The scorched-earth burn of fiendfyre body oil and strong hands lingered invisibly upon Charlotte’s skin— save, perhaps, for the slight nip of mint that clung to her. It was a hazard of the Maidenmoss Hotel Spa, whose top-shelf salves and no-nonsense team were not for the faint of heart.

The spa’s door whispered shut behind the small witch as Charlotte glanced left and right, giving the Diagon Alley traffic a nominal skim. But neither troll nor crystal ball pushcart appeared in her immediate vicinity, and so Charlotte plunged a sandal into the cobbled high street and joined the disorganized foot traffic. She waded at a (fitting) diagonal, in the general direction of a favorite antiques store— wondering whether she mightn’t finally find something to surprise her mother for her birthday.

It had become shockingly hard, as each year passed, to please Mrs. St. James. To win with every smile. Now that half of her brothers had calmed down, now that Julian was the baby of the family, now that Charlotte was no longer in their clutches for a few weeks each and every summer, her mother’s devotion was not quite so unwavering as it once had been. The novelty of a daughter had warn off, replaced by some strange, matronly anxiety. The end of Charlotte's liaison with Apollinaire had been a particular point of contention, with Mrs. St. James’ mouth having formed the tightest line of disagreement Charlotte had ever seen. She was sure it would turn up in her next formal portrait— one that would definitely be banned from Charlotte’s own home. (The last thing she... or any of her guests… needed: Mrs. St. James painted, cracking smile as it spied and found itself scandalized.)

Deciding that a gift card to Maidenmoss would be of better use (even if the frown lines were beyond reproach), Charlotte slowed before the window of the bookstore instead, perusing the titles that promised exposes of the candidates for Minister. She’d promised to help Violet Islington with a midnight luncheon to raise money for the most liberal social agenda, but it seemed that not a one of the Wizengamot’s options was without rumored skeletons.

She let out an eye-rolly breath at one of the posters, knowing full-well that that they were meant to capture her demographic. Those ladies who lunched, the naive gossipmongers that they were supposed to be. The presumed stupidity angered her almost as much as the bestselling novel beside the showcase begged for a hot bath and bottle of wine.

Making her decision quite rashly, she swung into the shop, drifting toward the aisle of new mysteries. She was secretly a sucker for the things.

Bristol meandered down Diagon Alley. Frowning. He had spent too much time in the wizarding hotspot, and the constant throng of wizards, witches, goblins and everything in between was beginning to annoy him. He couldn't wait to kick back in the countryside again, beer in hand, maybe Poppy playing nearby and maybe she was being quiet. Maybe he was just getting old.

The past few months had been full of Quidditch dealings. Bristol was into his thirties now, and was no longer a spring Slytherin by gaming standards. So what did that mean for his career? Negotiations in America, it seemed, and Tutshill of the understanding that he either assumed the Captainship or left for a life of punditry and sports journalism. He never was much of a writer. Looked like the Captainship could be looming.

He walked towards the bookshop, hands in pockets and head down. Just a few more errands and he'd be back in the living room. Perhaps a few beers with Darian and the others tonight. But, perhaps not.

The once close-knit gang of London's wizarding social elite had diluted somewhat. Old age had set in, prior commitments, marriages and even children. Bristol had once been the exception to the rule, but others had begun to follow suit. Even George Carter was settled down these days and he was what, thirteen or something? Bristol was hardly about to hit a mid-life crisis but things were changing - and not just to his hairline.

Entering the bookstore, he had to pick up a few things for Poppy before she came to stay. Books. Trinkets. A self-help guide on how to grow up into a functioning witch (or squib - it was too early to say. But then something reared it's pretty little head from the past, from the same past Bristol longed for and despised.

It summed her up well.

"St. James?" he asked, voice half hesitant and half perplexed. A hand touched her elbow in greeting. "Fancy seeing you here."

Charlotte looked for anything that wasn’t about a bored witch murdered in the midst of a bath. For all of her tame plans, there seemed to be a plot involving the demise of her literary stand-in. Where were all of the serials about head auror heroines, or rogue witches taking down governments and self-important men? If their slim pickings weren’t a sign she should skip the night in and get up to some trouble, she didn’t know what was.

As she turned away from the bestsellers list in search of something a bit more gritty, she was met with a familiar face— and all the grittiness a girl could want. First on glossy paper: the headline, Countdown to Dirty Thirty. And then in person. Charlotte’s lips parted even as her skin registered his touch. If she meant to speak, her tongue got in the way.

She stared up at him, as if he couldn’t possibly be him.

As if he’d jumped off the page to exasperate her.

But there he was, after… how long had it been? Rough, fonder memories of his hands swirled in her brain, along with the remarkably foolish face of Apollinaire.

Charlotte caught herself quickly, swallowing any shock at the twin Bristol Collinses. The magazine cover paled to the real deal, whose facial scruff and blessed Chaser's hands could not quite be fully captured in print— and were still the same, however absent they had been.

“I know, a book shop, can you believe it? I can read.” She continued to stare up at him, to take in his face. Her brows bounced only slightly upward, a manifest of her otherwise deadpan words.

“But you…” She let the words hang, the jury out on whether she was questioning his literacy or his presence in Diagon Alley. (In truth, Charlotte knew Bristol was much smarter than a jock was often made to seem. Just as she knew he knew what was layered beneath her public image.)

“Although,” She looked away, finally, her eyes skimming the rows of magazines starring the wizard. “Your face is plastered everywhere…” Blue eyes shot back at him, hex-quick. Her lips were pursed with the tiniest start of a smile. Even if she had a million questions, some of them flustered. She knew the photo on the cover was several months old, stock approved by his management. Bristol had been a rare presence in London of late.

“You haven't moved to Washington?” She asked, throwing out the first bit of tangled spider web. “I haven’t seen Poppy in ages.” A safe topic. Though she had seen Anna, Charlotte knew better than to ask mother or child about Bristol.