addressed like a sulking child. "I'll stand," I tell him. "It's French," he tells me, "and not designed to be consumed under the circumstances of anything but languor." "You expect me to find that here?" I ask skeptically, gesturing to the floors. "It's a state of mind," he says, "and I'm going to sit, so you can either join me or you can stand there gawking." "I have never once gawked," I inform him as he plucks another glass and pours it for himself, taking a seat near the hearth. "I can't hear you over my bliss," he says, taking a sip and closing his eyes as I groan in silence, snatching the glass from the bar and carrying it over to him.
8:12 p.m.: This man should be put to death for his palette. I couldn't have dreamt a more perfect wine in my fantasies, and I am not lacking an imagination. "How was your day?" he asks me. I tell him we are not conversing under any circumstances. Wasn't he the one who said not to bother? "Very well," he says, and proceeds to tell me about his day, including the fact that he has another guest (Two in one week! Business is unrepentant! A veritably thriving ecosystem of hospitality and commerce) before mentioning Noah, who evidently Dawkins ran into in the village that morning. "Quite a little prick as far as memory serves, but the brooms looked halfway decent. I'll be surprised, though, if that suspension charm is as good as advertised—"
8:20 p.m.: "Oh, it is," I say, resenting myself the moment I break his monologue and speak. "Lands like a dream. Takes corners well, too, which Twist sorely needs—" "Oh, the lad's not half bad," says Dawkins, surprising me. "Always thought your instincts were right on with that one. Got a beater's build, doesn't he? Never knew what you saw to place him as a keeper, but you've always had an eye for talent." I scoff. "Always? Since when is 'always'?" "We could have been friends a lot sooner if you'd ever taken one eye off my brother," says Dawkins, which isn't an answer. Or is it? What an insufferable man. "Desist your abominable flirtation," I tell him impatiently. "I'm far too old to fall for it. You're only wasting both our time."
8:45 p.m.: He rises to fetch the bottle, pouring us both another glass. "It's not a waste," he says, falling into his seat after several minutes without speaking. "You get proper cross with me," he adds, "and I need the entertainment." He speaks to me as if I'm Estella, or some other young thing who can be swayed by a bit of roguish twinkle. "I like men," I tell him, "not lads. Not wee little lads like you, always prodding, pushing me like you know something you don't. I have my hands full trying to turn boys into something of merit without having to be the woman's touch in your tavern or your bachelorhood. I won't have it." I rise to my feet and stare down at him, suddenly reaching an anger I haven't felt in a long, long time. "You are such a second son," I tell him reproachfully. "Always desperate to be something you're not."
8:51 p.m.: Nothing ever seems surprising in retrospect. It's only in the moment that one becomes blinded, and so perhaps that's why I don't expect it when Dawkins rises to his feet and takes hold of my waist. "I know what I am," he says, and when he kisses me my protest is swallowed up by the tartness on his lips, the bottle of wine half-drunk. His beard is softer than I expect it to be, as if perhaps he cares for it, conditions it. His mouth turns sweet after a moment, and I realize so has mine. I've gone pliable, damn it. I didn't want to, didn't think I would. But it's been so very long since I've been properly kissed like this. "I don't know what to tell you," I say nonsensically when we break apart, because there's no point trying to pretend I didn't enjoy it, but still, I would never admit to something so idiotic aloud. "You already told me," he replies, and he doesn't look smug, but he certainly seems as if he has no time for further delay.
8:55 p.m.: "Anyone could come in here," I hiss at him when he kisses me again. "It's Scotland's beaters that cost them the second round lead in last year's World Cup," he says to my mouth. "Are you mad?" I demand. "Anyone could see the seeker was woefully inadequ-" He cuts me off and it occurs to me that I've only known him bitter or resentful, but right now he seems content, possibly even happy. I think it's a laugh he's burying into my lips, pretending it isn't. But then, the idea that my presence makes him happy derives nothing but a shiver of something too vast for me to carry.
