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If you could see her through my eyes, you wouldn't wonder at all
*For a few days, Amrita could barely feel her feet touching the ground as she worked her shifts downstairs at the Leaky. She couldn't believe her luck, meeting (or re-meeting) Remus: he'd somehow taken a horrible day and spun it into something good, something hopeful. But it's been awhile since they met—in that very booth right over there, which her eyes keep flashing to worriedly--and she's long since started to doubt that he'll owl at all. The pub's near-empty most days, like much of Diagon Alley, so she's been spending a lot of time brooding and washing out glasses that don't need to be washed out, oscillating wildly between hope and despair and inventing less-and-less plausible reasons for the delay until she's driven herself half-mad with it for no particular reason.
It's foolish, but she can't help it, and tonight's no different. The early promise of the night—patrons, laughter, tips—has turned into achy feet and endless one-more-rounds for the only customer in the place, a regular who's neither charming nor a particularly good tipper. Still, she puts on her best smile for him as she refills his drink again and again. Behind it, her mind helplessly worries at itself like a well-picked bone: maybe he'll owl tomorrow morning. Or the next day. Or never. Best give up now. Oh, don't be ridiculous. Maybe he'll owl tomorrow morning.
This is what's galloping through her head like a centaur on uppers as she smiles prettily at the regular, waiting for last call, or for him to leave, or for her headache to simply kill her—whichever comes first.*
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The file was rather vague; still, greasing a palm in the werewolf registry came cheap, and the information he gleaned was useful. Amrita Patil is a pureblood, exceedingly quiet and entirely alone. A pity, really, and wholly unremarkable in the stack of city-living werewolf files he went through if it were not for the picture of her.
It is not so much that the picture makes her look beautiful. Indeed, in her most recent photograph she looks tired, disheveled, almost on the verge of tears. But the look in her eyes of fierce but broken pride--that is what brings him out late tonight. Evan recognizes that it is not just a desire to cultivate a city-dwelling wolf pack that brings him here tonight. He is intrigued by her on a deeper level than all that.
Evan steps inside and brushes his shoes free of snow. He removes a book from a pocket--a slim volume of the poems of Lucretius, in the original Latin--and then hangs the heather-grey travelling cloak on a rack. Without knowing it, he chooses precisely the same booth Remus Lupin sat in not so long ago.
He flips the book open and adjusts the ring on his middle finger. It is an artifact he only brings out on very special occasions, for very specific uses; antique white and riddled with cracks, it is carved from the cervical vertebrae of a veela. The enchantments it holds are subtle but powerful. When worn sparingly, the ring makes him seem luminous, impeccable, irresistible. Women exposed to it find themselves letting him have what he wants. Repeated exposures, of course, it can produce jealousy, rage, and obsession in its victims. He wears it tonight to ease their conversation, to keep the attention of a bar maid who must be used to all sorts of come-ons, to hold a light up and let the little moth think that it is she fluttering over of her own accord.*
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She makes her way over to him, rolling up the sleeves of her serviceable plum-colored robes, and breaks out a smile. Not the bright, glittering one for the young regulars, or the humorous, indulgent one for the old regulars: this one's warm, half-shy, as if they're sharing a secret. Their eyes lock, and it takes her a half-second longer than it usually does to get the words out of her mouth; they're stuck fast, for some reason, like a butterfly pinned to a card.*
...What'll you be having?
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I would love some mead. The older the better, if you've got it.
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*As she winds her way expertly between the empty tables to the bar, she feels a prickling between her shoulder blades and is suddenly sure he's watching her as she goes. As she gets the drink--Meliflua's Melomel, it's actually quite good--she's vaguely cognizant of a burning in her cheeks. Still, she manages to be brisk and all-business as she brings him the drink and slides it across the table with a practiced hand.*
Is that all?
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His hand on his chin, Evan outlines his lower lip with a thumb and catches her fingers with his other hand, gently, with no force at all in his grasp, as she deposits the drink. She could disentangle him at any time, but--knowing the thrall of the ring as well as he does--she probably won't.*
Forgive me for being so forward, but--I could swear that I know you. Hogwarts?
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Instead of an elbow and a harsh laugh, he gets a bit of a stammer.*
Y-yes. Long time ago.
