Magical Menagerie, 1100 hours


The Menagerie assistant barely glanced at Balfour when he entered, so frequent a patron was the wizard at this establishment. He unbuttoned his jacket and glanced at the time - an ostentatious clock ticking mutely just above a profusion of unused owl cages behind the counter. Charlotte St. James wasn't due just yet. Hands in pockets, he wandered over to the counter with an anxious bounce in his step.

Nerves.

The last time they had spoken face-t0-face, his attire had been more intimate than was customarily preferred. But such was the price of challenging Margo to a drinking wager. Eliza - the elderly witch at the counter - looked up again. "Is something the matter, Mr Spectre?" she narrowed her irritated gaze at him and Balfour paused. He was pacing most maddeningly.

"Not at all, no. Just waiti--"

Just waiting for a friend, Balfour was going to say, but the Menagerie doors jingled open and he quickly turned around to see if it was the witch in question. He wouldn't drop sentences for just anyone after all.

If Charlotte had been disappointed with Margo’s lack of detail concerning her very busy boss, if their gown-hunting venture had come with a few side quests for news, it did not mean that the witch wasn’t absolutely earnest in her preparations for the impending charity gala. Amidst all of the planning, ordering, and long lunch dates with CeeCee, Charlotte had also been consulting the elusive department head, via owl, on less-than-strictly-charitable topics. Like domesticated animals.

The urge to bring up animals who took to sleeping in bathtubs had been strong, but Charlotte and her quill had resisted.

Today’s adventure was as wholesome as they came. Mostly. At least in theory. And that absolutely counted.

Charlotte stepped into the Menagerie, head sweeping from one end to the other even as she crossed the threshold. Its many sights, sounds… smells… were overwhelming, but in a bright, wild way that somehow suited the well-mannered creatures expert. (Though he undoubtedly smelled much better; Charlotte remembered the empirical evidence, a briefly stolen bathrobe.)

And, there he was, hands in his pockets, looking right at her. Charlotte smiled, wide.

“Balfour,” she said, nearer the door than the man, but heels sailed easily over the old shop’s floor, and she had reached him in a seeming eye’s blink. “I was beginning to think you’d turned into the owl you sent me.” Her smile renewed itself and she gripped his arm gently but with comfortable confidence. A warm greeting.

She let go, gingerly, and looked around again— after offering a nod and smile to the woman behind the counter. Eyes settled once more on the Head of the Beast Division. “Where are they hoarding the puppies?” She asked, a little colluding, as if the other witch could not hear her. But she turned, again, to include the woman in the question, her own face amicable, if a little playful.

Charlotte was a vision in white - possibly the most pristine figure in the menagerie, on par with its snowy owls.

"Good morning," Balfour silently congratulated himself for not stammering. "You're looking very pleasant today." Was that a phrase wizards said these days? It resembled something his father would say to a healthy Antipodean Opaleye. Pleasant. Like the weather, or an especially lush Mulberry.

He didn't linger on the thought, having instead to concentrate on not being so flustered by Charlotte's hand on his arm. What had happened to him? Three weeks slaving away in the Highlands on the epidemic and he had lost all touch with human affinity. At this point, a dragon's claw would have been a more reassuring touch.

"You're so lovely on paper, I'd nearly forgotten how engaging you were in-person." Balfour admitted with an unguarded smile. A cockatoo crowed critically from the rafters and the Menagerie assistant may have rolled her eyes. It was still an improvement over crowded pubs (or his unusually populated living room).

But puppies, right, that's why they were here. "Just follow me then, I suppose-" Eliza observed the pair tartly as she hobbled out from behind the counter and led them towards a wall at the far end. "- you're more than welcome to browse at your leisure, but don't be casting any spells if you can help it." She unlocked the heavy doors and stepped aside for Balfour to shove them open. 