9:16 p.m.: "I can't, I won't," I say, stepping back from him and half-stumbling over the leg of a chair. "I can't do this." He has an odd look on his face, like he knew I would say that and finds himself displeased with the prophecy fulfilled. "Why not?" he says. "I can't," I say. "Why not?" "I can't—" "Why not?"
9:18 p.m.: "I'm tired," comes out of my mouth, filling me with dread. "I'm so tired of it, all this weight everyone asks me to carry, all the expectations of what I'm meant to want. I'm so tired of people who aren't enough for me, because no one ever is. It's not as if I haven't loved! It's not as if I've lost my way! Don't you see how pejorative it is, how disparaging, that people see me as something available for them to take? As someone who missed her chance? I didn't miss anything. I am whole, I am at peace with the shape I take in this world. I don't want anything from anyone, don't you understand? It's not a story I tell myself, Dawkins, it's the truth. I am most content on my own. I am not looking for someone to tell me I'm missing something."
9:19 p.m.: "I never said you were," he says. "Have I asked you for anything?"
9:20 p.m.: Exhaustion plagues me. No, not exhaustion; the promise of exhaustion. The ways in which he will inevitably demand me to ache if this goes on. "You're too much," I say. "You're his echo. It's too much, Dawkins. Too much for anyone to carry around."
9:23 p.m.: I can see I went too far. I've caused irreparable damage. "I should go," I say, and he doesn't stop me.
DAY FIVE
4:45 a.m.: It was a very good wine. Such good wine. The sort of wine one dreams about. This I've learned about life, that a truly good meal is one of the few things one manages not to forget. The sensations, taste and smell, the tartness and acidity of his mouth. The way the liquid looked in the light, such a luminescent richness. The way the flames rose up in the hearth, reflected by the bulb of the glass.
7:34 a.m.: I ought to apologize. Some things are not difficult to understand, and one of them is the way Dawkins has always been compared with Nicholas. It is the crux of who he is, that he has never existed without his older brother as a shadow, a beacon, except for now. Now that he is finally free, I put that on him again, made him carry it along with me, not offering to share the weight. How cruel of me. My students say I am exacting, strict and possibly too shrewd, but I have never considered myself cruel until now.
7:38 a.m.: He doesn't look up when I enter. It appears his guest has taken an early breakfast and now Dawkins is clearing the dishes, throwing a bar mop over his shoulder. "I miss him too," he says without looking at me, his voice gruff again. "Just because I do it differently doesn't mean I don't do it, same as you." "I know." "Do you?" He sets the plate down angrily in the sink, and finally he looks up.
7:40 a.m.: I wasn't prepared for it to hit me the way it did; the renewed observation that Dawkins truly does not look like Nicholas. Blue eyes aside, they are not identical. There is so much anger in Dawkins that was something else in Nicholas; wisdom that was tension, frustration, regret. Nicholas was filled with remorse, overflowing with it. No, he wasn't. Nicholas loved only once, one time with his entire being, and in the absence of that love, he emptied. Nicholas was always empty. He was a vacancy that never refilled, but it's Dawkins who is full. Dawkins must have found quite early on that the only space he needed was this. Nicholas wanted so desperately to be great that he could never be satisfied with less. Dawkins, on the other hand, is a man intimately familiar with the measure of satisfaction. He lives it every day.
7:41 a.m.: When I step forward to kiss him his pain rockets into my mouth, a shock of fury. "You said—" "I know what I said." We're too stubborn to even realize that we're only capable of having the same fight, switching roles whenever we find it necessary: You did this, yes I know. You are this, yes I know. How brutally cerebral of us: I know, I know, I know. Dawkins can look at a person and know them for what they are, and so can I. That was Nicholas' tragic flaw: He never understood what a person truly was until it was already much too late.
7:45 a.m.: I suppose a life of manual labor counts for something. Dawkins shifts me easily against the kitchen sink and spells the door to the kitchen shut, the latch clicking audibly. "Presumptuous," I scold him under my breath, but I don't try to stop him when he sets me atop the counter, fingertips trailing up my calf. "Prepared," he corrects me, and then his hands brazenly massage a gap between my thighs.
