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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*The Leaky isn't Evan's usual haunt--or even anywhere near any of Evan's usual haunts--but he finds himself outside the door late tonight all the same, looking less for its custom and more a very specific employee.

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.*

*She's partly exasperated when the second man comes in: it's been a long day, and she's tired. But she's partly relieved, too: it breaks the tedium, for starters, and it gives her a break from her thoughts. A surreptitious once-over and she's a little intrigued, too. Unfamiliar face, handsome enough, looks like money. Maybe he'll tip well.

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?

*He looks up from the poetry with a smile, noticing her hesitation. Something flutters across her face and he makes her wait just a moment--just a split second holding her gaze with his--and he shuts the book.*

I would love some mead. The older the better, if you've got it.

Sure.

*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?

*She's right, of course; he is watching her move across the floor with practiced efficiency. There's a tiny tiredness to her stride, the faintest suggestion of something that will become a limp in twenty years, and of course a faint pinkness in her cheeks. It's all really quite precious juxtaposed against her businesslike demeanor. He has anticipated all of this, but he had not anticipated the pleasure it gives him to watch it.

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?

*Handsy patrons are as familiar to Amrita as dirty dishes, and out of pure instinct she stiffens and draws back--but not completely, not breaking away. Just enough so that there's tension there, a slight pull between them like a taut string.

Instead of an elbow and a harsh laugh, he gets a bit of a stammer.*

Y-yes. Long time ago.

*He releases her instantly.*

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 . . . ?

*There's a strange flicker of loss, like a thread has been cut, and she blinks rapidly. She doesn't remember Evan Rosier at all, though they obviously were in school together. She shakes his hand warmly enough, though.*

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?

Am-ri-ta. It's like a little song.

*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.

*Her surprise and pleasure are genuine, and she laughs a little, in an almost conspiratorial fashion.*

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.

*Evan, having seated himself again as she slipped away, drinks the mead. It's startlingly good. The girl has excellent taste. Out of everything, he hadn't counted on being impressed by her.*

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.

*That one's reads loud and clear, and her right eyebrow shoots up and her arms fold themselves under her bosom—-instantly.*

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.*

*He holds up his hands in defense.*

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.

*Normally, Amrita's not much of a night owl at all--work starts early in the morning--but she doesn't feel tired in the slightest, not anymore. She feels nervous, in kind of a delicious pit-of-the-stomach way, and suddenly very much awake. She gives him just the slightest eye-roll, to let him know he needn't worry, and that he's being silly.*

Oh yes, dear me. I'm frightfully troubled. What a boor you are, with your mead and your Lucretius.

*He leans in, putting his chin back onto his fist and cocking his head.*

Not many wizards would recognize old Lucretius, you know. Latin's fallen by the wayside. It's a pity.

*She gives a little shrug, at that.*

Time marches on.

*It sounds cool enough, but his proximity is becoming a bit overwhelming: her gaze darts nervously from his eyes to the shape of his lips to the plane of his cheekbones, as if there's noplace safe for them to rest. A small part of her wonders distantly how exactly she ended up in this situation from a simple day at work.*

Anyway, I had a thorough grounding in the, ah, classics.

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?

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