I'm awakened by the aggressively bright sun rays that invade my bedroom through the east-facing window. I open my eyes with some difficulty, the makeup from last night making my eyelashes stick together, and the moment I do manage it, I realise I have a pounding headache, as if there are needles puncturing my brain, over and over again.
I don't particularly want to get up, but the incessant meowing coming from somewhere under the bed is extremely annoying. The stray cat that somehow manages to sneak into my flat every night and forces me to feed him before letting me get on with my life is at it again. I guess it's somehow become my cat, though I don't have a name for him. Just cat.
Groaning loudly, I try to stop the images of last night from flooding my brain, but it's bloody useless. I think I will relive the fire that I felt with Wood for a long time and it makes me hate myself a little more than I already do.
Another loud meow forces me into action. I sit up, naked, and the mirror across the bed paints a disastrous picture. My hair is a wild mess, my make up is smudged, silver sparkles covering my cheekbones, and my body is bruised and sore all over. I can't even look at the deep cuts on my feet. What the fuck was I on yesterday that I couldn't even feel the pain of a thousand little cuts?
I gingerly wrap myself in a silky dark red robe and pad over to the kitchen, each careful step causing me more pain, the cat following behind me. He's quite big and fluffy, the bright white fur shining in the sunlight. I'm not sure how he's managed to become a stray with how beautiful he is, but then again, he's certainly managed to find his way into a comfortable home again. Apparently, I have a weakness for handsome prats.
Waving my wand, I start to boil the water so I could brew myself a much-needed coffee, and open a can of tuna for the cat. He jumps up on the table, ignoring my half-hearted protests, and starts eating. Occasionally, he throws me a judging look, as if he knows what I've been up to, but I just stare off into nothingness, trying to remember if I have a hangover potion stashed somewhere.
The water boils over and I stir in a lot more coffee grounds than is good for me, mixing it slowly and putting it back on the stove. After a couple of moments, the foam rises and I turn off the flames, again mixing the foam a little before grabbing a big ceramic cup from the cupboard and pouring the black coffee inside.
The cat is finished with his meal and he follows me to the armchair by the window where I collapse and wrap myself up in a blanket that's hanging over it, sipping the coffee. He settles himself on the windowsill and closes his eyes, ignoring me.
As I observe the mid-morning rush on Knockturn Alley, I hear the usual commotion downstairs. The owners of the shop often argue and sometimes there are curses flying, but I've gotten used to it. It's better than having to deal with a roommate.
The coffee wakes me up, but my head is still pounding and a Summoning Charm hasn't turned up the hangover potion that I was hoping for. Fuck. That means I will either have to go through the difficult process of actually making myself look at the very least not on the brink of death and venture outside and across the street to the Dryad's Apothecary, mingling with people most likely looking to buy poison, dealing with the leering of most of them, or I could ask my neighbour and only be leered at by one person. I don't even have to get dressed for that, so the choice is obvious.
I set my cup of coffee on the small table next to the armchair, hoping that the cat won't suddenly discover his fondness for black coffee. I throw a wary look his way, but he keeps ignoring me so I take that as a good sign. Wrapping the red robe more tightly around myself and tying it together firmly, I slip on a pair of fluffy slippers and stuff my wand in a pocket as I open the door of my flat and approach the other side of the staircase landing.
Rhys, my neighbour, and as it turned out one afternoon when Daphne paid me a visit and the two of them met at the entrance of our building, a member of the Greengrass Syndicate, is not the worst neighbour you could ask for. If you don't count the fact that his flat is a secret stash of illegal weapons, he's perfectly nice. The fact that he likes looking at me is something that I'm used to and he's handsome, so I don't mind it as much as I would if he were your regular type of creep.
I knock on the black door with silver ornaments once, patiently waiting for all his wards to examine me. A tingling feeling passes through me as the last of his wards finishes the job and he opens the door with a raised eyebrow.
Rhys is tall, towering over me, and he has beautiful tattoos covering his body, at least the parts that I've seen. They're all very intricate and he once told me that he does them himself.
He raises an eyebrow, the only visible scar on his face cutting through it, but it doesn't make him any less handsome. "You look like shit."
I shrug, not really taking it as an insult, just the truth. "I know. You have any hangover potion? I've run out."
Rhys smirks as his eyes pass over my body and I have a feeling he knows I'm not wearing anything underneath the robe. I put my hands in my pockets and clutch my wand. "Anything for you," he says, waving his wand and a small pouch comes zooming into his open hand. He fishes out a vial but doesn't give it to me. Instead, he crosses his arms, his muscles prominent, and leans against the doorframe. "How about you agree on a date and I'll give it to you?"
I roll my eyes at him. "How many times are you going to try that?" I ask.
"How many times are you going to ask me for a potion?" Rhys says, laughing at me, but I'm not in the mood for joking and when he notices the expression on my face he stops.
"Hey it's your fault, the Veela thing throws me off every time I try to talk to you."
"That's a lie," I mutter, knowing I've never used the Veela charm on him. It's just a convenient excuse that people, men, like to use. "Listen, my head is killing me so unless you want to have a dead body on your hands…" I trail off, realising that he probably already has a number of bodies on his hands, but Rhys just winks at me, handing over the vial.
"Thanks," I say and slowly walk back to my own flat. That went better than I thought it would, but still, I don't like to ask Rhys for favours, though it happens often enough that we've developed a tentative sort of friendship.
Sitting back down in the armchair, I drain the potion and immediately, I can feel the headache and nausea dissipating along with most of my pain. Rhys gave me the good stuff, so at least there's that. Sometimes, my looks are an advantage.