7:50 a.m.: This is certainly not a man who has spent his lifetime fruitlessly pining, not that I ever suspected he did. He knows what he's doing, playing me expertly with his fingers; classically trained. His thumb strokes me purposefully and my nights alone with my vibrator have at least done me the favor of suitable rehearsal. "You wanted a man," he tells me in a rasp, hoarse with satisfaction when I clench around him, gasping. "You got one."
8:04 a.m.: Footsteps from above remind us we both have jobs to do. "For what it's worth, I don't apologize often," I tell him, adjusting my robes with a glare when I manage to resume standing. "Keep that in mind," I say. "Is that a euphemism, Headmistress?" he asks mockingly, and the kiss he gives me when I scowl in reply is husky with laughter. I brusquely shove him aside and head for the tavern door. "Fine, I'll resume the chase," he calls lazily after me. Prick.
8:08 a.m.: I'm heading back to the castle when I stop, hearing a familiar voice. "You can't keep doing this to me," says Edith, sounding somewhere between angry and pleading. I pause with concern. "You have to get out!"
8:09 a.m.: I manage to recall this is none of my business only when Edith suddenly appears, storming out from where she was tucked behind Dawkins' tavern. She sees me and blinks, replacing her usual mask, but not quickly enough for me not to see how flushed she is with fury, her eyes brimming with tears. "Headmistress," she says, her voice managing to stabilize somewhere in the middle of the word. "Bit brisk this morning, isn't it?"
8:15 a.m.: Edith and I walk in silence. "If there's something wrong," I begin to say, and she falls to a sudden halt, interrupting my thought. "Since coming to the castle, have I disappointed you in any way?" she asks me. I don't know how to answer, but it doesn't matter. She isn't finished. "I want your assurance that my… my private revelations," she says in a low tone, "will not affect the outcome of my placement here. In terms of my assignment by the Ministry." I haven't the slightest idea what she means. "Edith—" "I work hard," she cuts me off again, adamant. "I've rebuilt my life. If you have any reason to doubt that I am reformed—" "I do not doubt you," I tell her firmly. "I merely want to know if you require any help."
8:20 a.m.: She seems a bit taken aback. "I'll take care of it," she says, straightening.
8:22 a.m.: It doesn't appear that now is the proper time to argue with her. "Of course," I say, and then make an excuse about having to work, which is not really an excuse. After all, this castle will not headmistress itself. (Or perhaps it would if I asked. Unclear and irrelevant to the point.)
10:18 a.m.: David seems a bit better knowing his mandrakes will have new pots. He still has a bit of a haunted look to him, but I suppose that's youth. Brutality abounds. I'd like to say aging improves the situation, but it doesn't aside from turning the volume down, making everything less new, blades less sharp. What a gift it is to still be hurt so excruciatingly, with such agony. The bravery of readily opening oneself to manic destruction is the only thing that truly fades with age, aside from skin elasticity.
6:33 p.m.: The day flies by and by dinner I'm nearly catatonic. I hardly notice when Nicholas' portrait tells me I've become unusually scarce. "Finally rewarding yourself?" he asks me. "Wouldn't you like to know," I tell him. "I very much would," he replies. Briefly, I consider telling him. "I've been seeing your brother a bit," I say. "Good," says Nicholas, "I never fully believed he'd manage to be socialized without the help of an expert." "That's it? You're pleased I'm socializing him? He's not a dog, Nicholas." "Certainly not a housebroken one," he replies, painted eyes twinkling with amusement.
8:45 p.m.: Part of me wishes I could ask the real Nicholas what he thinks about the matter of me consorting with Dawkins. Though, how silly of me, when the end of Nicholas' life was so consumed by darker matters. It pains me that I saw so little joy in him by the end, because not very many were as privy to it as I was. Those versions of him will have to remain in my memory, solitary. Fragments I would not be whole without.
