Just[1] when Sasha thought he'd mastered a skill in the kitchen, reality always seemed to put him in his place.  He had enough self-awareness to know his culinary skills were severely lacking, but he liked to think that he'd at least mastered one important basic necessity: coffee.  It was only now, as Sasha looked around a rather appliance-less kitchen, that he realized he'd learned how to take aluminum-sealed plastic cups of pre-ground coffee beans, plop it in the keurig and push the button. 

He didn't actually know how to make coffee.  Properly. 

Last nights junk-food and junk-chemical bonanza and a full night of sipping sleep replenishment potion at a rate that was neither so slow as to prove ineffective nor too fast so as to wreck havoc with the gillyweed and alcohol were starting to show their effects.  Collectively, somewhere in the last hour, the accumulating sips of potion and lingering effects of chemicals were starting to do horrible things in his empty stomach.  Sasha was in desperate need for strong, black coffee.  He'd already tried calling the delivery place from last night but, as he'd expected, they were closed and he'd never spent enough time in London (that weren't hotels with room service coffee) to figure out if there were any delivery breakfast-coffee type places. 

Artificially lulled into drowsiness by the excitement of partying (and memories of the games' unexpected conclusion), Sasha had made an effort to sleep but had almost immediately given up.  Sleep had long since stopped being his friend and nights had become a time for uninterrupted productivity and (sometimes) creativity. 

He'd migrated to the kitchen once he thought everyone had fallen asleep and had done a little tidying up.  Attempted to do a few dishes silently before remembering that was what magic was for and completing them with a few flicks of his wand.  Grabbed a few academic magazines from his bag to read before realizing he was still far too wasted to do something that required more then a quarter of his cerebrum.  Finally, he'd gathered a few sheets of plain paper, some drawing materials and delved into the newest chapter of a hobby[2] he'd abandoned shortly before his first day at Hogwarts.  Though, with a name change that seemed befitting the modern era of his life. 

The half-finished results of the last few hours of work still lay on the table as Sasha looked around the kitchen for something to grind whole coffee beans with.  "Dies ist so gefickt[3]," Sasha murmured to himself as the boiling water in the kettle started whistling prematurely.  "Scheiß!"  He threw a kitchen towel over the kettle to try and muffle the sound of the whistle as the container of coffee beans tipped over on the counter.  "Just as incompetent as an infomercial," he muttered to himself as he lunged to catch some errant beans rolling over the edge of the counter.

1.	Title taken from Early Morning Melody
2.	Adventure of Captain Schlawkward - WIP
3.	This is so 'effed' up

Before his eyes had opened, Virgil was already tilting his head back and clutching at his nose. It was only a little bit of blood from last night's foray into Abby's dreams[1] but he didn't want to stain the sheets on their futon couch.  He blinked drowsily at the spare room, full of odd bits and bobs. Trunks and empty owl cages and cardboard boxes and cat toys.

What time was it? Virgil hunted around with one hand, finding his wristwatch in the crumpled white sheets. Morning. Too soon past sunrise for the undoubtedly hungover group to be up. He climbed off the bed and crouched to the floor to look through his backpack.

A handkerchief for his nose. Gingerly, he wiped it clean. And then he reached deeper into the bag to take out a large lump of dough wrapped in muslin cloth - it had doubled in size overnight. He'd brought it with him to the party. Virgil cradled it in his arm and crept out of the room, stifling a yawn.

             "Dies ist so gefickt," somebody in the flat was speaking German too early in the day.

The living room was littered through with sleeping forms, eerily similar to Abby's dream. Virgil picked his way over Nick on the floor and cast a glance at the witches wrapped up on the armchairs. Ari must have crashed with Raine[2].

"What's an infomercial?" he padded into the kitchen, drawing his wand at the sight of the mess. Virgil briefly caught sight of some drawings on the table. Schlawkward clearly hadn't slept all night. "Ah. Is your first mate not around to bring you coffee, Captain?" His mouth twisted into a dry smile and he placed the dough baby on the counter.

In a way, he couldn't blame Sasha for the mess. They didn't teach you cooking charms at Hogwarts: you had to learn them from magical recipe books or people. Virgil gave his wand a flick.  The coffee canister righted itself, beans pouring backwards into it. With his similar strain of quiet magic, the kettle stopped whistling and every cupboard door opened so that he could find where they kept their --

-- ah, there,  a dusky pink cafetière floated down, setting itself next to the stovetop.