Beyond the doorway was a long and brightly lit corridor lined by newly-fastened wooden fences on each side. The puppies meandered or dozed behind the fences - curiously quiet. At least until they realized that there were people in the room. A sharp, squeaky yip! broke the general whimpering. Followed by another and another and another...

"Gods, I think we've gone and done it now." Balfour looked over his shoulder at Charlotte, sheepish. "Shall we browse or would you prefer the grand tour, Milady?"
 
By now Eliza had altogether disappeared and he did not have to fear her sardonic eye rolling.

“You’re looking pleasant yourself,” Charlotte echoed, adopting the word with amusement, neither bashful nor erring on the side of conservatism as she glanced him over. “It looks like long hours saving sick dragons all over the globe hasn’t done you in quite yet. You should tell Margo to be more forthcoming.” There was something gleaming in her tone.

She had not expected him to be less than charming, but she was glad to see he seemed exactly the same as before, that they could pick up where they’d left off months ago. Her still-generous grin served as thanks for his comment and admiration for his smile. Honestly, why Margo felt the need to be his wing woman…

As they followed the woman, Charlotte was polite but did not pay her too much attention: creatures in the room they were leaving, yipping noises from the room they were entering, and Balfour were plenty to keep one’s everything occupied. And yet, she offered a smart, “I think you should hire this one if he’s ever out of a job. He’s been very helpful.”

But then, momentarily, the puppies alone seemed to take over. Charlotte caught one look of the the balls of fluff, upturned bellies, and wagging tails behind a white fence and even the tall, delightful Scottish man was briefly forgotten. Her mouth opened elatedly and she took a step closer, still behind Balfour, and then paused, looking from the tiny, attention-needy things trying to get through the fence and at her ankles, to the not-tiny, well-clad wizard. His words could not be truer.

Tiny, of course, was relative: there were many breeds, and some of them had the telltale signs of impending hugeness. Charlotte loved the idea of a big breed, a dignified but easy-going creature who held its own. All of the dogs were adorable, though.

“The tour,” she answered, relaxing a little after her pause at the overwhelming cuteness. It was easy to melt now. Her smile widened. Despite the fact that the offered tour might come with a start point, she moved closer to the nearest fence and bent down a little to scratch the head of a jumping, golden creature with floppy ears and an overly excited tongue. Charlotte picked him up carefully, not minding as he lovingly attacked her face. She turned to Balfour after a few seconds, extending the puppy as an offering. “Tell me about this breed,” she said. “Easier than a dragon, or…?” She smiled jokingly. Whether the breed itself was a handful or not, the dog was winning her heart, along with every other yipping thing in the room, large, small, mutt, or otherwise.

He spent more time at the kennel than most grown men - but it had been weeks since the last visit.

Whisky and the Spectre creatures followed him to the highlands for work and there had been little reason to return to London, save for regular meetings with the Department Head. Watching Charlotte become instantly enamoured with the puppies was a gentle reminder of things Balfour missed about the city. When had he become so attached to living here?

Or, for that matter, to the wizarding community in London. “Tell me about this breed,” commanded the loveliest St. James. “Easier than a dragon, or…?” she cradled the mixed retriever endearingly. Balfour made a mock-thoughtful expression, leaning down to pick up an identical puppy; one from the same litter, with its gleaming coat and hyperactive disposition. It lunged playfully for his ears, yipping.

"This wee lot?" he laughed. "Pure Scots, they are. Golden Retrievers with a hint of Scottish Deerhound-" describing the canines as you would a good drink was something he normally did alone, possibly with good reason. "- perfect for a brisk day out at the park. Unless of course..." the pup hopped out of his arms, dropping limply on its brothers below.

Balfour met with Charlotte's gaze, and then drew it over to the fencing on the other side. "Unless madam would prefer something more adventurous?" He rolled up his sleeves, peering over the fence at the three pups yelping at them. They wore expressions of beady, dark eyes set in bristly and flaxen pelage. "Finnish spitz. Hunting breed but they respond best to a gentle touch."

