The long rows of newsroom desks had never looked so intimidating. It seemed like every reporter turned his head to stare at her as she slunk to her desk, clutching a cup of coffee. After draining the Firewhiskey bottle the night before, Dominique had turned back to coffee for comfort.

For the first time in weeks, she was glad to see the familiar, towering stack of letters waiting at her desk. Prophet readers were certainly irritating, and their concerns could be dull, but, she reasoned, at least they didn't kiss her and then run away!

Her face flushing at the thought of Lysander, she dropped into her chair and picked up the first letter on the stack.

Dear Dahlia, the letter read, addressing Dominique's penname, I need help with a man. Just last week, this blimey wizard kissed me and then up and left without a word!

Dom twisted her mouth into a grimace. And he hasn't said a word since, the pathetic Posie went on. "Well you'll just have to figure it out yourself!" Dom exclaimed to no one in particular.

"They certainly will because, in case you forgot, I've saved you from the clutches of your lowly advice columnist position," came the smooth drawl.

Dom's eyes flicked up from the letter in her hands to meet Lysander's even, hazel gaze. His face bore the customary smirk and, upon closer examination, there was no evidence that he recalled the night before.

"I—uh...er, you need me?" she stuttered.

His eyes narrowed quizzically, casually leaning with his arms crossed against the wall of her short cubicle. "Obviously. My office looks like a crime scene. Let's go."

Without waiting for a response, he pushed off the wall and traipsed down the aisle back to his office, reporters' eyes trailing after him. Dom grabbed her notebook and followed meekly, sure that everyone could read on her face the shame of having their brief kiss forgotten.

But the way it had made her feel! No, no, you stop that, she instructed firmly, refusing to recall the softness of his lips for a moment longer.

"So," Lysander said, crossing to the wall where they had hung up a huge sheet of butcher paper. "We have the betting books from his house. We know Bomsnox is betting on Quidditch and conspiring with the bookies, yeah?"

Dom nodded, watching his finger trace the lines they had both drawn.

"But where is he? What does his gambling have to do with his disappearance? Will our story hold up with just these books as evidence?" He ticked off the questions one at a time on his fingers.

"We need a story by tomorrow night, Lysander, we don't have time to follow up on every loose end. Proving that he's illegally gambling and fixing his winnings is enough to run another story and that's going to have to suffice," Dom said, hating that her voice was tinged with bitterness.

Lysander nodded his agreement. "You're right. I'll start writing up a draft now. Can you grab the betting books and transcribe the amounts he won and how the winnings were divided?"

Dom wordlessly began her assignment, sitting across from him at his desk and trying not to look at him. But her mind was screaming in protest at his calm demeanor. She could feel the words bubbling up in her mouth and getting ready to spill out and she tried to hold it back but, "Look, about-"

"What do you-" he spoke at the same time. "Oh, sorry. You first."

His timely interruption had saved her from her own impulsiveness. "Nothing. Go ahead."

"You sure?" he inquired.

"Uh-huh," she insisted, not looking at him.

"What do you think about turning the story in early? Like, tonight?" he repeated. "Cuffe would be shocked and it would give us a little more time to start working on finding out where Bomsnox got off to."

Dom shrugged. "Yeah, fine with me."

"Dom, you okay?" he asked, ducking his head to try and meet her eyes.

"Yep." She flipped a page in the betting book and jotted down another number, gaze trained stubbornly on the paper.

He didn't respond, just began typing again. A moment later, he glanced back at her. "That color looks good on you."

Dom could feel tears well up in her eyes but she swallowed hard and willed them not to fall. "Thanks." She managed a small smile.

How had this happened? Her mind raced as she stared down at the rows and columns in the little black book. Once, she had hated Lysander more than anyone, he had picked on her, he had beaten her in every class and mocked her for years. He was condescending and arrogant and full of himself, he was rude and selfish and haughty.

But was he really? He had been so kind to her, gotten her on the story when Cuffe had been ready to fire her, helped her learn to be a real reporter, let her work behind him and next to him and in front of him. He had listened to her, understood her past, believed in her future. He had given her coffee and Firewhiskey and called her beautiful. He had kissed her.

Now that she had seen that kind, strong young man, she didn't want the real Lysander to disappear behind the hardened gaze of the boy she had once known. And she resolved that she wasn't going to let him.

Dom climbed into her bed and flicked off the light, heaving a sigh. Their follow-up story had been published that morning and Cuffe was pleased with them for uncovering something new. It hadn't mattered to him that they got the books from Bomsnox's house, mostly because Cuffe didn't ask about their sources.

Sometimes journalists have to do things they wished they didn't, Dom had come to realize in her time working on this case. But instead of asking her to celebrate like she had expected, Lysander had just shaken her hand, calloused fingers gripping hers.