"Don't keep the kettle on heat, coffee shouldn't be brewed with boiling water." Virgil carefully gestured at the canister again, wordlessly casting a milling charm. A cluster of beans rose into the air, where they whirled into a disintegrating cloud of sweet smelling powder.

He directed this ground coffee into the cafetière before reaching for the kettle. "You look like shit by the way."

1.	All the stars come down to my aid - 20th August
2.	With permission from writers!

Sasha glanced up, surprised to see he wasn't the only one awake at that hour.  After fourteen years of boarding schools, he was well aware of his peers' ability to snooze the morning away from and he assumed the late night would only further exacerbate that tendency.  He hadn't expected to see anyone until late morning. 

He offered Virgil an apologetic grimace.

"I hope I didn't wake you.  I was trying to be quiet."  And, he'd waited as long as he could before making any real noise.  "Infomercials are a form of muggle advertisement, on television.  They try to sell their products by making people look absolutely useless with anything else."  They were amusing for short periods of time.  Very short periods of time. 

Seeing that Virgil had his wand out, Sasha took a step back and watched as the other wizard corralled the wayward beans.  Even after seven years in the wizarding world, life in a typical wizarding home still felt very much like a mysterious novelty.  On those occasions where Sasha had lived in a magical domicile (Hogwarts, included), daily tasks had been handled by elves; he'd had about as much exposure to the chores of day-to-day life in the wizarding world as he'd had in the muggle world. 

Blushing, Sasha glanced at the floor.  So, Virgil had seen the sketches.  "Ah no.  No first mate.   Not the type of Captain I had in mind, anyway.  It's just silliness." 

Trying in some way to be helpful (even if only marginally so), Sasha quickly replaced the lid on the canister of beans and returned it to the cupboard where he'd found it.  "Our machines heat the water for us.  It's always steaming, so I assumed it was boiling.  Like with tea."  And, given their kinship as hot beverages, Sasha had assumed coffee was just bean-y tea.

"I didn't sleep much," Sasha admitted, though he circumvented the fact that 'much' meant 'at all.'  "I generally don't sleep well.  Especially in new places and without ... well ... my dog."  A hint of color rose in Sasha's features and he ran his fingers through his hair in a fruitless attempt to rub the dull ache from the side of his temple.  "And, I'm not used to that much chemical enhancement.  I'm sure it'll pass in a couple hours."  Once enough of the residual chemicals cleared his system, he could take a full proper dose of potion and feel back to his usual self. 

"Why are you up so early?"   

Infomercials, Virgil decided, must be like those awful Witch Weekly ads for appliances nobody really needed. Or magic lessons for squibs. Funny but depressing. He poured hot water and affixed the cafetière top before checking the minute hand on his watch.

"Captain, like Captain America then?" a smiling glance at the other wizard. "But he was created to fight against the Germans, if I remember correctly." There was a lot about muggle culture that he didn't know but stories - Virgil knew all about the stories, and harboured suspicions about which authors or artists were part of wizarding society. They liked to adapt muggle stories at Stardust.

While the coffee steeped, he rolled up his sleeves and returned to his original task, clearing the counter to give himself space to work.

            "Why are you up so early?" Sasha asked after explaining his own dilemma.

"Bad dreams." Virgil threw the muslin cloth aside and poked at the dough he'd brought in, testing its consistency. "Couldn't fall asleep again. And I'm very hungry," he twisted his wand adroitly, causing the icebox door to swing open and deliver him a brick of butter. "How do you feel about almond croissants? Or did you have your fill of McBoid's tedious rolls last night?"

Smirking, Virgil looked over his shoulder at Sasha. "Flour, please, it's the sack behind you."

"No.  Not like Captain America," Sasha offered, countering Virgil's smile with an awkward grin.  He was impressed Virgil had come up with Captain American, though.  "No Avengers.  But, not because of ... that - the German thing.  Though, I wish I'd thought of that.  Might have come in handy during those conversations.  You know?"  But, no.  Sasha's nerdy interests had been focused elsewhere.  Time to further test Virgil's knowledge of muggle culture.  "More like Captain Éomer.  Or, Faramir." 

Oh.  The smell of brewing coffee.  Sasha's eyes fluttered closed for a moment as he tried to extract some early relief from the aromas alone.  When he opened his eyes, a chunk of butter was propelling itself from the icebox to Virgil.  "Where did you learn to cook?"