9:03 p.m.: An owl from Dawkins: Unless you'd like me to show up at your school shouting abysmal poetry, you'll come by again tomorrow. The chase demands it. I sigh aloud, glancing over my shoulder half-expecting Estella to have appeared from nowhere as if summoned by the absurdity of Dawkins himself. Love letters, indeed.
DAY SIX
12:18 p.m.: I accidentally overslept this morning and have hardly a moment to think before the many urgent owls arrive demanding my attention. There are several meetings approaching for the school's board of governors and they seem to have just recalled a variety of 'crucially important' (but not important enough to adequately prepare, it seems) matters to address before then.
1:45 p.m.: I do my usual rounds. Estella is teaching levitation spells to the first years, David is observing the new batch of student-planted mandrakes, and Charley is introducing his third years to our hippogriff in residence. I save Edith for last, but when I enter her classroom, she and her seventh year Slytherins and Gryffindors are no longer duelling. Rather, they are discussing something in rather somber tones.
2:34 p.m.: "If you do not possess a proclivity for occlumency, do not consider it a fault. Concealing parts of yourself, dividing yourself into fragments is not a skill, but a survival instinct, a consequence of necessity. If you have never been forced to compartmentalize your feelings—if you have never felt you had to hide parts of yourself away—that is not a weakness. In all likelihood you are someone who has known trust and friendship and love, and that is to be envied." One student raises a hand. "Are you saying we shouldn't learn how?" they ask with confusion, and Edith shakes her head. "I will teach you to the best of my ability all the complexity a mind can possess," she says. "I am simply not asking you to call your scars a talent or a flaw when really, they are only that: scars."
3:03 p.m.: When class concludes I approach her desk. "How can you possibly think I would not believe you to be reformed?" I ask with a touch of matronly disapproval, and Edith casts her gaze downwards, either chagrined or purely contemplative. I suspect she is questioning whether to trust me with something very personal, and I think again about what I said to Dawkins about not wanting to have more to carry. This, I confess, is something I will gladly make room for among my own emotional possessions. "May I speak with you privately?" Edith says, perhaps determining that I will most likely be fair to her, which even I know is a monumental thing. I tell her, with as much gentleness as I am able, to come to my office this evening.
4:27 p.m.: School governors are more helpless than children.
5:45 p.m.: There's a quiet knock at my door that means Edith is here. I beckon her in, a tin of biscuits set out in preamble while I pour a cup of tea. "My husband is here," she says, sinking into her chair, and I freeze, immediately forgetting about the tea. "In the school?" I ask, bracing myself. "In the village," she says. I think she's waiting to see if I intend to take action against her.
5:49 p.m.: "What does he want?" "Me, I expect. So he claims." "How does he expect to manage that?" "I asked him the same question. He said he followed my case in the papers and then came here—and that he won't leave until I," she begins, and hesitates before concluding, "run away with him."
5:51 p.m.: "Does he know about…" I pause. "Your young man?" I eventually decide to say, and Edith sighs. "No, they just missed each other. But I admit, it's hard not to feel this is somehow earned." She looks away before murmuring, "With everything I've done, I really shouldn't be allowed to be so happy."
5:54 p.m.: "Listen to yourself," I scold her. "Would you ever let one of your students say such a thing to you?" "My students have not proven themselves complicit in terrible destruction." "So a person is never allowed to change, is that it?" "I didn't say that." "Well you ought to make a better point." I'm being rather snippy with her, I admit, but I don't have patience for the idea that she deserves to have her husband stalking her, and certainly not here, where I'm supposed to be keeping her safe. Technically the Ministry believes I'm supposed to be keeping the world safe from her, but I hope—I hope—she knows that has never been the case.
6:12 p.m.: "You ought to turn him in," I say quietly, and what I believe is dangerously. Edith looks up, eyes narrowed with calculation. "He is my husband. The father of my son. I do not wish a lifetime of imprisonment upon him." "Perhaps you don't," I mutter.