"We did it, kid," he had said as he left the office that evening. "See you tomorrow."

Kid, kid, kid… "You can't just kiss me and then call me a kid!" she muttered to herself angrily.

Interrupting her inner rage, a loud pounding reverberated down the hall from the front door. Brow furrowed, Dom threw back the covers and shuffled down the hall, shivering in her pale pink tank-top and gray shorts.

She opened the door to reveal Lysander's lanky frame, cloaked not in his usual, sharp attire but in loose denim pants and a sweatshirt. He thrust a crumpled set of papers at her and pushed in through the door, ignoring her shocked look.

"We're ruined," he groaned, clutching at his head.

"I—what? Lysander, what're you talking about?" Dom tried quickly to straighten out the paper and understand why he looked so panicked.

LIES! the bold headline waved across the top of The Quibbler, a picture of Caspar Bomsnox assaulting her eyes. The Daily Prophet slandered my husband, appeared the subheading.

"It's a letter from his wife," Lysander explained mournfully.

"Bomsnox's wife?" Dom stared in disbelief at the paper she held in her hands. "What...what does it say?"

Lysander pinched the bridge of his nose, as if hurting himself enough might make him feel better somehow. "Calls us liars, said her husband has never gambled a day in his life and hasn't been in public because he's very ill."

Dom let out a little hiss of air. "So his wife must be in on this whole betting thing, too."

"Either that or he forced her to write this to clear his name." He pushed past her and sank onto the couch, staring dismally into the dark fireplace.

"Why can't we just show Cuffe the books and prove that we were right?" Dom asked, trailing after him and sitting down gingerly on the other end of her sofa.

"Don't you get it, Dom?" he said sadly. "It's not about who's really right, it's about who can convince the readers that they're telling the truth. We look like liars because his own wife said we are. It doesn't matter that The Quibbler is a rotten paper, now the Prophet looks foolish because their source trumps ours."

She looked down at the paper and back up at him. He was so defeated, the confident air and proud posture gone. It hurt so much to see him like that.

"Do you still have that Firewhiskey from the other night?" he asked, suddenly looking slightly more cheerful.

So he does remember! "No I don't have it anymore. I kind of needed to drink it all," Dom admitted.

"Oh really," the ghost of a smile appeared on his face. "Why's that? I thought you weren't a drunkard."

She just looked up at him, waiting to see if he could figure it out for himself.

Recognition dawned in his eyes and he glanced away from her and then back quickly. "Oh, Dom…" He trailed off.

She wanted to push it, to demand that he explain himself, to tell him she didn't even care if he remembered if he would only kiss her again. But she didn't do any of that because he was angry and stressed and she was scared.

Lysander rubbed his forehead. "I can't believe my mom would run that letter."

"It's just business, what was she supposed to do?"

He launched off the couch and whirled to face her. "She's supposed to want me to succeed, not to ruin me just for a quick chance at success!"

Everyone knew that Lysander was the odd one out in his family, odd because he had wanted to work for the Prophet and not the Quibbler, odd because he left his mother and brother to become the rising star at the rival paper.

Until this moment, Dominique had never thought about how he must feel, about how it had to plague him that he competed with his family every day. She knew it would kill her to have to do that.

"What're we going to do?" she asked quietly, not sure what to say to him to make him feel better when her stomach was still roiling.

He leaned up against the mantel. "What we always do. Go into work tomorrow morning and face the music."

"Cuffe's going to have our heads," Dom whispered, eyes still fixed on the waving headline.

"No, he's going to have my head," he spit out with more than a little venom. "I'm the reporter, I'm going to take the fall."

Her throat tightened at his words and though his tone cut into her she knew he was right. He was the one who had everything to lose.

Sinking back onto the couch, closer to her than before, he set a gentle hand on her knee. "I'm sorry, Dom." This time his voice was softer. "I didn't mean to sound that way."

"You're right, though," she told him. "You have everything to lose."

Lysander looked up at her, eyes full of sadness yet he still managed a smirk. "I'm not the one who's going back to a stack of advice letters."

They were both quiet for a moment and Dom shivered in the cold air. "Don't have enough wood for a fire," she explained quietly.

He leaned back and put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her tight against him so her head rested on his chest.

Dom sucked in her breath as his thumb traced a gentle circle on her upper arm. Instead of warming her up, his touch made goosebumps break out across her skin.

"I'm not going to let you take the fall for this story," he said a moment later. "You're a good reporter, Dom. If anyone has to go, it's going to be me."

She wanted to argue with him, tell him that she would rather be fired than let him lose his job, because she truly meant it. But Dom knew it wouldn't make any difference. Cuffe would want heads to roll, and he wouldn't be satisfied with hers.

For now, she was content to rest against him, with his arm tight around her. It was enough. In fact, it was all she wanted.