The placebo effect was a wonderful thing and Sasha stretched his arms over his head.  "You too?" he asked when Virgil offered his reasons for lacking sleep.  "I've got some potion left over, if you need it," he offered, tugging a small potion bottle out of his pajama pockets. 

"I didn't have any of the cinnamon rolls," Sasha admitted as he turned to fetch the bag of flour.  "I need ... should stay on the lean side so I don't usually eat a lot of fat.  Or, sugar."  Basically, he was a very boring eater, much to his house elf's chagrin.  "But, I don't object, in principle, to almond croissants." 

Sasha opened the sack and handed it to Virgil.  "Does it matter what kind?" he asked.  "I remember our au pair seemed to have half a dozen kinds.  They all looked the same to me but she was always very particular about them." 

Of course Sasha loved Lord of the Rings. All those boring paragraphs about walking from one place to another. Virgil rolled his eyes, searching the drawers for a rolling pin.

"Faramir isn't bad. I prefer the Hobbit in general," he muttered. "Stardust did an adaptation of it when I was ten."  The youth troupe had been perfect for hobbit and dwarf sized actors romping around on stage - and Virgil just the right boy for Bilbo Baggins. Sasha's response to the dreams caused him to look over and catch a glimpse of the Sleep Replenishing potion, but he shook his head at it.

A pin was finally found. He set it aside to reach into the flour sack with his hand. "Soft wheat flour, for pastries. But I just need this to flour the surface." Virgil sprinkled the counter before tapping the rolling pin with his wand. It began to roll out the dough. As it worked, he turned his attention back to Sasha.

Why would Schlawkward want to watch his figure? Did Abby like them skinny? She didn't seem like the sort to care.

"I learned to cook in the Kitchens at school," he answered the earlier question, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully. "I like food. Watched the elves. Took out some recipe books, spoke to some cooks over the summers. Listened to Wireless cooking shows." When Virgil liked something, he followed through. It was a useful knack on level nine.

The rolling pill came to a halt, causing him to turn around abruptly. He used a mild heating charm to rise the dough. "Nick and Ari are my guinea pigs. But this one is tried and tested," he dug into a drawer for a spoon and began carving out chunks of butter to smooth over the flattened dough. "You should try one. Tiny one?"

Virgil lifted one hand in an effeminate gesture, pinching his fingers together.

"No on will know. Sweet, flakey heaven with your coffee. It's ready to pour, I'll have a cup." His attention returned fully to the counter, where he delicately folded the pastry dough with wordless levitation charms - each layer earning itself more butter. Virgil was silent as he focused on this.

Sasha had to admit.  “I’m sure that would have been fun to see,” Sasha admitted, as he watched Virgil work, assuming Virgil’s role in the production had been that of a patron rather then a participant. 

He loved the idea of a stage production of the Hobbit and felt a slight twinge of envy that he hadn’t been able to see it.  Especially in the wizarding world when the availability of magic, he assumed, opened up a whole new world of set design and on-stage special effects. 

Like trolls.  On stage stone trolls.  And Smaug.  He had no idea if the fantasy brewing in his mind was anything like what had actually appeared on the stage, but it probably didn’t matter.  It was brilliant. 

“That was smart.”  Why hadn’t Sasha ever thought of asking the elves to teach him?  “Wish I’d considered that; I went by there frequently enough.”  Except...  “Though, usually it was at odd hours because I’d missed lunch.  And, dinner.”  And he’d swung by the kitchens just long enough to grab an apple and, maybe, some cheese, before hunkering down in some study nook.  The reason was simple.  He’d decided a full class schedule was more important and hadn’t given himself enough time to sleep, let alone learn how to cook. 

And, now, elevator boy was tempting him with baked goods.  As Moira had the night before.  He felt like a proverbial fish with everyone gathered around his pond trying to catch him with baked bait.  Virgil had upped the anti with a touch of drama.  Sasha blushed and looked at the floor to avoid the other’s tempting antics.  “You’re a bad influence.  In more ways then one.  I’ve always assumed that stuff -“ referring, of course, to food.  Tasty, tempting and delicious food, to be exact.  “Would be addicting.  Take a bite and never stop.”   He grinned and shook his head.

“Maybe.  That’s the best I can offer.  If I don’t find an apple in the meantime.” 

