Life in Black and White

Chapter Four

A jumbled, stammering "Er, uh, thanks," was probably not the most graceful reply to a friendly "Good morning!" ever spoken (Hestia was mentally rewriting the exchange: "It is lovely, isn't it?" or even the simple, standard "Good morning!" echo and wishing her cheeks didn't go so blatantly pink) but no one looked at her too oddly—although that was probably because Alasdair hadn't made it into work yet, and both Daniel and Caradoc were too polite to highlight her verbal embarrassments.

And, just as she settled into her desk chair, he spoke again. "Oh, Hestia, Dorcas wanted to see you in her office; I think you're going to be working in there this morning." Dread spiked through Hestia's stomach, despite the lack of any sort of doom-prophesying cast to Caradoc's face (which was, in fact, entirely friendly and unconcerned), getting called down to an office reminded her unpleasantly of the few times she and Sturgis had been taken to task for skiving off classes. She thanked him, a verbal endeavour which went over much smoother than her earlier attempts, perhaps due to her preoccupation with what awaited in Juriswitch Meadowes' office and not how well Caradoc looked in his well-tailored Juriswizard robes.

As she was walking towards the doorway, her heel caught on the strap of a briefcase that hung out into the walkway. It must have been some strange combination of edging around Caradoc's seat so she wouldn't accidentally touch him (because the thought, though discarded, tugged at her motor functions) and the focus of her attention on the impending doom that was Meadowes' office and not on where she was going, because Hestia Jones couldn't do anything if she couldn't walk in her ridiculous shoes; she had put on her mother's high heels at age seven and not looked back. Even as she threw her hands out to catch herself, though, she was entertaining fantasies of Caradoc somehow flying out of his seat to catch her like a hero.

Instead, though, she just ploughed into Alasdair as he sauntered in through the door. He did catch her, but it was hardly the stuff of fairytales and romance novels. He'd barely shoved her upright on her feet when the snide criticism was out of his mouth.

"What moronic torture contraptions are you wearing on your feet today?" he snarled, ripping around her to his desk in the corner. Caradoc and Daniel immediately looked to her feet, right as Hestia did. They weren't moronic; indigo patent leather stilettos to match the indigo waistcoat she was wearing today, perfectly professional and sedate.

"I can walk perfectly fine in my moronic torture contraptions when there aren't obstacles in the walkway to navigate," she hissed back at Alasdair. Her snarling, though, had the unintended consequence of killing the amused grin on Caradoc's face.

"Oh, Christ, I'm sorry, Hestia, that's mine. I shouldn't leave it hanging out in the path like that, of course you tripped." He scrambled out of his seat, gathering up the briefcase that she'd tripped over, looking deeply apologetic.

"Oh, no, no," Hestia fluttered, trying to suppress the stupid grin threatening on her face. "It's really not your fault, it's mine really," she stammered, too quick and insistent to be casual, her ankle rolling under her as she took a faulty step as though to prove her lack of coordination. "I should—" She hesitated just for a second as Alasdair shot her a triumphant and very evil sort of look, but then finished, defeated, with a quiet near whisper of, "—watch where I'm walking." She paused, looking around, shrinking in on herself in the awkward silence. "I'm going to head over to Juriswitch Meadowes' office, everyone have a nice morning."

She cringed as she walked out the door as quickly as she could, head down and her hand pressed to her forehead.

Hestia was quite sure she'd never applied herself more diligently to a task in her life. Meadowes even noticed it, complimenting her work ethic as the two sat in her office, shoes off on the floor amidst a spread of books and parchment. Hestia, though she thanked her blithely, barely heard the praise, more focussed on mentally distancing herself from the humiliating events of the morning than anything else. And distance herself she did…until the time for lunch came, and with it the realization that Alasdair had had all morning to process her reactions, and was sure to come to only one all-too-accurate conclusion.

Sturgis intercepted her at the Fountain of Magical Brethren, pulling her away to a lunch in Diagon just in time to save her from a devilishly grinning and fast-approaching Alasdair, followed by Daniel, who was looking a touch upset. All her fears and suspicions were confirmed in those two distant but painfully clear expressions; Alasdair had figured out precisely why Caradoc had flustered Hestia so badly—drat that man, he was too perceptive by half!—and Daniel just felt bad for her because he was nice.

She was unusually pensive throughout the very nice lunch at The Leaky Cauldron, and Sturgis set down his fork halfway in and regarded her curiously. "Are you all right, Hestia? You're awfully quiet."