With more delicacy than he was accustomed to expressing, Balfour carefully gathered in his arms a a bundle of protesting fur. "They play well with others, you don't have to put that one down," he added levelheadedly. "My pater used to have one of these. Brilliant at sniffing out pixies and garden gnomes." It yelped, abrupt, and the tamer flinched before glancing at his date apologetically. "Your neighbours may not be as enamoured."

Though it was still arguably a hard task, to give her attention to anything but the puppy in her arms, Charlotte found Balfour’s tour engaging from the start— beginning with that look on his face. He had a natural propensity for story-telling, it seemed (and she did recall, perhaps less hazily than others, the stories he’d told as they all made themselves at home in his London home).

Ever the studious pupil, she inclined her head a bit, her brows shooting up with interest. Which might have traveled, for a moment, an unnecessary distance as he lifted another of the puppies. It was important, to get the whole picture.

Her gaze moved from his face to the puppy as he straightened up. Scottish. “Well, of course they are. You’re very good at brisk walks, too.” Or… back rides. It was a loose and silly common denominator, but Charlotte was having fun prodding him about it. Rather than let the dog in her arms escape (though there was little danger of it, Charlotte having the benefit of tasty face creams and perfume), the witch gently doubled her hold at Balfour’s demonstrative lesson, and laughed.  “Practically brothers, aren’t you?” It was not a sting at his suddenly packed work schedule. How could one shame him for trying to save sick animals? Though certainly Charlotte had been tempted.

“I think we have plenty of time for an adventure,” she agreed, twisting his words a little, delightedly. “It can’t be that dangerous, in here.” She gave the room another sweeping look before settling her eyes on his. “Maybe.” As they headed for the next pen, a chain reaction was started amongst the first dog’s siblings, and soon they were all clambering to get at the pair. Charlotte cast them an apologetic look over her shoulder.

The curled tails and cat-like ears of the next few puppies immediately stole her heart in the same way the insistent wagging and floppiness of the last bunch had. She waited with well-masked impatience for the dragon handler to pluck one up for their attention, admiring, quietly, his ‘gentle touch.’

The puppy she still held wiggled at the sight of the creature in Balfour’s arms. Apparently its objection was contagious. “My neighbors should be thankful for such a dutiful hunter… to keep out of all of the garden gnomes,” she countered. In the city. In her building. In reality, Charlotte had paid a fortune not to worry about their opinions, though she was a fairly agreeable neighbor and on good terms with the ones she knew. “That’s what sound-proofing charms are for,” she added, more seriously. In part. She grinned. “And how do they get along with other dogs?” She asked, pushing the first dog a little closer, still. it sniffed wildly, its tail thumping against its friendly captor. “Because this one is certainly not a pixie.” No doubt he would grow large enough to prove it.

Though she had no intention of going home with a dog under each arm and another pair on leashes leading the way, she realized this was going to be a difficult excursion. Maybe there was a danger to it. She shifted the first puppy to one arm as it calmed a little, and reached out to scratch the head of the other. She was gentle, as he suggested, and it seemed to work. She smiled at the creature. “How does anyone walk out of here with just one?"

“That’s what sound-proofing charms are for,” said Charlotte - and with a straight face, as well.

He had glanced up from the puppy simply to make sure. “And how do they get along with other dogs?” she continued while Balfour tried not to consider for what other reasons a charming witch such as herself would need to cast sound-proofing spells. It was better not to dwell on anything that would distract him from the matters at hand, so to speak.

"It depends on the other dog but a Spitz usually gets along well enough with most creatures, for an independent breed." Much, he thought, like human beings. The puppy pawed at his chest and he quickly looked down to humour the motion with a raised eyebrow. "Already bored with me? Eh?"

Charlotte's attention only made him more restless, more endearing.

Balfour let the wee Spitz clamber out of his arms and back into the pen, yelping with that hyperactive playfulness so common in the litters of its kind. He rolled up his sleeves and smiled at the question (at the questioner); the unanswerable question that most kennel assistants could only resolve with humour, or vague exclamations of difficulty.