Sasha pushed himself up to sit on the counter, leaving what he assumed was plenty of room for Virgil to work but he couldn’t resist reaching out to prod curiously at a corner of the dough.  It wasn’t nearly as sticky as he would have anticipated.   

“I tried backing one Christmas with my Oma when I was a kid.  Lebkuchen - it’s a spicy ginger cake.  Or bread.  My step-father found us and expressed his disapproval in undeniable terms.  We had fairly well-defined gender roles in our house.”  Sasha shrugged and wrinkled his nose.  “Hunting and competition - well, winning competitions - were the approved activities."

            "You’re a bad influence...." that was, admittedly, not the first time he had heard that of himself.  "I’ve always assumed that stuff  would be addicting.  Take a bite and never stop," Schlagenweit continued.

Virgil folded the final layer of the dough, fussily batting the other boy's hand away before casting a chilling spell over the working space. "Not nearly as addictive as sleeping potions," he remarked as he worked, meaning all manners of those potions. It had been tempting to resort to such things when he was rehearsing for Peter Pan and starting on level nine.

But he had to take care of his body, which was as great a tool to him as his mind. The kidnappings had taught him that.

"I have a feeling that your step-father and my father would not get along." Virgil dusted his hands off and leaned back against the counter opposite of where Sasha was perched, waiting for the dough to grow cold enough for further folding. "Edgar thinks that traditional gender roles are toxic. He's always trying to get us to perform outside of them, onstage."

Flippant or feminine interpretations of traditionally 'masculine' characters was something of a Carstairs favourite. Virgil couldn't imagine growing up in Schlawkward's world. Hunting and competitions. It sounded pointless. It nourished nothing.

He glanced over his shoulder at the kitchen window, just as a spattering of drizzle hit the glass. It was raining. "I wish I were in bed." Virgil sighed sleepily and reached for the cafetière to pour himself a cup of coffee. "What is it you're doing these days, Schlawkward?" he handed another cup over to Sasha. "It can't be all sleeping potions and making eyes at Abby Reid."

The other's quiet rebuke was valid; sleeping potions were addictive.  “I know.  Sasha offered a sheepish grin, both in response to Virgil’s comment and the not-subtle request to leave the dough alone.  He wasn’t going to bother with some false claim that he wasn’t addicted to the sleep potions.  He knew he was; he couldn't even remember the last time he'd tried to go without them for more then a day or two.  Since they hadn't harmed him, yet, he'd (perhaps foolishly) convinced himself that there was no harm in continuing. 

“Tasty treats are a luxury.  I wouldn’t be able to function without the potions.”  Which begged the question: could one really differentiate between an addiction to the avoidance the potion permitted or to the potion, itself.  Perhaps it was sheer delusion but Sasha had convinced himself it would be a simple matter to put the potions to the side once his brain had settled enough to allow for a more normal sleep pattern.

“I don’t imagine they would have; he considered all but a select few to be beneath him.  The whole magic thing would have been an insurmountable smudge on his image.”  It wasn’t necessary to even meet Virgil’s father to know what his stepfather would have thought of the wizard; Gerhard would have found enough fault in the son to justify dismissing the father outright.  Luckily, it was all complete conjecture.  "Not like there would have been any reason for them to meet.”  Sasha shrugged, dismissively.  He wouldn't have returned to Hogwarts if his parents hadn't died that night. 

But, Sasha scowled in confusion.  “Toxic?” he repeated.  He knew they weren’t ideal but toxic seemed a bit of an exaggeration.  “How are they toxic?” 

He followed Virgil’s glance towards the window.  “Do you have anything planned for the rest of the day?  A nap isn’t the same thing, but I hear it’s pretty close.”  He accepted the cup of coffee with the reverence of the devoted and just let his nose hover over the steaming, dark liquid, his eyes half-lidded.  The best potion ever. 

At the mention of Abby, though, color rose in Sasha’s cheeks and he grinned, sheepishly, lowering the cup to his lap.  “No.  It’s not all that.”  For better or worse.  “Apart from occasional, awkward evenings at the Closet,” which Virgil knew about.  “Moving into a new house.  Having fun tinkering around with new lab equipment.  A lot of riding horses and traveling.  I’ve never been this lazy.” 