I try my best to heal the cuts on my legs, though my wandwork isn't perfect. Healing magic wasn't something we focused on at Durmstrang, but it's good enough that the cuts will heal completely in a day or two.
It's only when I finish the coffee that I remember my mother is in town, giving a lecture on wizarding criminal law and another one on discrimination against non and part-human magical beings, and I'm supposed to have lunch with her. Fuck. I briefly consider making up some excuse, telling her I'm sick, but she'd only come here and then I'd have to listen to how she took time out of her extremely busy schedule. Everyone wants a chance to meet with the famous lawyer and magical beings advocate, Astrid Johansen.
I sigh, crossing my legs, putting them up on the windowsill causing the cat to crack one eye open and shuffle away slightly. I glance at my wall clock, an ancient thing left over from the previous tenants, and I jump up when I see that it's almost noon. Fuck.
I run into the shower, not even waiting until the hot water comes on, and quickly lather on the soap, scrubbing furiously, as if I could somehow wash Wood away. There's no point in trying, but still, it takes the water turning scalding hot then freezing cold again before I decide it's enough.
Wrapping myself in a towel, I walk to the bedroom, dripping water, my wet hair stuck to my neck. Absentmindedly, I wave my wand, drying and styling my hair, something I can do with my eyes closed, while I consider what to wear. I don't have much time left, so I settle on a clean pair of black leather pants and a grey, oversized jumper. Grabbing a small bag and my coat, I'm halfway out the door before I realise that I'm still barefoot. Cursing, I summon socks and boots, hurriedly putting them on and slamming the door shut, speed walking down the stairs, out of the building and straight towards Horizont Alley and The Incendio, the poshest restaurant in wizarding London. The wind blows hard, and I have to wrap a scarf around my neck, drawing the hood of my coat over my head, but the wind blows it off and I don't really have the time to stop and charm it to stay put. Sighing, I put my hands in my pockets, and hurry towards The Incendio.
The minimalist exterior of The Incendio is all black, the only splash of colour being the sign above the door — a bright red and orange flame. Stopping in front of the restaurant to check my reflection, I fix my hair, slightly messed up from the blowing wind, and open the door, entering the restaurant. The interior is dark and stylish, antique mixed with modern lines, and I notice my mother sitting at a window table before the maître d' has a chance to greet me.
She's wearing a long black dress and her white-gold hair stands out against the dark interior. She seems to shine brightly, though I know it's just a trick of the light. When she sees me approaching the table she purses her lips, dramatically checking her watch. I sit down opposite her, sliding into the seat overlooking the entrance.
"You're late," mum says, nodding at a passing waiter and I know she's already ordered for the both of us.
"Only two minutes," I murmur, already regretting my decision to have lunch with her.
"It's not like you're doing anything worthwhile, I really don't understand why basic punctuality is such an abstract concept."
I sigh and roll my eyes. "Can we not have lunch without you going on a tirade against my job?"
Mum taps her foot in annoyance, narrowing her eyes. "Job?" she scoffs, waving her hand as if the notion is incredulous. "You call putting yourself on display, perpetuating and promoting harmful Veela stereotypes, de facto playing into the notion that all we are is our looks and all we are good for is to be objectified by men… You call that a job?" she raises an eyebrow expectantly, crossing her arms, and I feel like I'm on a trial. "I can't believe you're my daughter. How can you be so careless of the centuries of abuse, of discrimination, of everything I'm fighting against –"
"Not everything needs to be a fucking battle, mother," I sneer at her. "I would think I was free to choose to do a job I love and not be judged for it by someone who claims she wants –" I stop in the middle of a sentence because walking through the damn door is Oliver Wood, followed by a man I don't recognise, though I vaguely remember him from The Serpent. The man is talking with the maître d' while Wood looks around the restaurant, and, as if by some damnable mysterious force, our eyes lock, my heart skipping a beat.
I don't hear my mother's response because I'm too busy staring at Wood as he and the other man sit down at a nearby table. He seems equally thunderstruck, and I briefly wonder whether the same images of us tangled together that are flooding my brain right now are the ones he's seeing.
"Freya, are you even listening?" mum snaps at me and I'm brought out of the weird daze.
"I was just… Can we not argue?" I ask, hoping she'll drop her favourite subject, because if she doesn't, we're bound to stop speaking again. Both our tempers run hot. She starts saying something but the waiter appears with our food, grilled salmon with asparagus, a variation of her usual order, and she obviously doesn't want to cause a scene in front of him.
"Fine," she says after the waiter leaves and we start to eat in silence. But my mother has never been known to back down from a fight and I really should've thought better than to try and reason with her. "I would really like it if you could at least agree to –"
I don't get to hear the rest of her sentence, because two eagle owls fly in through the owl door, screeching, and both of them zoom towards our part of the restaurant. One of them flies above our table, drops a letter in a dark green envelope in my lap, and leaves without waiting for a response. I take the envelope, but not before I notice that Wood has gotten what looks like a matching letter. I quickly tear up the parchment and read it in silence.
Freya,
I need you to come to Berlin. I've booked a special shoot for Saturday for my new collection, with Felix Rath. Even though he's ridiculously hard to book, he loved seeing you walk the show the other day and he's asked specifically for you. I also have a surprise partner for you, I have no doubt you'll love him, he's just your type.
Enclosed is your hotel information and a portkey. I'm already here and I'm expecting you no later than tomorrow.
Daphne
"Well, what is it?" mum asks, but I ignore her.
Instead, I look up from the letter and I'm once again met with a pair of dark eyes staring at me.
A shiver runs through me and Oliver Wood fucking smirks.