"You fall in love." Balfour met Charlotte's gaze levelly and then indicated the next pen. Two dusky pups, possibly four months old, were still asleep. "I found Whisky here," of course she knew who Whisky was now - that formidable German Shepherd who had woken up their hungover soirée all those weeks ago. "Had my heart set on two Bull Terriers before I saw him. I expect that when you see the right one, you just know."

He was an easy touch as far as animals went. Balfour brought home every kitten, guppy, lizard and jellyfish that pulled his heart strings. They all had sad stories: rescue tales and tales of loss. All but Whisky, who hadn't needed one to enchant him.

"Outside of that I can heartily recommend German Shepherds..." he added ruefully. "Animate alarm clocks, truly."

If Charlotte’s casual comments were distracting in any way, the witch appeared not to notice. Beneath the attentive, innocent-enough stare, however, she was soaking up any brief moments of  speechlessness, any little reactions visible on the wizard's features. Where the puppies were broad-faced, round things— by way of fur or appetite— Balfour's bone structure was well defined. And yet, his expressions seemed equally soft and animated, somehow. Charlotte found it an exceptionally handy teaching tool. She might seek a career in zoology when their date concluded.

Expertise by association, though, was admittedly more fun.

She lifted her chin, as good as a nod (and easier, considering her lick-happy new friend). Her face broke into a smile as the dog tickled at her skin, and Charlotte’s hand came up to calm it as her face tilted down again. “Independence is important. Though... I don’t necessarily mind a shadow if it looks like one of these.” The puppy’s tail thumped against her as Charlotte’s eyes swept from dog to dog. Her smile renewed itself at Balfour’s pointed question.

The bored dog was not a boring sight as it scrambled back to its pack and left the dragon tamer to adjust his clothing. Charlotte was beginning to massive benefits to the other witch’s job and wondered, vaguely, why she wasn’t the happiest-sounding woman in Diagon Alley. So many things to stare at.

His answer to her question was met with an equal stare (that did not hide, entirely, that she had been slightly caught off guard), and, after a moment, a smaller, close-lipped smile. A private thing.

Bull terriers were certainly distinct. They almost looked as if they had a little magic in them, cute and squat with long faces and alert ears. But Charlotte favored his German Shepherd. “You lucked out with Whisky,” she agreed. The big creature had a majesty and an easiness both. And yet, as Balfour implied, one would never forget his presence.

Her eyes moved down to the dark, sleeping creatures. If she were a thief, she would have bee-lined for them. “I can always use someone wake me at an inopportune moment.” Charlotte oscillated between an overly packed social calendar and a few days of luxuriating, following whims— long weekends. But she did like to wake by a reasonable hour. And if it were the right face rousing her, she could hardly be mad. “I bet you could train him to bring you blankets when you fall asleep in random places.” She had decidedly caved to the urge from a while ago. “If you haven’t already.” She looked up, finally.

“Could you…?” Charlotte gave Balfour another amused smile before apologetically shoving the dog into his arms. She gave it a another gentle scratch, lest it think she was abandoning him entirely, and then bent to inspect the slumbering German Shepherds, mindful of her heels and dress. She watched them through the weaving of the pen, her smile made serene by their apparent lack of worry.

As one of them began to bristle, to move and open its eyes a little, she stood up a bit more, putting a hand over the top of the pen and reaching down very gently. Its warmth and softness threatened her resolve to bring home just one, even if she also knew, now, what Balfour had meant. “I know, I’m terrible for waking you,” she informed it, even her other hand came over the pen, and her fingers began to prod under the puppy. Perhaps it would be payback for a future alarm clock.

Balfour never quite tired of watching people coo over the puppies.

