Chapter 1

Mrs Maryanne Stenson had quite frankly, had enough.
"Honestly!" she clucked, wringing out her husband's boxers. She twisted them so brutally as to leave her palms red and throbbing. 'It ought to be his neck…' she thought darkly.

Much could change in ten long years of course, but she wondered what she'd done wrong in order to have her life worsen on every account that mattered.

Her wedding to Harold had been the biggest blow-out this side of Surrey; their first year of married had been ethereal bliss. Kisses every morning before he left for work and a whole lot more before they went to bed. He called home every day at lunch at the very least; often many times more. It was like he hadn't left.

From the second through to fourth year, things started to slow down. Maryanne tolerated it, she welcomed it even; Harold was getting promoted practically twice a year! They moved to a bigger, better house; the last rung on the ladder before you owned a mansion, and she'd never forget that trip to Majorca. To top it off Harold was the model husband, still a call at lunch, out to dinner as soon as he had the time and wonderful (if somewhat sluggish) activities at night.

By the seventh year though, things saw a significant downturn, Harold got another promotion to a greater, and yet more strenuous position. He left too early for the kisses and came back too late for anything more than dinner before he retired. His calls-now strictly restricted to midday- were brief and distracted. It certainly didn't help that they weren't kids anymore and weight was no longer easy to keep off. Maryanne had it the worst; stress from work slowed Harold up a little, but she had only laundry, food and telenovelas to occupy her.

By midday with all the laundry and cleaning done, Maryanne could only scowl at her telenovela and much on some treacle tart while she bemoaned the state of their marriage. No more dates, no anniversary or birthday gifts (never mind that she never gave him any either; she cooked for him and cleaned his house!), they hadn't even made love in ages.

Maryanne suddenly jumped at the ring of a doorbell. She blinked blearily and her eyes swivelled back to the television. 'Must have been the telenovela…' she thought. But the doorbell rang quickly again, and it wasn't her telenovela. She rose heavily from her seat and made for the door. Was it always so far away? she wondered Never mind that—who's this calling in the middle of the day?

She opened the door expecting a door-to-door salesman or a fellow housewife asking for this or that, but-
"Harold?"
Her husband smiles at her, tight-lipped.
"Hello, love"
"What are you doing back? It's only midday!"
"Wanted to see you." he says, matter-of-fact.
"W-Well—" she blushed, casting about for the anger that had been so potent just a few minutes ago "Why-Why'd you ring the doorbell? You've got your key"
"Forgot where I kept it" he shrugged
"Is that so…" Maryanne muttered, her ire returning. Yes, Harold was certainly forgetful nowadays; Valentine's day, their anniversary, her birthday…

"Hey love, what's the matter?" Harold suddenly said, pulling her hand off the doorknob, and into his. "You look asleep on your feet…" he added, taking the hand planted firmly on her hip. He brought both hands together, and kissed them softly.
Maryanne's heart quite suddenly started racing as she took her husband in, as if seeing him for the first time. He was the same man—the same watery eyes, the beaky nose, barely any taller than her—but there was something about the way he was carrying himself that day—something thrilling…
"Why don't you let me in love…" his face seemed to be slowly looming out at her, filling her whole field of view…

And suddenly he surged forward, kissing her. He pulled her by the waist, pressing her close, her bosom squashed against his. Harold's hand traced the curve of her back, making it's way lower…

Maryanne pulled sharply away.
"H-Harold!" she gasped. Her breathing was ragged, her legs were like jelly, and her head felt like it might explode. Suddenly, Harold swept her off her feet and carried her bodily upstairs. He had not done that since their wedding night—and she certainly hadn't gotten any lighter since then.

He threw her on the bed, and locked the door with a resolute click. He turned sharply to her, undoing his tie, unbuttoning his shirt—

"Clothes off—now!" he growled wetly.
"Oh Harold!"

************
Several wonderful hours later, Mrs Stenson lay spread-eagled on her bed when she felt the bed shift and creak beside her.
"Oh Harold you animal!"she moaned,giving the pretence of resistance "Again already? I'm getting sore—"
"Bathroom." He cut her off.
"Oh…" she murmured, slightly deflated, before looking up quizzically at the sound of the door rolled over slightly
"Are you using the one downstairs? Ours here works just fine…"

Mr Stenson's response was to close the door behind him.

'He's acting funny today' Mrs Stenson thought. She pulled the sheets more tightly around her and grinned. 'Not that I'm complaining…' She fell asleep shortly afterwards.

Mr Stenson walked downstairs and passed the downstairs bathroom without a single glance. He walked out of the house and onto the street, ignoring the gasps and giggles of playing children at his stout form, wearing nothing but his boxers. He entered a copse of trees that he thought would provide ample cover. He pulls a stick from the waistband of his boxers; it is eleven inches and made of holds it level with his head, turns on the spot and vanishes without a trace.

In a dimly lit stone living room, a slender girl of about nineteen lies on a small dark blue, claw-footed, overstuffed love seat,whose back sits flush against one wall. Her hair dangles over one side while her feet overhang the other, opposite her is a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall bookshelf, packed with books ranging from large to small,pristine to tattered. Between the shelf and love seat is a large low coffee table which takes up any space that might hve been had in the room. It's top cannot be seen under the assortment of things it holds; books that don't fit the shelf, vials,flasks beakers and spatulas,dirty plates and cutlery, pens pencils and quills and a large dirty cauldron. On the wall behind her head was a small high window, letting in meagre light and the doorway infront of her feet gave a direct view of the entrance hall, anyone one coming in would be seen immediately.

Presently the girl is reading a book, balanced bit awkwardly on her collarbone such that she glares down at it. She has just turned a page when the door opens with a click and a creak.

Her features flicker in shock at the brown-haired middle-aged man coming towards her in nothing but boxers. Her face then falls and she rolls her eyes with an all-suffering sigh.

"You just had to go after that damn housewife we saw at the store, didn't you?" she grumbles, going back to her book.

Mr Stenson gives a defiant grunt as he roughly shoves her feet off the armrest so as to sit down. Undeterred, she sets her legs across his lap as soon as he settles.

"You've got terrible taste, honestly." The girl goes on, "She's a damn cow."

"You'd have seen the arse on her—"

"So that I can appreciate the cellulite?" the girl chides

Mr Stenson leans back, not bothering to argue—but he is no longer Mr Stenson—he is a man much younger; the same age as the girl, and he is considerably more handsome. The boxers are loose on his now lean frame, and the sight of him in his underwear is altogether more appealing.

The girl lets the book drop backwards covering her mouth, to better glare at the boy.

"Honestly—" she starts-

"Waste of some perfectly good potion!" the boy finishes for her squeakily "I know the lecture by heart now, mum."

"It's true though," she insists, picking her book back up "If I get caught at it I don't want the last one to be some tubby Muggle—I'd rather be shagging some bloke that's worth the trouble."

"Worth the trouble—like that scrawny little git you did the other week? What was he, fourteen? Twelve?"

The girl remains silent behind her book. The boy smirks and leans further back in the seat.