Half past five in the afternoon.


Virgil stubbed his blunt out in a saucer, which balanced on the stool next to his own. The weather was pleasant enough that he'd come out onto the balcony after scrubbing the day's work off his skin.

Their balcony overlooked a narrow lane between buildings - from here he could hear the busy murmuring and steps of Diagon, while no doubt passersby wondered from whence came the scent of tobacco and gillyweed. He liked it here, this sense of almost-private. Open on his lap was a battered notebook full of his own scribblings in cypher; he read from it placidly.

Friday[1] was still raw in memory. Virgil had made excuses to avoid Cepheus over the weekend. He knew himself: if he'd gone to see Ceph in this mood, the whole story would have come out. And he didn't want that. For all his boldness, Virgil was afraid it would ruin things between them.

So he spent the last two days listlessly reading and tidying up the insides of his enchanted trunk. At work this morning, Yavin took pity and allowed him to take notes from a restricted legilimency book in the Department library, which he'd been wanting to read since hearing talk of it.

These were the notes Virgil was studying when he felt the breeze pick up, and a figure block the meagre autumn light. Not a breeze but Figaro Sellaphix on a broomstick, alighting on their balcony as if expected.

"That's one way to make an entrance," he greeted with not a little confusion, setting down his tea. "How goes it, Fig?"

1.	21st Sept - Story Time (Snapshot)

"Hey!" Figaro said, breathless, red-cheeked, and smiling. He was just done with his day at the Daily Prophet, and the broomstick-trip from there to here required no goggles or jacket against the atmosphere. He dropped his satchel down, tipped the broomstick against the railing, and dropped into the other chair. He had a folded and rolled Daily Prophet in his back pocket, now smushed.

"You're a mind-reader, right? I mean, there's Bevans who's wiping them, and Ariadne who's stunning them, and you. How's that work? The mind-reading thing."

Figaro had begun without any preamble at all. For anyone looking in, under the smile was a knuckle-cracking agitation, a boiling cauldron, or a dozen spinning plates just one wrong step from coming down. Holding it all together, for now, was a blind hope that he had a plan and everything that had happened between him and the decisive Wilhemena could be all undone.[1]

1.	22 Sept 2012 - It was fun until it wasn't

How's that work? The mind-reading thing.

An unhinged question to hear after having spent some portion of his day contemplating combative Legilimency. Virgil could practically feel the unevenness of Figaro's thoughts, emanating from him like heat off the rim of a volcano. He shut his notebook and blinked through the light haze of gillyweed in his own head.

"I don't know how it works for anyone else," Virgil spoke slowly, as if this would somehow decelerate his friend's pace. "Just me. It's complicated, I suppose."

Of all his peers, Nick was probably the only one Virgil would consider equipped for that conversation. Fig rarely, if ever, expressed much interest in the subject. The fact that he termed it 'mind-reading' made it clear this newfound curiousity was very very recent.

"Why? Thinking of a career change?" he smiled dryly - knowing that wasn't the reason, but not wanting to hazard a guess just yet.

No sooner had Figaro put his feet up on the railing than he was standing again. He lit a cigarette with his wand, a new habit, his hand shaking - again despite the apparently happy expression on his face.

"No, no. It's Wilhemena," he said letting out a puff of air, the first signal of the stress below. "She dumped me, but I'm working on it. Problem is, she's fucking inscrutable. I don't what she wants. She's saying all this stuff, won't talking to me. But I need to get her back. If I just knew what she was thinking, I could do it. This was real, and she's just not - giving me anything. So, I'm thinking you come along, or like, be there, peek in and let me know what the fuck to do."

Virgil had been a real pal about this relationship, helping Fig get properly dressed, be a confidante about the whole thing. It seemed natural he'd help. Figaro waited expectantly.

He crossed his legs and leaned back against the closed balcony doors, eyes growing serious above his typically sardonic smile. So it had happened. The witch had dumped Figaro!

Virgil wasn't quite sure what this was though - he knew that the two had some weird powerplay going on, with her kicking him out after sex and him thriving off the temporary rejection. This was different: these were not the languishings of a frustrated lover. His friend was manic.

            "If I just knew what she was thinking, I could do it," Fig continued, hands still shaking. "This was real, and she's just not - giving me anything. So, I'm thinking you come along, or like, be there, peek in and let me know what the fuck to do."

Something twisted in his belly and Virgil pulled a face, almost flinching. His first thought was of when he'd read Cepheus[1] at Valentine's. He regretted it, which still soured what should have been a good memory.

"That's... that won't work," he shook his head slightly. "Like, I'm pretty sure invading her private thoughts isn't what she wants you to do, right?"

It didn't sound like she was making him 'work for it' again. This sounded serious.

1.	Feb 11th - The Sight of the Stars...

This wasn't the reaction Figaro wanted or expected.

"I don't know, Virgil!" he blurted. "That's the point. That's the whole point. I don't know what she wants. She's like this. She gets off on messing with my head. And I do what she asks and then everything's fine again."

He pulled hard on the cigarette. "This time is just more than usual. I told her I loved her and that's wasn't right, apparently, because she got really weird about it and said we were off. And now I have to find out what I should do. Try and make her jealous, propose, buy her dinner, a necklace or something. I mean, you could do it. You could help me."

The smile was gone and you could hear the lump in his throat now.

Alright yes definitely a real break up. Batten down the hatches, as Edgar would say.

Virgil pinched the bridge of his nose as the other wizard veered into exactly the territory he wanted to avoid. He could see the trajectory of Figaro's reasoning at breakneck speed and it was nauseating him. Shit.

"Back up a second," he lowered his hand, pressing palms together. "You said you usually do what she asks and everything's fine again. But she didn't ask you to do anything this time, right?"