6:15 p.m.: When Edith blanches, at first I think she's crying. It takes me a moment to realize she's laughing. "I always knew I was far too lucky with—" and here she reveals the name of her paramour, which does not shock me. Certainly not after everything I've heard (and done!) this week. "He has this… gravity to him," she says sadly, haunted by whatever joy she's kept hidden behind closed doors. "He grounds me. And I'm sorry to say I do not hate it. I do not hate it at all."
6:27 p.m.: "It was not just you your husband wronged," I tell her. "Yes, I know," she says, revealing little. "There are many who are owed the justice of his punishment," I remind her. "Yes, I know." "Many in this castle, even." "Yes." "Is it so easy to forgive him, Edith?" "No," says Edith, shaking her head. "Every day that I am able to forgive him is a rarity. Sometimes I can, sometimes I can't. But it is only on the days when I can that I ever believe I am any form of good."
6:38 p.m.: I don't know what madness comes over me to bring me to my feet, but in an instant I am embracing her as if she's my own daughter, my own blood, my own self. She stiffens, but gladly releases a single, breathless sob. I know she's been holding it in for days, or perhaps months or years or a lifetime. I don't know that she's ever been able to find someplace safe enough to be vulnerable, to be exposed, to be what she surely considers weak. She has only ever gone from captivity to fear and back again.
6:41 p.m.: "You are good, Edith," I tell her. "You are a woman who rights her wrongs, and make no mistake, that is good." I pull away to look at her, to allow her to be seen. "Your scars are only scars," I tell her. She closes her eyes and I tell her something I imagine she has long been desperate to hear. "I am very proud of you," I say.
9:32 p.m.: After Edith leaves I finish my work, then scribble a note to Dawkins. Are you free?
9:46 p.m.: Yes.
10:01 p.m.: There's a note on the bar beside a bottle of scotch: Have a glass if you like. I'm down the hall. I lift it from the counter and consider it. Perhaps a sip won't hurt. Then again, why waste the offering? I ignore the glass and take the bottle by the neck, feeling invigorated by the inherent eroticism of my grasp. I may not believe much in romance, but sex is another matter entirely.
10:03 p.m.: The light shining from the open door reveals itself to be the interior of an office. Dawkins is at his desk, glancing over inventory, and looks up when I enter. He looks quite staggeringly arrogant at the sight of me, and I respond by taking a swig from the bottle. I'm not some virginal maid who intends to be wooed. I have a stressful job. I survived two wars. I will leave here with an orgasm or so help me, I will not leave. "Long day?" he asks me. "Quite," I say, sitting in the chair opposite his desk. "Tell me about it," he says, beckoning the bottle from my hand. I shake my head and take another sip. "Not sharing," I say. "Not sharing your day, or the wine?" he asks. I consider it. "You really want to know?"
10:05 p.m.: He gives me a plaintive gesture of try me, so I tell him about Edith and her husband, who I suppose I have no choice but to call Dombey. Not in specifics, of course. General terms. "I'm positively inflamed by it, and by my helplessness in the situation," I tell him brusquely, "though at least it made me realize one thing." He cocks a brow. "What's that?" "Well," I say, "I told you I didn't have the energy to carry anyone else's emotional burdens, but perhaps that's not strictly true."
10:15 p.m.: "You do realize I have nothing I need you to carry," he says. "Don't be ridiculous," I scoff, "this place is in dire need of a woman's touch. As are you," I add with disapproval, eyeing the slovenly state of his beard. "I don't want it. Not there, anyway," he says with a disgruntled (and disgruntling!) laugh. "It's inevitable," I mutter, "that every man wants a woman for something he cannot manage on his own." "Such as?" "Oh please, take your pick. Emotional stability, consolation, advisement. Men are not taught to self-soothe." "You think I'm like that?" he asks me, amused. "I think it highly likely, yes," I tell him, with the gravitas of someone who would know.