And, yet, he’s had no trouble filling his free time.  He lifted the coffee and took a small, tentative sip.  “Loved Central America; took a curses and ghosts tour of the Mayan pyramid of Chichen Itza.  Found the greatest little wizarding bar in Corozal Town along the coast of Belize and now trying to resist the temptation to just blow off school in October and keep traveling.”  He shrugged and took another, slightly larger sip. 

Virgil shrugged at the other wizard's self-professed dependency on potions. Being clever at exams didn't always translate to awareness but something told him that admonishment wouldn't mean much to Schlawkward. Everyone had their sins and tricked themselves into believing it was alright. They were all human.

He drank his coffee and felt the tiredness behind his eyes begin to disperse, an easing of tension. "Toxic? How are they toxic?" Sasha asked.

"It's about expectations, isn't it?" Virgil replied, easily draining his cup and returning to the counter to pour another. "Traditional masculine ideals don't encourage intimacy or openness. They dictate how we dress, behave. Define strength and weakness. Normal and weird."

He forced himself to take his second shot of caffeine at a more leisurely pace, and set it aside to check on the pastry dough. "Here, anyway. It might have been different for you." Virgil poked the buttery dough before drawing his wand to repeat the folding process. "The toxicity is when people try to force those roles on us. Like our parents or teachers."

People who were supposed to take care of them, not trap them. Virgil knew he was very lucky to have Edgar and Angela.

Listening to Sasha talk about his travels went about as well as listening to anyone talk about their holidays. Dull. People didn't know how to talk about holidays, even in brief. He left the pastry to chill for a second time, glancing up as he draped the muslin over it.

"You could, I suppose, blow off school." Virgil smiled skeptically, as if to say: we both know you won't. That would be uncharacteristic - moreso than pretending to have received oral pleasure in the lift last night. "I have rehearsals at Stardust today. I'll probably leave as soon as I've baked these for the others," a nod at the floured kitchen counter.

That would rouse some of the hungover noses.

Now, that made more sense. 

Sasha nodded, slightly, as he chanced another probe at the dough under the muslin, curious if and how the texture had changed over the last few minutes.  "It doesn't seem like it should be that difficult," Sasha admitted.  "I mean, it's basically a combination of chemistry and potions - and I'm good at both of those.  Every time I've tried, it just ... disappoints."  All the reasoning in the world didn't mean it translated into a successful art form for the formal Ravenclaw. 

"I can see that," Sasha admitted.  "Though, isn't it the expectation, itself, and not necessarily the philosophy being imposed?  I mean, if you got knocked upside the head for ... I don't know ... eating meat or not playing the chosen family instrument, it would be just as toxic.  It's just ... I don't know," he repeated, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

Toxic still felt like a harsh word.  Partly because it had implications for both those who created the toxic environment and those who were poisoned by it.

But, his head was still slightly foggy and the sipping method of drinking the potion was limiting its effectiveness.  Luckily, his body still hadn't fully rebelled against the combination of potion and last night's entertainment so Sasha drew out the flask and finished off the contents.   

Sasha confirmed Virgil's skeptic smile with a grin and a shake of his head.  "If I tried to put it off a year, it'd be far too easy to reason putting it off another year.  And, I'm not sure I'd actually ever go," he admitted.  After all, he didn't need to.  He didn't need the financial benefit of a university degree and, most certainly, no one in his life was holding it over him as some sort of expectation. 

"What are you rehearsing?" Sasha asked, curiously.  "It must be a nice change of pace from Level 9.  Or, generally a good distraction from thinking about certain people," he added with a slight grin. 

It didn't surprise him that Sasha never developed a knack for cooking - the multitude of questions he asked in class (proving to Virgil that there was, in fact, such a thing as a stupid question) didn't show him to be the kind of person who did anything on instinct. At least not reliably. Some people simply had bad instincts.

            "... it would be just as toxic.  It's just ... I don't know," the former Ravenclaw floundered.

Virgil checked on the dough to see if it had gotten any harder; melted butter would ruin the layering of the pastry for when it had to finally be baked. "People don't realistically apply life philosophies to themselves alone, do they?" he removed the muslin cloth and drew his wand, using a slicing charm to carefully cut out triangular sheets from the folded dough. "Or they wouldn't be surprised or disapproving when they see people acting outside of their gender roles."

Carefully, as if though he were handling tissue, he rolled up each of the triangles and left them to chill for the final time on the counter. Virgil rubbed his face and hair tiredly - clouds of flour dusting him all over.