"Fetching blankets is easy," he answered while expertly taking the retriever puppy into his arms- first smiling at Charlotte and then at the wee pup. "Try training one to fetch you a dram of cognac. That's a slippery business." As if agreeing with him, the retriever yelped affectionately.

Although it wasn't any amount of barking or yelping that woke the two German Shepherds; only the witch so intent on observing them. It was funny to think that his own best friend had once been a fuzzy bairn of black and gold, barely able to defend against the elements. Whisky could knock the breath out of a grown man in a single bound today. Much like a good bottle of the spirit itself.

Charlotte's voice was low as she addressed the pups but he could still hear her above the general rowdiness of others puppies in the hall.

"I don't think even bairns could complain of being woken by you," Balfour commented lightly - remembering that not-altogether-unpleasant morning of waking to a witch in his bed (and a menagerie in his living room). "Isn't that right, beauties?" This was directed towards the dogs as they came completely out of slumber. "I believe these ones are brother and sister, born to a purebred mother. A touch of the wolf about them."

He was helplessly partial to those.

Both brows rose as Charlotte paused in her pursuit. She turned the expression on Balfour. For a few moments, she simply appraised his face, then her lips parted. “Now I know I’ll be roping you in. For training,” she continued, after another tiny pause. “Once I choose which of these adorable demons to bring home.”

As the German Shepherds stirred, Charlotte felt less guilty about shoving the other puppy onto Balfour. (She had not felt very guilty in the first place: it was a pleasant sight.)

She smiled at his words, looking back up at him before she began to lift one of the two waking creatures. “You say that now,” she warned with equal lightness, as she held the puppy up above her a bit, studying it from below like an overly eager new parent might hold up a baby.

As she rose back to her feet, the dog was fully animated now, sniffing around its new captor. The grin she gave Balfour was a little witchy. “What do you think? A cognac expert?” She asked, looking back at the puppy. “She certainly has the nose for it.” And her brother seemed to as well, as he sniffed around the fencing at their ankles. The curious, wet sniffing tickled her arm, and Charlotte turned the dog gently onto her back, scratching her tummy. “I see the wolf,” she said, catching his eye again.

Soon enough, she was juggling the pair of them, thoroughly unable to walk away with one if she was going to choose the breed. The retriever she’d gifted Balfour had been gently returned to its pen. If Charlotte had been enamored with all of the dogs they had seen, these two came with a pull. The idea of putting them back was criminal.

“Here,” she said, handing Balfour a puppy once again. “Model them for me,” she requested suddenly. Her eyes settled purposefully on his. “So I can get the full picture.” She did not bother to hide her smile entirely, but did quickly manage to slip the second dog into his other arm before she took a few steps back. She appeared to take it all in.

Charlotte was not choosing a dog simply based on its pleasantness in Balfour’s arms. But it was part of the fun of their little tour. She tilted her head a little. What an agreeable view. “I’m sure my neighbors will love if I show up with two,” she mused. “They can each pour us a drink.” She stepped closer again, reaching out for one of them, grazing the back of his hand. “Give Whisky a break.” A subtle suggestion. Or not.

If Diagon Alley didn't have an army of cognac-fetching German Shepherds by the end of the year, now that his secret was out, Balfour would be somewhat surprised.

His brow went up in alarm as one of the puppies was handed over to him... and then the other. “Here. Model them for me. “So I can get the full picture," insisted the irrefutable St. James (she was claiming many superlatives in his mind today) as she considered him in all his bairn-wrangling glory.

The pups didn't even try to wriggle out, so focused they were on pawing at the wizard as he lifted them to his chest - a bundle of coppery fur in each arm, an unashamedly delighted grin plastered on his face. He peered playfully into the face of the brother puppy, who barked loudly and tried to leap, their noses touching.

"Oh, your neighbours won't mind." Balfour finally glanced up, dizzy with amusement and missing Charlotte's hint entirely. "My landlord hardly bothers with Whisky. These two-" he paused to address the puppies now. "- you two are going to be well-behaved for Miss St.James, aren't you?"