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I'm sorry, I was raised rather better than that. Here, let me introduce myself correctly.
*Evan stands from the booth, gives her a slight bow, and offers his hand for shaking, that she might meet him on her own terms.*
Evan Rosier. Class of 1977. Slytherin. Delighted to make your acquaintance, miss . . . ?
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Patil. Amrita. I was in your class, I think, but I transferred to Mumbai in '74.
*The old lie comes smoothly enough, but her eyes wander down to his book-- and then widen hugely. The other patron clears his throat loudly but she doesn't take the slightest bit of notice.*
Oh, Lucretius. What do you think of him?
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*He smiles again, formality dissolving.*
He's my favorite atheist poet. Non si terra mari miscebitur et mare caelo. Really delightful writing, much more efficient than English, although this re-read is mostly due to curiosity regarding his death. They say he wrote this between fits of madness due to a love potion, you know.
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He didn't! I never knew that...I read him when I was a little girl, and didn't much like it. I thought...well, I thought he went on too much.
*The other patron clears his throat again, and she jumps a little, startled. With an apologetic murmur she excuses herself and dashes over to take care of him at once, settling the bill and counting out his change from the pouch at her waist. The man leaves, rather grumpily, and her farewell smile lasts until the door closes and not a second longer.*
Sorry.
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Quite all right. I was being quite selfish with your time.
*He gestures across the booth.*
You should sit with me. You work too hard, particularly for the paltry appreciation of people like that.
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Do I.
Paltry.
*It's only a second or two of archness, though. Her lips quirk into a smile as if of their own accord, and with a quick and guilty glance over her shoulder, she sits down anyway.*
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I myself am a night owl, but I wouldn't be surprised if you were less energetic than I at this late hour. And your last customer seemed a bit of a boor. Although I suppose I must be grouped among the boors as well, for troubling you now.
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I guess it's all right. Except for these horrid shoes.
*The mirror laughs sharply: “Honey, no one will be looking at your feet.” She murmurs something sharp at it and glances out her small window: beneath it, Evan's waiting. With a muttered curse she fumbles for her bag and darts downstairs, and a moment later emerges from the side door looking much smoother than she feels.*
Hello.
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You look lovely.
*He steps on the cigarette and gives her a little bow, then offers her his elbow so that they might walk with her arm threaded through his.*
Shall we?
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*He looks good too—but, somehow, not as incandescent as she remembers him. Still, though, as she gives Evan her arm, she can't help grinning. Today is a good day: she's finally gotten a letter from Remus, and she's on a date, of all ridiculous and unexpected things, and is walking through Diagon Alley arm-in arm with someone more than presentable. He's downright handsome, in fact, and has a way with Lucretius to boot. She's left with the feeling that he's plucked her from her dingy surroundings like a pearl from a pigpen, and the idea is an attractive one. Her smile is, for the first time, totally unaffected.*
You're well, I hope?
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*After all, when a maker of Dark artifacts tries to stop making them for your business and run off to Asia, he must be stopped lest others think Ministry consequences are worse than those of their employers. The violence is so fresh on his hands he can still hear the delightful crunching sound of bone breaking. This, combined with Amrita's company has made him almost buoyant.*
I realized after I left that I know what you do but I haven't told you what I do. I work for my family's business, Rosier and sons. You've heard of us?
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*She's a little bashful about this, but attentive enough. And genuinely interested--she couldn't pin him for one occupation or another like she can with most of her patrons. Besides, she remembers the Rosiers, in her mother's long-ago prattle about what the Patils were and weren't invited to, and she's curious.*
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For example, this past Christmas, all the shops sold these little toy swans that would sing and lay candy eggs. You saw them? I found those in the south of France. A mad old hermit would make them and give them to all the local families for luck. I managed to convince him to mass-produce enough to sell for the holiday last summer.
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You must've done well?
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So you travel often? I've never been to France, though I'd love to go someday.
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*He gives her a sideways look with a smile so she knows he's not entirely serious.*
And be careful what you wish for. I could whisk you away to France unexpectedly, and it would be terribly rude of me, but I would do it if you asked.
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You might want to reconsider that. I'd order you the brain salad.
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