"I just made an arse of myself this morning," Hestia explained, her cheeks pinking. "I'd rather not talk about it, but I'm going to have to face my coworkers soon, and I'm dwelling on it."

Sturgis nodded, picking his fork back up and shovelling a bite of cottage pie into his mouth. "Nothing more serious than that, eh?" he said when he finished chewing.

"No, it's silly," Hestia said miserably, staring down at the wood grain of the table and trying to convince herself. Sturgis made a hushed choking sort of noise around a mouthful of pie, and Hestia looked up, alarmed. His eyes were fixed over her shoulder, and she turned to look, his hiss of warning coming too late.

And she felt choked, too, though there was thankfully nothing in her mouth to further the issue. Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange had just taken a seat at the bar. Her head whipped around and she sunk into the booth, trying to minimize herself. Sturgis, on the other hand, had a snarl welded across his lips.

"Sturgis, stop that," she hissed, in a whisper that was probably a bit of an overkill. "They'll notice you."

"So what?" he said, but he already seemed to sense the stricken look that was on Hestia's face, and looked away. "Sorry," he apologized, scooting further into the booth to take himself out of their line of sight.

"Thanks," Hestia said, meaning it. This was not the day, time, or place she wanted to run into Rabastan. She didn't even want to look at him.

Sturgis, however, couldn't help but stare down the back of the booth as if his ugly gaze could burn through the wood and settle on the brothers at the bar. "What did you ever—'' he began hotly, snapping his mouth closed when Hestia's face fell.

This was not the time for that. Not that there was ever going to be a time where she wanted to discuss exactly what had happened between her and Rabastan with Sturgis—even if he was her best mate—but even if there was, the present couldn't have been further from it.

Sturgis seemed to sense she wanted out, so he shovelled a few more mouthfuls of pie in and stood to go. He threw an arm around her shoulders as they made a casually quick line for the door to the muggle street, keeping his face down and her shape subtly out of sight behind him as they passed the Lestrange brothers.

"Thanks, Sturgis," Hestia said emphatically when they'd reached the sunshine in muggle London.

"No problem," Sturgis said stoutly, removing his arm from her shoulders. Hestia checked her wristwatch, grimacing.

"I suppose there's nothing else to do but go back to work." Hestia cast a deflated sort of look back at the door to The Leaky Cauldron. The Floo fireplace, their method of entry and the way she had intended to return to the Ministry, was effectively cut off.

"Think I'll walk," she said breezily, making a big show of looking up at the pretty blue sky as though the fine weather had inspired her.

"You sure?" Sturgis asked, looking back at the pub. Hestia nodded firmly.

"It's not too far, and I've got some time to kill before I need to be back, anyway."

Sturgis shrugged. "Okay, sounds good. I have a patrol in Diagon, so I'm back that way…"

"I'll see you tonight, then? You going to be home at a reasonable time?"

Sturgis nodded, his hand on the door. "Shouldn't be too late, might make it home before you!"

"Ha!" Hestia called out over her shoulder, her heels already clicking down the pavement. The door swung shut behind Sturgis and Hestia quickened her pace, falling into a long-legged, hip swinging stride that, although was quite natural to her now, had taken quite a bit of practiced sauntering through the Ravenclaw dorms when they were empty.

The distinctive creaking sound of The Leaky Cauldron's door squealed out behind her, and familiar footsteps bounded up behind her. An amused grin on her face, Hestia stopped and turned on her heel to see what Sturgis had left unsaid and deemed important enough to retrace his steps.

And then she saw Rabastan Lestrange's darkly handsome face and she kept on turning without hesitation, swinging a rather ridiculous 360 and picking her quick stride right back up, pushing herself a little faster than before.

"Hestia!" he called after her, laughing (even she knew she'd probably looked ridiculous, turning pirouettes in the middle of the pavement) and the footsteps picked up until he was right behind her and she could smell the cologne she'd bought him for Christmas. His hand circled her upper arm and Hestia reacted hard, yanking herself out of his grasp so violently she nearly flung herself to the ground. "Merlin, Hestia, calm down, sorry!"

Her dangling earrings whipped against her cheek as she whirled on him, looking wide-eyed and apologetic, his hands in the air in the universal gesture of surrender. "Don't touch me!" Hestia screeched back at him anyway, somehow infuriated all the more by his innocent look.

