bait_backup | If you could see her through my eyes, you wouldn't wonder at all

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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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Time does, although Lucretius would say it is chance that brings us to where we are. What would you say to that?

I'd say he's right, but not entirely. We're not just leaves on the wind, Evan: we're also permitted to steer.

I do quite a bit of steering. But without chance, all our little plans and thoughts and ideas would just work out, and life would be dull and predictable.

Not entirely sure I'd mind it. It'd be a nice change, at the very least.

Well, you can't confuse random and fair. Fortuna has never been fair.

*This feels a little odd coming from a sleek and moneyed near-stranger, and her eyebrow just twitches.*

I wouldn't think so.

Of course not.

*He takes another sip of mead, sliding his thumbnail along the ring again.*

But then there's Divination--can we really predict Fortuna's whims? Certainly some prophecies have been used to great effect, but do they only do so from their telling?

*He extends his hand, palm-up, towards her. An offering.*

Can you read everything about me in my hand?

*She hesitates for a moment, struggling to recall her long-ago Divination class in third year. Besides, she's not quite sure she should. But it seems she can't help it: after a long moment, she takes his hand with a light, reluctant touch.*

Well, you don't work with your hands.

*Her voice is low and halting, her eyes moving over the lines as if relieved to be off his face. Gently, she traces his palm--starting at the web between thumb and forefinger and ending at the wrist--but she can't remember exactly which one it is. Still, she presses on.*

And this one's crisscrossed early, see? The, ah, heart line?

Honestly, I'm not sure. It's been awhile.

It's true, I don't work my hands.

*Her touch is so soft and pleasant that he closes his eyes for a second. But he knows that her hand was damaged during a transformation some years back, and poorly treated; it was in the file. He wonders if the scar is still there, or if it simply blends in with the other lines in her palm.*

If you look here--my life line is short but deep. I'll die young, according to this.

May I read yours?

Oh.

*At that, her finger jumps off the fatal line on his palm, and she isn't sure exactly what to say. He's said it so calmly, though, that for a moment she thinks he must be joking.

But he isn't, and she's thrown off enough by that to give him her own palm without hesitation. It's a working hand, scarred in a few places here and there: burns from the kitchen and old knife cuts that read as the faintest of white lines on her brown skin. The bad one, though—that's from a transformation years ago, when she'd sunk her own, still-human teeth into that same web between thumb and forefinger and nearly taken a chunk out. It's long since healed, now, into a faint semicircle: almost like an extra line to read that crisscrosses the others.

Somewhat bashfully, she peeks up at him, watching him read it.*

Hm . . .

*He takes her proffered hand in both of his own, smoothing her fingers with both of his thumbs to open her to him further. The scar is there, and he follows it slowly, lovingly, with his eyes. It is living proof of the beautiful and savage thing that lives inside of her. He then follows the more conventional lines, ignoring the scars, pretending not to see the evidence that she clearly earns her living in a way he will never have to.*

Look here. Your life line is long and thin, and the plain of mars--the place between your life and heart lines--is broad. You live a passionate life, and you're generous.

*He looks at her face for a moment, and then returns to her palm.*

This line, along the outside edge, here, is marriage. And here is health, and the sun, and then the moon.

But this--

*He draws the long line straight down the center of her palm.*

This is your fate line. It's quite deep.

*She listens raptly, mesmerized as most people are by listening to talk of themselves. She feels him trace the line down her palm, feels it all the way down to the backs of her knees, and she trembles with it just a little.*

W-what's that mean?

Fortuna has touched you. That's all. Something has happened to you, or will happen to you, that was unpredictable and has affected you deeply. Maybe a death in the family and unexpected inheritance, or meeting someone significant, or some happenstance that could have happened to anyone but chose to happen to you.

*He does know precisely what it means, but he must be vague. No use in scaring the dear thing off with overly precise and correct interpretation.

He folds her hand shut inside of his own.*

It's just a game, Amrita. It's more double-speak than anything else. I knew a Muggle fortune-teller out in the Soviet bloc who hoodwinked a number of wizards with nothing more than a pretty smile and vague interpretation. There's no need to take it seriously.

*As Amrita listens to his reading, her lips part and her eyes sharpen with pain, somehow become deeper with it. She's thinking of how the world had been laid out before her when she was young, and how by a bit of bad luck it was all snatched away. She's thinking of her French and her way with the piano, and her Marathi jewelry, long since pawned. She's thinking of her own painful transformations, and the taste of her own blood in her mouth: of Evan's obvious wealth, and his fine way of speaking and book of poetry. She looks at his unblemished hands holding her own and feels her throat tighten. She whispers, with an attempt at levity she doesn't feel.*

Right. Of course.

I've upset you. I'm sorry. Palmistry is meant to cut to the quick, the better to loosen purse-strings with.

Let me make it up to you.

*Gently, she extricates her hand from his and manages a smile, somehow: but it's a rather poor showing, all told, not up to her usual standard.*

Oh, I couldn't possibly.

Don't be silly. There's this lovely French place. Tiny, practically a closet, right around the corner from here. Excellent steak and a wine selection to die for. The chef doesn't speak a word of English. I've been trying to find a reason to go there again myself, but dining alone in a place like that is--

*He gives her a wry smile.*

You must get proposals like this all the time. But if you would permit the honor, I would love to buy you dinner.

*She does, certainly, but none of them are a bit like this one. And she certainly hasn't accepted any of them. For a brief moment she just stares at him.

She's too emotionally compromised at this point to produce much of a response, but she does manage calm and a certain dazed placidity.*

Well--I--Yes. Yes, I'd like that very much.

Are you free tomorrow night?

I am going to die soon, after all.

*It's definitely a joke this time, but he can't help the lingering feeling that he doesn't want to put it off any more than she does, and he is fairly certain she isn't wearing any Dark artifacts to make him feel this way.*

*It's the perfect thing to say. She takes one look at him and bursts into a peal of silvery, nervous laughter.*

Tomorrow's fine, actually. After seven.

Excellent. I'll meet you here, maybe around the side so all the other patrons don't get terribly jealous.

*He stands and takes her hand. He brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. It's a daring move from a previous century and almost everyone he knows would probably roll their eyes if they could see him do this, here, now, to this girl, but for some reason he thinks it might be the right thing to do.*

Until then, Amrita.

Oh--all right.

*She laughs again as he kisses her hand: helplessly, endearingly, but slightly hysterical. She hasn't been treated this way for years, and it's all a bit much for her.*

I've got to clear up anyway, it's...well, it's a bit past last call. Goodbye, Evan.

Good night.

*He plucks down his cloak and fastens it around his throat and leaves in a gust of cold air from outside.*

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If you could see her through my eyes, you wouldn't wonder at all

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