And the hint slipped in through a back door. Already flushed with glee, his cheeks burned.

A nervous laugh- he looked at the witch while the pups whined pointlessly for attention. "I would be... I mean, that is. If you ever... needed help with them, for something other than cognac, I would be more than happy to come around." Balfour stumbled over his poor grasp for amorous perceptiveness. "It isn't every day that I'm taken advantage of for my expertise with animals," he smiled teasingly.

Charlotte probably would have done something illegal for a camera in that moment. Wasn’t Balfour Spectre most suited for his job title? If puppies were beasts, and efficiency measured in how painfully cute the resulting picture might be, he would have the highest approval rating in the Ministry. Not that he didn’t. Charlotte was no charge of the record keeping. The point was that she would have to ask her young cousin for suggestions on discreet cameras.

“I think you should quit your day job, Balfour,” she said, as she looked him over and weighed the option of asking him to perform on an invisible catwalk. He could have a career modeling small, barking animals for certain.

She laughed as he suggested her neighbors wouldn’t mind— and was again glad that, at the end of the day, she didn’t mind whether or not they did. Even if she behaved and was generally well-liked among them.

Puppies behaving at the behest of the Scotsman was even more of a wild card, and Charlotte’s grin became sweet as he posed the question. Behave. “Like your department in a pub,” she guessed. (Until the training kicked in.)

It was settled: these two were hers. “There’s not a chance you’ll dissuade me from two?” She asked, sounding not at all as if she would be persuaded. She smiled as he paused between words, apparently flustered. “You’ve convinced me before we even finished the tour,” she countered. “You don’t mind if we cut it short? And celebrate, of course.”

She wasn’t lying about the cognac.

But Charlotte soon found that she could settle for something sweeter, right now. As they headed back to the front, each carrying a puppy, the woman in charge insisted she prepare the brother and sister for their new home, and suggested they return in twenty or thirty minutes. Charlotte handed over the one in arms with mild difficulty before taking Balfour’s arm and heading back into Diagon Alley. Where the crowd was markedly less adorable than the one they’d just left.

“I always wonder,” she said, ten minutes later, as they looked over the massive array of ice-cream flavors. “Whether it’s best to name them right away, or wait and see what their personalities are like.” She tore her eyes from a tub of double chocolate and pinned them on Balfour before they flickered back to the ice-cream, this time studying swirls of pastel in cream that was stuffed with strawberries. “Can we sample that one?” She asked, looking up at the young wizard behind the counter. “What flavor are you?” She asked her tall date quite suddenly as the wizard handed over little spoons with the samples. “Bananas and rum?” She guessed, raising a brow as she popped the spoon into her mouth. “Or,” she said, after a quiet mmm. “Cranachan?” She looked toward the display again. “Too traditional?” She asked, with a guilty smile. It was an easy guess. “Maybe you’re secretly a chocolate man.”

The freckle faced lad behind the ice-cream bar at Fortescue's did not seem concerned by their meandering along the rows of differently flavoured frozen desserts. How could Balfour have minded cutting their puppy parade short, if it meant ice-cream? He adored ice-cream almost as much as he adored being at the menagerie.

"I don't name mine until it comes to me in a dream-" he considered the tubs with a slight, thoughtful pout. "-except I nearly called one of the kittens Rascal, which would have been apt but unfortunate." Cameron Rosier would have gotten a kick out of it, undoubtedly.

Not meeting either of them in the eye, the boy handed over the requested spoons.

"My reputation precedes me," Balfour licked the swirled pink sample experimentally and then grinned sheepishly at Charlotte. "Rum, Cranachan. Must I have a dram of liquor in my sweet things too?" It wasn't a result of any stretch of imagination; her most significant memories of him were veiled by a mutual drunken haze.

Not an altogether unpleasant one. He tapped the little spoon against his lower lip, dragging a fond gaze away from the witch and back towards the ice-cream. Chocolate was lovely and, indeed, Cranachan was a favourite when he went to visit his sister in Glasgow. But he had tart, medicinal tastes.

