Marrakech, Morocco

Night had come by the time they reached there. Despite the four o'clock meeting in London which had been a ruse constructed by Mrs Lanningham, the time of year meant the sun had already set at half past five. Still it was still warmer than back home in Britain, and the plan had been less for the heat and long summer days of the southern hemisphere, but more for adventure at short notice. Somewhere markedly different in culture than London trudging into winter.

Aunt Florine had sent their house elf ahead from Paris to open and prepare the riad for their arrival. Guests were not unusual, but this visit was a first for Johann, thirty years on from his last as a child. He consulted the instructions once again, leading Balfour down a narrow passageway, that Muggles just didn’t seem to see. Away from the busy, noisy Friday evening that one could draw comparisons to with London.

One hand clasped around his lover’s, fingers entwined, conveying excitement in conjunction with the enormous grin and animated walk. At the end of the passageway he stopped, looking back over his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear, butterflies in his stomach in hope Balfour was just as excited.

“This is it,” Johann confirmed, letting go. He folded away the letter and drew his wand, incanting under his breath as the letter described, extended towards a simple, heavy wood door in the side of what looked to be an unremarkable building without windows. Behind was a heavy clunk of a lock and then another, and the door gave way inwards.

There was the cool sound of bubbling water running over tiles in the fountain, the rustle of orange tree leaves from the breeze that pulled through the open door from the outside world, and a distinct echo as they walked into the inner courtyard. Lanterns lit their way, picking out colourful geometric mosaic.

Behind them, as they both took in a first impression, the door swung itself back and relocked. The noise of Marrakech was blotted in an instant, only punctuated by a small bird making off from beside the fountain in fright of their arrival. The elf had left green tea with mint on a table set beside the fountain, and propped against it was another letter from Johann’s aunt and uncle, addressed to them both.

Johann made a point to avert his eyes from taking in the scene to gaze upon Balfour’s reaction instead. He set down his bag from over his shoulder and smiled, quietly letting his lover examine their new surroundings and catch his breath after such a hurried walk. His fingertips skimmed the inside of Balfour’s left wrist as he drew close.
“It’s just us,” He assured the other wizard in a quiet voice, which echoed a little, “We have the place to ourselves.” He left a gentle kiss, unable to stop his smile. “When we’re not out adventuring, that is.”

Tea House, Marrakech. Evening.


The rooftop teahouse overlooked nighttime Marrakech, low and glimmering lights across a landscape of black silhouettes. This was not London and the stars were out tonight. Their lights shone dimly in the purple blue sky, glossy darkness of a vast river winding through the city within their range of vision. Balfour had never seen anything quite like it. No two cities were alike, after all.

He looked away from the ledge, two of them sat crosslegged on cushions at a low table, beneath canopies of brightly dyed silks and cottons. Ornate lamps swayed in the light breeze, casting shadows that weaved patterns across the Persian rugs on which they rested. The witch pouring their mint tea those and smiled in the  silence before leaving them alone up here.

Somewhere across the city, there was faint music.

Balfour did not touch his tea. He hadn’t seen this coming - not Marrakech (the sneak!) and certainly not Johann.

His lover sat across, as beautiful and as tempting as he’d looked when they met at Le Masque in September. Moreso. Every second spent watching him brought new aspects of the other wizard’s face to attention, a new angle that Balfour had never noticed or some undiscovered peculiarity of mannerism.

“I don’t think this is dancing music. All the same…” he drew himself up from the floor and turned back, pulling Johann up so that they were both on their feet. Subject to a sweet, balmy breeze of the neighbouring mediterranean. Their arms slid against one another’s waists and he took his partner’s other hand in his, pressing their foreheads together.

He breathed in the scent of strange soaps and perfumes, not quite concealing that of Johann’s intrinsic redolence. The sort you can never quite describe as anything but musky or earthy - a little sour maybe - so specific it was to each person.

In wolf form, Balfour supposed he could find him with eyes closed.

They danced. A far cry from the lively, ridiculous thrusts of their first ever adventure on a dance floor. This was slow. Tender. Bare feet crossing soft rugs and chalkstone, winding and unwinding in thoughtless circles while the night fell deeper into itself. He lulled the odd stride to kiss Johann when the quiet and intense space between them began to feel like too great a gap; torturous for keeping them apart.

His lips against the steep plains of those smooth cheekbones... the tapered end of a dark eyebrow… the curling corners of a tranquil, decadent smile. In distant Marrakesh, and it was distant - as all the world is whenever you are falling in love - the music changed. They did not stop dancing.