For Geek Pride on the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Forum.

She comes to him when the sun is setting and the streets are covered in fog. Her carriage rolls over the cobbled stones, rumbling a familiar rhythm. Then, with her hood above her head, she slips into the printer shop. She sits on the stool in the corner, offering him a small smile and her thoughts on her latest reading. But when he makes his way towards her, his face dipped above hers, she stammers and flushes red.

Theo balks at his boldness. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"No," she interrupts, standing. "It's okay."

"I know you can't..." He trails off. Can't she? Or just won't she? Does the difference matter? "Not with me."

"I'm not ashamed of you," Eloise insists. She closes the gap between them, taking his hands in hers. "How could you possibly believe that?"

But the warmth of her hands does nothing to soothe the anger that was bubbling up within him. He pulls away from her, stepping behind the bench. He pretends to busy himself, tidying away loose papers and old blocks.

"Theo." Her voice is pleading, begging him to look across at her. "Please."

"It's all right, Eloise," he says finally. "I understand."

Her lips purse and she folds her arms across her chest. Even in her fine silks and white gloves, she remains the very picture of resistance. It's the eyes, Theo thinks. Her eyes are narrowed and hard. There's a fire behind them that he imagines is considered most unladylike.

"You don't understand."

"I think I do."

The corner of her lips turn downwards. "You know I don't care about your social standing. That means nothing to me. I care about you. And, unfortunately, about my eldest brother. Anthony, he'd—"

"Let me guess," he says dryly. "The viscount would care. Shocker, that."

"He'd kill you."

"And get away with it, I'm sure."

"Theo." And once more, she says, "Please."

"Okay." He sighs. Then, leaning over the counter, he pulls out a new pamphlet written by a friend. The sight of it brings a wide grin to Eloise's face. "I gave you one of these last time, right? Tell me what you thought."

For a moment, he wonders if they've had this conversation before. It feels easy—as if they've practised this dance before. The build of tension, the argument, the quick change of subject. They meet each other step for step. But when he watches her (this time, from a distance), she is animated and bright. The stiffness in her shoulders has disappeared. And her voice rings, loud and true and defiant.

He watches her, and he knows he'll happily have this conversation time and time again, if only it means she'll keep coming to him at twilight.