Even as he spoke, the whole situation was settling into his mind like a jarringly different reality. Fig told him that he loved Wilhemena and Virgil assumed this whole thing with her was within the bounds of a very weird, passionate fling. The kind where the word 'love' flung about carelessly. But if Wil thought otherwise...

"What makes you think this is fixable, Fig?" Virgil followed up quickly, perplexed.

Figaro closed his eyes and swore under his breath. He raked a hand through his hair. He felt sick. Virgil wasn't going to do this for him; queasy bastard. It felt like it was going to be futile to explain, but he calmed himself with another puff and the words came.

"Because it has to be. It was real, it means something. I'm so close. I went to her place and, okay, she wouldn't see me, but she didn't call MLE." (Not entirely truthful.) "And I went to her work and she seemed not as reject-y. She said we could talk later." (An optimistic interpretation.) "So there's a chance. It's real, there has to be a chance. But fuck it, mate, you're not going to help me, so I'll just do it myself."

He shrugged aggressively, smoked hard again, and his mind turned to the next thing. There was going to be a new werewolf safe house opening tomorrow or the next day (he'd find out) and he knew she'd be there. He'd show up. Make some gesture. She'd see.

He stared at Figaro, practically shocked into silence as his friend went on about doing it himself whatever that meant.

Perhaps it was that he'd used up all his niceness on Laidie and work, or maybe he was feeling rough around the edges usually soothed by an attentive boyfriend. But Virgil suddenly stood up  - almost knocking over his notebook and teacup.

"Her house? And at work?" he struggled to keep his voice down, remembering Diagon was just down the lane. "What the fuck is wrong with you??"

Fig was harrassing her! Virgil sat down just as abruptly, running a hand through his hair and making it stick up like it always did. "You can't follow her around like a bloody poltergeist," he hissed. "Keep it up and she will summon MLE."

It was Figaro's turn to be shocked still. Oh, he'd gotten that vehement scolding from plenty of others before for the stupid shit he'd said and done. Sophie, Fauna, his mother, Kurby. He was used to it because, well, he did stupid shit. But this time, from Virgil, it was not deserved. This was for love. It baffled Figaro that Virgil wasn't seeing this.

He put his fist to his mouth. He was holding his breath, thinking. He had no idea what to say to Virgil, and his thoughts went back to Wilhemena and the sickening ache of missing her. The idea that they wouldn't be together again was overwhelming when he let himself thing about it.

Then he deflated. He let out his breath, and started reaching for his things. "I'm going to go. Thanks, or whatever."

He wasn't deterred, but he knew he wasn't going to find what he needed here on Virgil's balcony.

He wasn't going to listen, was he? Virgil made an irritated sound - first reaching to lay a staying hand on his friend's shoulder but then, thinking better of it, he gestured for the broomstick to leap into his own grasp.

There was no way he was going to let Fig just drop this nonsense on his lap and then frolic into the distance.

"Hey," he held the broom aside like a staff, recovering from his surprised feelings. "Stop kidding yourself, Fig. I'm being serious, you can't go around harassing witches who don't want to fuck you anymore."

Virgil could hear the change in his voice, that second skin so carelessly adopted at Hogwarts. "Did you actually think it was, what, some grand romance?" he huffed a laugh of disbelief. "You were a toy, she was having a bit of fun."

And it was obvious now, in this new light. A fantasy, a frivolous fling, a thrill. The kind he'd have leapt at a year ago.

Figaro straightened and faced Virgil, not far off from a posture of squaring-off. It was a breath away from aggression that was starkly out of character for the young wizard. For a moment he seriously considered shoving the taller but slighter Virgil.

"Wow." He swallowed, nodding.

"It was fun until it wasn't." Wil's words in Virgil's mouth. The cruel truth of it was, at current time, unbearable. It was humiliating and he was really tired of feeling that way. He picked up his satchel. His eyes were growing wet with everything he couldn't keep back.

"You're an arsehole," Figaro almost laughed. Virgil had probably been thinking this about him the whole time, come to think of it. "That's really mean. You don't get it."

Figaro didn't have the energy to try and be nasty in return. It was Virgil's area, really.

He gestured for the broom. "Give it back."

He was glad Fig didn't try making a grab for the broomstick - Virgil was prepared to fling it down into the lane, but didn't really want a physical struggle on his hands. Life was tiring enough lately. And he would have lost.

            "That's really mean. You don't get it."

Nothing Figaro said was any worse than what had been said to him before, countless of times, often deservedly. But it unsettled him anyway, the way he said it. Without any real venom, like a kid.

"Keep telling yourself that if you think it helps,," Virgil shrugged. "You're not special, Fig. You're not the first bloke to feel like this."

He sighed and gave the broom a shove, letting it sweep its way back to its owner. "Heartbreak's common as muck. That's what makes it so awful."

Even now he felt a ghost of it inside his chest, the disappointments that never quite leave you altogether. Virgil's words were blunt but he felt bad for his friend, and wished ill on Wilhemena Gunn.

Figaro wiped wiped one eye and took the broom back brusquely, relieved Virgil had relinquished it. Further confrontation over it, Figaro feared, would have further wrecked whatever friendship was still functional between them. The broom activated to his touch and Figaro paused to secure his things before mounting up.

He wanted to tell Virgil that he was wrong, and that he wasn't going to give up, which is what made his situation different and special and grand. He ended up with, "Yeah, whatever."

Virgil had drawn forth the nagging unfaceable worries he'd been ignoring for weeks. They were like arrows in his liver, flung out like that, so sharply incisive. But Figaro had been through some other awful times in his life and always came through. He'd do it this time, too. Virgil could eat shit about it.

With that bolstering thought, he kicked off and headed out into the night.