10:21 p.m.: "I don't need you to like me more than you like yourself," Dawkins remarks, sitting back in his chair. "I certainly don't need you to crave my company over your own. I just thought it possible you might enjoy spending some of that precious time of yours with me."
10:23 p.m.: "Let me guess, you don't like labels?" I ask him drily. "Me?" He shrugs. "I fall in love more foolishly than anyone I've ever met. Sometimes the breeze hits just right and I'm in love again, effusive with it, extravagant. I've got no shortage of devotion." "Then how can both be true, that you can devote yourself while also needing nothing?" I ask. "It is possible to be many things," he tells me, "Such as a woman who wants to be valued on her own merits, to not be the half of some parasitic whole. Someone who wants to be alone and not alone at the same time." This time, when he reaches for the bottle I grudgingly hand it to him. "We are not young anymore, and thank god," he tells me. "There is nothing left to learn aside from how to be happy, with no rules left to break. We can go about it however we damn well please."
10:38 p.m.: Perhaps he's not entirely what I thought he was. "How is it you can possess any cleverness at all?" I ask him, sincerely curious now. "After a lifetime of feuding with your brother—" "Please don't discuss my brother in the room where I have plans to make love to you. Among other plans." "Excuse me, I hardly think—" I break off, belatedly processing what he's just said to me. "You have plans for us?" I echo, with wonder on my tongue.
10:41 p.m.: "Countless," he says. "But I have to start somewhere."
10:45 p.m.: He rises to his feet and holds a hand out for mine, which I accept. A flick of his wand has a record playing, and it's not Nicholas' jazz, but something slightly different. A backdrop of strings, lovely and nearly Vivaldi-esque in its delicate naturalism. This, I realize dizzily, is a man who understands how to make use of a moment. "Well, come on, then," he says, and truthfully, it's been a while since I danced with someone who wasn't a pubescent boy. I rest my chin on his shoulder and he pulls me close, his arm around my waist.
10:57 p.m.: Dawkins kisses my neck and dancing devolves, or possibly it progresses, becoming a heated exploration of hands and lips. "Bedroom?" I ask, sounding hoarse. Dawkins laughs in my ear, the soft bristle of his beard scraping my cheek. "Oh come now, old doesn't have to mean conventional," he says, and tosses me playfully onto his desk.
11:59 p.m.: I'd describe what comes next, but a lady never tells. I got what I came for, I'll say that much, and then he takes my hand and pulls me to the bedroom, where I get what I came for twice more.
DAY SEVEN
1:38 a.m.: Dawkins asks me to stay, but I remind him that I'm in charge of the well-being of several children. Better I not come crawling back to the castle in the wee hours. We discuss the merits of the new Firebolt line and the strengths of the Scottish team's offensive tactics before I manage to disentangle myself, dressing and coifing my hair. "By the way," I mention, "how do you find your latest guest?" "Bit dodgy, that one," says Dawkins. "Keeps to himself mostly. Why?" "No reason," I tell him.
6:45 a.m.: After sleeping well and soundly in my own bed, the way I prefer it, I rise to meander down to the Great Hall. Estella is there, having an early cup of tea and reviewing what appear to be some essays on levitation. "You're looking quite rested," she says cheekily. The girl is a menace.
6:50 a.m.: "Is it your secret admirer?" she taunts me in an undertone, though before we can continue a first year comes panting into the room, flustered and calling out for Estella. "Professor," says the girl, whose Hufflepuff tie is only partially done, her hair still wild from an early shower, "please, can I still submit my essay? I fell asleep over my books and nobody woke me—" "Well, that depends. Let's see it," says Estella, beckoning for the scroll. The girl, heartily chagrined, hands it over while glancing apprehensively at me. I, of course, say nothing.