"A Midsummer Night's Dream. I'm Puck," he raised his eyebrows archly at Sasha, whose muggle upbringing meant he was more likely to know the story than some wizarding children. "We're playing it as my being in love with Oberon, which shouldn't be difficult." Sighing softly, he reached for his mug again; this time seating himself on a kitchen chair while he waited.

"He sent me flowers for opening night, when I did Peter Pan..." Virgil looked away, out of the window again, as if casting his mind across the city towards the object of his affections. "Cepheus, I mean. I don't think I'll ever recover."

Sasha shifted uncomfortably on the counter and rubbed the palm of his hand with the other.  Virgil wasn't wrong and he knew that, but it wasn't a simple matter to concede that much.  Not for any reason relating to Virgil or what he was saying; it was more complicated then that. 

"I understand what your saying and the logic.  In theory, I agree with what you're saying.  I just can't-"  he hesitated a moment and shrugged his shoulders.  "I carry enough guilt about my parents as it is.  I can't add speaking ill of the dead to it.  Maybe they were toxic but what I did to them was infinitely worse, so I can't just go pointing fingers."  Especially when they couldn't defend their choices.  "Its not going to change anything.  And, there's no shortage of things I know not to emulate if I ever have my own kids." 

Sasha continued to watch as Virgil carefully rolled each of the croissants, finding the repetitive motion surprisingly hypnotic.  Not unlikely watching a musician play an instrument or a taffy maker repeatedly pulling the still warm candy. 

"That sounds like it could be pretty interesting," Sasha admitted.  "When are the shows?"  It would be interesting to see one, especially since the only wizarding theater Sasha had attended was that night of the Opera.  And, that hadn't exactly gone to plan. 

"I can see the appeal," Sasha admitted, offering Virgil a sympathetic half-grin.  "Though I think I would have gone for the other.  But, logic doesn't really play into these things, does it?  I spent months waiting on someone I didn't think would be back and, even knowing that, it didn't make a difference."  He'd come to accept that crushes weren't exactly about what was best for the person with the crush. 

He shrugged and took a sip of coffee.  "What do you think is the worst that would happen?  If you told him?"  Rejection was a given, in any situation. 

As he sat in the kitchen, drinking hot coffee and watching rain fall in the Hiraeth courtyard, Virgil listened to the other boy talk about not wanting to speak ill of the dead. There were some dead people who perhaps deserved the terrible things said about them but he could understand why Sasha wouldn't feel that way about his muggle parents. A sensitive subject then. He shrugged, deciding to move on from it.

"Next weekend and the weekend after." Virgil turned his attention away from the window, distractedly. "Regents Park. There'll be ads in the Prophet." Stardust usually made the arts and theatre section of the papers but not everyone indulged in those.

Finishing the rest of his coffee, he rose and returned to the counter to begin the final process of baking the croissants. "You preferred Rosier? I suppose he was alright." Virgil tried to forget the way those two men had been intimate that night, focusing on the task at hand instead. He retrieved a piping bag from the ice-box, where he'd stored it last night, and quickly piped frangipani into the waiting croissants.

Almasy and Reid had an oven - well utilised by McBoid - but he was going to cheat with magic. What was the point of studying all those magical recipe books if you didn't pick up the odd trick?

He raised both hands, wand in one, in mock imitation of conducting an orchestra.

            "What do you think is the worst that would happen?  If you told him?"

With a flick of the wrists, each of the thirteen croissants floated into the air. The thirteenth was the tinniest and intended for Sasha. Virgil glanced at him, considering the question. And then he made another gesture; the air above them shimmered with heat while the doughy croissants rotated.

"He won't want to see me again." Virgil kept his gaze on the food, rich and buttery scent quickly flooding the kitchen space. "Or worse. He might pity me," he twisted his wand hand and the sugar pot on the counter flipped open - a cascade of white powder settling on to the baked goods, where it would melt into a shiny glaze. He breathed in the rich smell.

The finishing touch was a scattering of flaked almonds. Virgil left the croissants in the air, slowly toasting the almonds. "Pity is a poor substitute for what I want."

Abby woke to a pounding headache and a mouth dry as sand. She groaned and rolled over, burying her face into her pillow as the last of her dream faded. Above her bed, sunlight struggled through the sheer curtains and illuminated her pale hand. Sleepily, she curled her fingers, catching the dim light, remembering stars and fire and heat. For once, the thought of fire did not conjure bad memories. A lock of her red hair spilled over her pillow, tickling her wrist, and the wavy, soft strand almost felt like her own.