"I'm not!" he yelled back at her, shaking his hands in the air to demonstrate the extent to which he was not touching her. Part of her was already back in the routine, back into the swing of their arguments, the silly, loud fights they'd get into over nothing, more from affection than anger. Part of her wanted to grin at him, toss out some new volley for him to bat back.

No way. Continuing this familiar scenario was letting him win, edging out onto the very thin ice of her woefully limited self control. She shook sense into herself and turned to go. "Leave me alone, then, fuck the hell off!" she stammered, somewhat incoherently. The clickity-click of her heels on the pavement was matched by the heavier tread of his boots behind her, keeping time.

"C'mon, Hestia, please?"

"Please what?" Hestia ripped out, hunching her shoulders in, trying to block him out. "Jesus, Rabastan, please what? What could you possibly want?" She slowed her pace—it was futile and tiring.

He stopped trailing her, falling in step beside her. "Lunch?" he asked her hopefully, his expression optimistic and sweet.

"I already ate," Hestia said shortly.

"Dinner? Drinks? Me standing on the street outside your flat and talking to you through your window? Anywhere I might have you hold still, and maybe where I'm not afraid you're going to get angry and spike me in the shin with your heels? C'mon, Hestia, I'm sorry."

"These apologies and the chasing would have gone down very well a few months ago. As it pertains to now, though…" Hestia made a grand, facetious show of consideration and deep concentration. "Yeah, you can stop wasting your time."

Rabastan grabbed her hand and she wasn't quick enough to evade his grasp, wasn't strong enough to pull away when he was prepared for her fight. He pulled her into the doorway of a derelict building, pushing her back against the brick wall and leaning in until her head swam with his lovely cologne and everything that had been perfectly right about her and Rabastan, everything she'd never wanted to leave.

She wanted him to kiss her. More than anything in the world at that particular moment, she wanted him to kiss her, wanted him to want her. Her hand was still in his, his body inches from hers, and all the sense and reason she possessed abandoned her.

With just the lightest little brush of his lips against hers, Rabastan leaned back an inch and smiled winningly at her and Hestia gathered the remnants of her self control, balled her free hand into a fist at her side to keep herself from throwing her arms around his neck. "Let me walk you back to work." He grinned mischievously as he led her out of the alcove, his hand still tight around hers.

"You wanted to talk?" Hestia asked grudgingly as their silent, hand-in-hand walk approached its end, daring a sideways glance up at him.

"Dinner?" Rabastan held out, grinning lightly. "Please?"

"Rabastan…" Hestia trailed off even as his smile brightened, his dark brown eyes sparkling. He still knew her well enough to know when he'd won her over.

When they reached the hallway outside the apprentices' office, he leaned down and pressed a chaste, gentlemanly kiss to her cheek. Hestia's breath still caught in her chest, so close to everything she shouldn't want so badly.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow night?" he prodded, still too close for her to think clearly and she almost said 'yes.'

Even senseless as she was, though, Hestia knew better than to have him around to hers, where Sturgis might answer the door and be mightily displeased.

She put a familiar hand on his forearm, trailing her fingertips over the beautiful, expensive charcoal grey wool of his robes. "Can I just meet you somewhere? It would be better."

Rabastan got a grim, amused look on his face. "Ah, yes, Mr. Podmore won't be pleased with either of us, will he?"

"Rabastan," Hestia scolded gently, privately dismayed by the obvious truth in his words.

He looked thrilled, his face lighting up at her voice. "I've missed hearing you say my name. There's no one in the world who makes it sound lovelier than you do."

She approved his plans, agreeing to meet him in The Leaky Cauldron at seven the next evening. As he walked away, Hestia despaired. Every word he spoke was balm and barb, both. They soothed away the sting of rejection—she'd walked away and he hadn't followed for long and this all was beautiful—but every word carried with it a tiny fragment of a memory; all of the many things that were wrong with Rabastan, all the things that were wrong with her, remembering why they hadn't worked and knowing that nothing had changed, really.

There was no relief to be had on the other side of the office door, either. Alasdair and Daniel sat at their desks, fury and disapproval and pity written across their faces. Of course they had heard every word.

"You're not," Alasdair said derisively. The look on his face cast aspersions on Hestia's competence.

"Hestia, really?" Daniel looked betrayed. Alasdair, too, in his prickly bastard sort of way.