6:54 a.m.: Estella takes her quill to the page, underlining something. "This is very poignant," she says, before scribbling something a paragraph or so later. "This could use a bit of work. Where did you find this?" "Er, Levinson's Incantations." "An excellent source, albeit controversial," says Estella, making a few more marks on the page. "You may want to present both sides next time." "Yes, Professor." The girl glances at her shoes, and Estella looks up after another few minutes to finish the essay. "Well," she says, "had it been submitted on time, it would have been quite good." The girl nods, clearly unable to speak. "What could you have done differently?" Estella asks her.
7:04 a.m.: Together, Estella and the girl discuss how to improve her time management. "Tell you what," suggests Estella, "why don't you come in each week with a plan for how you intend to manage your studies. It'll be quite a bit more work for you, but if you stay on task, I'll give you the Outstanding you would have earned on this essay. If not, I'll have to give you the T for late submission. Does that sound fair?" The girl practically grows an inch in her relief. "Thank you, Professor," she says, giving me an odd little half-bow of acknowledgement before racing over to her table of traitorous friends who did not wake her.
7:07 a.m.: "Too lenient?" asks Estella when the girl is gone. "I remember what it was like as a first year," she adds before I answer, "wanting to do everything perfectly and feeling positively crushed when I failed. It made me less willing to try as time went on, I suspect. The fear that I would only remain inadequate as things became increasingly difficult nearly kept me from learning at all."
7:09 a.m.: "It's your class," I remind her. "You are at liberty to decide how your students are measured." "Yes, but I suppose it matters what you think," she says, "considering you have such a talent for it." "For what?" I ask, surprised. "For making people want to grow without breaking them down," she says.
7:11 a.m.: A glance at Estella fills me with a rush of something foolish. "You've turned into quite a wonderful person, you know, even if we both hate to admit it," I tell her, and she makes a face. "I suppose someone ought to tell you from time to time that what happened to you was not your fault."
7:12 a.m.: "Please don't say a word of that to Pip," she sighs, "or my hard-fought reputation will be positively ruined." She gathers the first year essays with a sidelong glance, preparing to finish grading in her office. "But provided you keep it to yourself, then thank you," she adds, softening for just long enough that I know she means it. Then she lifts her chin with the consummate haughtiness she will probably never lose in its entirety and waltzes off through the Great Hall, leaving me to frown thoughtfully in her wake.
12:15 p.m.: The man who fumbles to answer the door when I knock is not immediately recognizable. Then again, knowing who he is, my suspicions are reinforced by the familiar posture, the grey eyes. The expression of disdain, which even hair and nose enchantments can't hide entirely. "Yes?" he says, guardedly.
12:16 p.m.: I brush him aside, entering the room without waiting for his invitation. I am formidable when I choose to be. "You know, I really tried to teach you something," I tell him, and he stiffens, closing the door behind him. "I suppose some people lack a certain proficiency to grasp the material right away." He waits, biding his time, and then says, "Is this a threat?" "Not yet," I tell him, "because first and foremost, it is a lesson. Sit down," I say, and to his credit, he sits numbly on the unmade bed. "For the last time, Dombey, prove me wrong. Try to listen."
12:18 p.m.: It turns out that as much as I believe in second chances, there are some things I can't forgive. This is the man who paved Edith's road to ruin, then left her to walk it alone. The man who broke Edith's heart, who abandoned his wife and son to the hounds of public opinion. Shamefully or not, though, it's Estella's pain I can't stand; the tipping point of what I can or cannot carry. Edith is strong enough to manage the possibility that this man is a thorn who will never fully disappear from her side, and if she will not discard him, that's her choice to make. I will act accordingly. But even if Estella eventually found Pip, even if she never thinks of Dombey again, he has answered to nothing and no one on her behalf. So now, it will have to be me.
12:25 p.m.: "Why now?" I ask him. "I love my wife," he says staunchly, but I stop him. "But why now? You remained silent throughout her prosecution. While your wife prepared for a lifetime of imprisonment and your son was forced to bear the consequences of your mistakes, you were nowhere to be found. Why now?" He sits silent for a long time. "I will die in Azkaban," he says quietly. "I have been there before and I cannot go back." A pause. "Edith is stronger than me," he adds in a burst of emotion, "she always has been—" "Yes," I say, "and she is far stronger than me as well, because I am just weak enough to want you to suffer for what you've done."