"Two scoops of the ginger for me if you'd please," he indicated with his hands before glancing back to Charlotte. "Have I disappointed? It's an old man's fancy." As the boy went to the task of preparing his dessert, Balfour considered the other flavours in regard to present company. "And you: strawberries and cream? Dulche de leche? Wasabi or Earl Grey?"

It was a mystery to him - much like her.

“A dream,” Charlotte repeated. “Do we have a mystic on our hands?” She seemed to study him for a moment, like someone considering a statute. Her smile broke through more obviously, and she laughed. “If he lives up to it, who can blame you? Or would you be confusing him with another Rascal?”

The good news was that there were not likely to be three or more answering to the name every time Balfour called.

“I might give them human names and treat them absolutely like people." A hint of something devilish crossed her lips. Treating dogs as family seemed inevitable, if counterproductive for training. “That’s not too dangerous, is it?”

Wading into the world of ice-cream flavors and what they meant about a person was equally overwhelming. In the best way. Her own smile became apologetic after she finished the sample. “Oh, no, I’m sure you’re much more than a man who enjoys his liquor.” Like a man who enjoyed his baths. And back rides. And boxers with abstract prints. She watched him as he looked over the choices, wondering if her half-informed guesses had been all wrong.

Ginger.

Charlotte’s brows rose and she opened her mouth slowly. “You’ve surprised me,” she admitted, “But that’s hardly disappointing.” And he was hardly old. If there was not enough time to roll her eyes at the thought, she could always tell him later how perfectly aged he was. “Spicy,” she continued. In a cleansing way that seemed to open one’s senses. Something cool that still had a nice burn to it. “I think I thought something warmer, but… I like it.” She smiled again. Maybe it was not so surprising, on second thought. “Warding off colds and having your dessert, too.” The words practical and indulgent both came to mind.

“Strawberries and cream is a favorite.” Another admission. But then she supposed she might give off that vibe. She knew what she was like. (Plus, she’d gone straight for a variation on the theme: something stuffed with strawberries.) “Usually with a scoop of dark chocolate.” Also a decidedly Charlotte flavor. “But I think,” she continued, leaning over the case again, eyes roaming. “I’ll do a scoop of honeycomb, and one of lavender.”

When they both had their ice-cream, Charlotte gave the bashful boy behind the counter another smile, for good measure (perhaps something a little more teasing than it should have been), and headed with Balfour and the sweet treats toward the umbrellaed tables just outside the shop. She sank carefully into a seat right beside him, holding the ice-cream at bay as she situated herself. “Are you disappointed?” She asked. “I can go back and ask for a sample of Wasabi. But the poor boy might turn purple at our expense.”

"There is only one Rascal in this world, of the Rosier variety, and naming anything after him would be a terrifying omen." Balfour replied with a grim and amused smile: gods, the stories he could tell about that lunatic. "It would make any pet impossible to discipline."

He stressed that final word with its hard consonants, tongue sliding bitingly in the centre. An ominous sound... but fleeting, too. "Don't worry too deeply about names. I know humans who'd do better on a leash than Whiskey," he refrained from picturing that just now. "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, as the bard says." The boy across the counter - handing the first of their desserts over - pretended not to hear.

Balfour paused to let Charlotte make her order; he was quite happy to know she liked strawberries and cream (she looked it) and gave the chosen flavours an interested look when they were handed over. Honeycomb and lavender. Natural antiseptic, soothing properties.

Would-be healthy choices if not for the sinful agency.

Once they were sat beneath the parlour's summery umbrellas, the wizard leaned back in his seat and set his ice-cream down while they spoke; he liked it soft. "Not at all - although I'm happy you've kept your teasing smiles for ice-cream lads," he grinned while considering Charlotte with boyish waggishness. "Can't say I would hold up as well as the poor bloke."