And rightly so, Hestia thought a little miserably. They'd been an audience to the implosion of four months previous, had near-to-carried her through a good week of her apprenticeship when she'd been a useless, teary puddle on the floor, picking up all of her work and splitting it between themselves so she wouldn't get tossed out of the program. This was disrespecting all their kindness, throwing it back in their faces.

"Can we not?" Hestia asked, nearly in tears. She half-expected someone to object again, but was too relieved when Alasdair kept silent to think too much on it.

It was a long, quiet afternoon. Henley, Dearborn, and Meadowes were in session with the Wizengamot, one of the smaller, preliminary hearings before the Selwyn trial officially began, and the apprentices had been left to research and paperwork in their cramped little space. Alasdair and Daniel respectfully kept silent, each of them deep in concentration on their own work.

The only bright spot seemed to be that, in the dramatic wake of Rabastan, Hestia's lamentable interaction with Caradoc Dearborn had been entirely forgotten. She bolstered her flagging spirits with that little bit of golden news and managed not to cry all day, and when she finally got home, she found she didn't want to anymore.

She half-lied to Sturgis about a rough day at work because she couldn't manage to paste a convincing smile on her face. He made her dinner and took her out for real ice cream, and then he made her put her books away and cuddled her up on the couch, listening to a programme on the wireless.

She fell asleep with her head on his chest and his arms wrapped around her. She had a strangely realistic dream about Juriswitch Meadowes' disembodied voice yelling at her about some sort of meeting she was late to and jumped to consciousness while Sturgis was trying to extract himself from her grasp. "Sorry," Sturgis winced. "I was trying not to wake you. I have to go." He didn't say where. Hestia knew better than to ask; she was getting more adept at recognizing the kinds of questions Sturgis couldn't answer before she even asked them.

"I'll just go to bed—my bed's more comfortable." She put a hand up, trying to straighten the neat twist her long, glossy hair was tucked into. It was a lost cause; at her first touch, the remaining hair pins gave up and it all tumbled down.

"Don't I look pretty?" Hestia yawned, arching her back and stretching. She fluffed her long, kinked hair dramatically.

Sturgis smiled strangely, looking at her far too closely, like he was memorizing her face. In the queerest tone of voice, he said clearly to her, "I love you, Hestia, d'you know?"

A confused half-smile on her face, Hestia turned around to look at him. "Yeah, I do." There was an awkward pause, and Hestia prattled loudly to fill the silence. "Another man in love with me? God, that's six in one day! I hope this doesn't have to get funny, Sturgis, I wouldn't want to ruin our friendship."

He grabbed her and hugged her, pressing his forehead to hers. "Girls are icky," he informed her gravely. Hestia bumped her nose against his.

"Good, good! I'm glad you feel that way." She paused and the silly moment fell away. "Love you too, Sturgis. Not many people can promise to be best friends forever at eleven and still be going ten years later."

She worried about Sturgis from the moment she heard the front door click shut. It was awful, and she wondered how she'd never really worried about him before now. It kept her up nearly an hour, laying in bed and wondering what he was doing.

It wasn't a very good distraction, really. In fact, she used the upcoming encounter with Rabastan to distract her from worrying about where Sturgis had gone.

And then she wondered what on Earth Sturgis was going to do or say or think of her when he found out she'd spoken to Rabastan, had agreed to a dinner, was contemplating having him back…

She just hoped Sturgis came back home soon, was here to get angry and outraged at her for being such an idiot.

Hestia felt awful when she woke, like she hadn't slept at all. But Sturgis was bustling around in the kitchen and yelling through the walls to see if she wanted jam or butter on her toast, so she smiled and it was a good morning.

Holy god. This having a life thing is hard. I forgot. Damn.

Anyway, hope y'all enjoyed the chapter. Please review? I feel like the fandom has been dying down in the past weeks, probably due to the beginning of the academic year in so many places.

Also, I'd like to share some random information with you:

I generally don't tend to 'paste down' my ideas of what certain characters look like in terms of actual people, but for some reason both Caradoc and Rabastan ARE certain actors in my head. It's strange. Aaron Eckhart (Harvey Dent in The Dark Knight) IS my Caradoc, and Ben Barnes (Prince Caspian in the movie of the same name) IS Rabastan Lestrange, right down to the relative ages. And Alasdair Diggory is a taller, lankier, meaner, less-pretty version of Robert Pattinson, the movie Cedric Diggory.

(I watched way too many movies this summer, can't you tell?)