12:34 p.m.: "You have a choice," I tell him. "Clear your wife's name. Take the punishment you earned. That, or finally let her live." One way or another, he will have to give her the freedom she deserves. He owes countless reparations. "So now it's a threat," he muses in a low tone. "The benefit of having been a teacher so long, Dombey, is that I have many former students I can call if I choose to. The youngest Head Auror in a century," I say, feeling the surge of pride I always do when I think of him. "The Minister himself. Do you think they will take me at anything less than my word?"
12:50 p.m.: By the time I close the door behind me I have no idea what he will choose. Ultimately, that's a matter of what he can stand to live with, which is not up to me. I make my way down the stairs to find Dawkins wiping down the bar, glancing up with an outrageous look of expectancy when he sees me. "Back so soon?" he says. I have half a mind to send a lovely little hex I learned from a former student his way.
12:55 p.m.: "I had an errand," I tell Dawkins, turning to the door, but he stops me with a small tilt of his head, beckoning me after him. "Just want to show you something," he says, and leads me to his office.
12:57 p.m.: The latest version of The Nymph, the broom designed by Noah, sits on Dawkins' desk. "Just arrived this morning," says Dawkins proudly, and of course I haven't waited for his permission to look closer. I'm already peering over it, plucking it up and testing its balance. "Exceptional," I say, a bit breathless, and then I turn with a frown. "For me?"
1:04 p.m.: "Don't be ridiculous, woman, it's mine," says Dawkins, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the frame with a roll of his eyes as I glare at him. "You're the independent sort, I hear. You can buy your own brooms." "Yes, I most certainly have my own," I tell him stiffly, though I'm now considering purchasing one of these. It does have admirable equilibrium.
1:08 p.m.: "I am, however, offering you a ride," Dawkins says with a little twist of his mouth, and by god, I think he's being crass. I toss the broom back to him. "Don't hold your breath," I say, preparing to stride out, but he catches me by the hand. "See you, then," he murmurs, kissing the side of my neck and then withdrawing, whistling, to the kitchen.
7:34 p.m.: The rest of the day proceeds as it usually does. I take dinner late, enjoying the reprieve from countless owls and savoring a few of my private treasures: a brandy I've selected for myself, my favorite cheeses, fresh bread. My favorite jazz album plays and I close my eyes, burrowing myself into the satisfaction of the moment. I think perhaps I'll clear the rest of my evening to read. Everything else can stand to wait until morning.
7:46 p.m.: "You look pleased," says Nicholas, and I contemplate a bit of the chocolate I keep in my desk drawer before turning to him. "Are you capable of knowing what I meant to you in life?" I ask the portrait. He considers it a moment. "You are, and forever remain, rather my best friend," says Nicholas. I try not to become weepy over the assertion of an enchanted painting and very nearly succeed. "You still think so, even if I run around carousing with your brother?" I ask him. "Oh, I think I like you more for that," he says cheerfully, "or at the very least, I like him more. About time he made a decision that made any lick of sense."
8:49 p.m.: I curl into bed with my book, answering to positively no one. Utter perfection.
9:15 p.m.: Just before I drift to bed I think perhaps I will pay a visit to Dawkins tomorrow. As lovely as tonight has been, tomorrow is a different day, involving a different set of desires. He's right that I don't need to like him more than I like myself. I can like him for his own merits without disrupting the validity of my own. And really, why deny myself whatever enjoyment I have left?
9:20 p.m.: It took me until my seventies to finally have the sporting lad I wanted, but I'll be damned if I waste a perfectly good broom.
a/n: It turns out I may be doing two more diaries, though just a warning that they do take me quite some time to write. Also, it's my birthday next week, so I plan to post a one-shot in Amortentia—if you'd like to celebrate with me, my next book, The Atlas Six, will be available then as well!