She sat up, nudging aside the white curtains above her, which were embroidered with roses and thorns. On sunny days, the light streamed in, warming the covers on the bed and taking the chill out of her fingers. The skies were gray now, masking the hour. She tilted her head, unable to hear any chatter or noise outside of her room. Abby rested an arm over her plush, velvet headboard and looked out the rain-streaked window at the courtyard below, expecting, for a moment, to find another view. The cobblestones below were dark gray with damp. The windows across the courtyard were all shut, though Abby glimpsed a cat nestled on the window sill in one flat, and the soft glow of string lights in another.

She was home. She'd placed the bed against the window to remind herself of that, whenever she woke. 

Abby reached over to the lamp on her nightstand, then drew back, noticing it was already off. She blinked. She must have slept through the night, sedated by alcohol and gillyweed.

Rubbing at her forehead, she rose, pushing the covers to cocoon around Roxy at the foot of the bed. The pup's brown and white coat stood out against the aqua-green duvet, her forked tail twitching in sleep.

Abby brushed her teeth in the adjoining bathroom, brushed her hair, then donned an overlarge black sweatshirt that proclaimed 'KISS ME, WHO CARES IF I'M IRISH' on the front. She filled her water glass and meandered into the living room in her bare feet.

The living room was dark, her friends still asleep. The curtains were drawn over the picture window. The light was on in the kitchen, and something heavenly sweet wafted out of it.

Two boys, one tall and lean, the other shorter, had taken over the small kitchen. Sasha, the tall one, took only a little space, sitting on the counter and sipping quietly at his coffee. Virgil took up the rest with his expansive gestures, his wand in hand. Almond-toasted croissants rotated in the air.

Abby leaned against the arch of the entryway and poked a croissant with her index finger. Warm! Probably too warm. Probably not quite ready. She sipped at her water, smiling when one of them noticed her.

"Hey cuties."

They were! She was allowed to call them that. Abby felt a rush of affection for them both, tinged with curiosity and worry as she wondered if there had ever been anything romantic between them. She'd been gone so long, and the air felt heavy with something other than the smell of croissants and coffee. Croissants, coffee, and confessions, perhaps.

Her eyes lingered on Sasha, and she angled her stance to show off her sweatshirt. Her smile turned mischievous as nerves fluttered in her stomach. How much did he remember from last night? Sasha and Virgil looked tired and pale. Abby always did these days, but she felt well-rested, despite her headache.

As she refilled Roxy's bowl with water, and poured a cup of dog food into the other bowl, and as the little devil on four legs raced from her bedroom, leaped over Nick, and slid into the kitchen, Abby glanced at the croissants. They reminded her strangely of... birds.

Owls?

Owls floating in the living room, suspended with their talons outstretched.

And Virgil. Virgil! Stopping them with a gesture, wandless, his sleeve a periwinkle blue.

"I had the most wonderful dream! You were in it," she pointed at Virgil.

Rude boy.

Abby faltered, the glass halfway to her mouth. She set it down on the counter. The voice in her head never failed to surprise her, but it rarely sounded so clear.

Lovely boy, Abby rebutted, her thoughts softer, more questioning.

I'd like to hex him. Who put the licorice wands away?

Abby touched her mouth, holding back a laugh. Probably conscientious boy, Abby eyed Sasha with amusement and affection.

"And you," Abby turned to Sasha, unaware of the seconds that had passed since her last statement. Roxy's tail swatted her legs. She barely felt it.

"Your influence must have been in it too, since I was definitely a dragon queen."

She remembered catching the stars. Flying over meadows and humble villages. Incinerating the cursed woods.

Hmm.

You don't like him either? Surprise strengthened Abby's thoughts.

The presence in her mind paused.

Can't trust ... wants something from you.

Abby's thoughts formed then unformed, confidence chased by doubt, joy and hope biting at the ankles of fear. She poured herself a cup of coffee, distractedly filling it close to the brim. Her nose itched. She rubbed at the side of her face.

Everyone... wants something. Everyone, she tried to articulate how she felt. ... affection, respect, friendship, or even... be left alone.

Doubt rose as she lifted the coffee mug with care, her fingers cold around the handle. It tasted bitter and strong. Exactly how Abby disliked it.