outfit

Now that she’d finally settled into a comfortable apartment, one she could decorate as she pleased and one without her stepmother’s insufferable presence, Laney was on a mission to find those last few finishing touches. Among her haul for the day were several candles, honey, cocoa, and wine colored, several wispy, winter branch-like photo frames in a delicious shade of charcoal, and a few rarities from Knockturn, including a brass beater’s bat once owned by the infamous Coriander Moreau, whose career had spanned a very bloody three decades.

With all of her purchases stuffed into a magical gift bag, Laney now came to the bookstore. Once a familiar source of dread, it held an inkling of... excitement. Really, Laney? Excitement? It sounded like something the reformed George Carter would say. This library is so exciting!

Lying to herself, she rubbed the tip of one boot against the back of her jean-clad ankle, and peered toward the door. Taking one last, warm drag, she let her cigarette float into the snwo below foot, delighting in the tiniest of sizzles as it met its death.

Books were more interesting when one could choose what one read. Really, Laney had never had an aversion to books. Only to school. Assignments. Time sheets, and due dates, and word lengths. It was so stifling. A seeker hated suffocation by nature; the claustrophobia of normality had struck her one year too many. She was itching to make up for it now, building her own little library of delicate spell books and not-so-delicate autobiographies of dead heroes. Memoirs, celebrated and personal. A few pictures stuck to pages here and there, accidentally not destroyed in the fire she’d promised to build.

Sweeping up the steps and into the shop, Laney flounced past the clerk, whose smile froze on his face mid gesture, and seemed to wan, to flicker, until it fell lopsidedly in defeat. Laney brushed him off entirely, ignoring his greeting and disappearing into the aisles. She wanted no one’s opinion.

Almost no one. As she darted aimlessly, expertly toward Merlin-knew-where, she could not help but slow her pace. She began to unbutton the coat she'd worn over her fitted jacket and sweater (it was cold out, after all). She pulled it off and backtracked a few steps, staring at the silhouette of the person perusing the shelves. Her hair, growing out from a few years of rebellious and choppy cropping, spilled wildly onto her shoulders.

The faceless soul's backside was as handsome as any of the leather bound tomes gracing the shelves. “Do I know you?” She asked his back. That was one way to get a name. “You don’t play for the Cannons...?” Innocent inquiry. The Canons were in Denmark at the moment.

Fridays were one of his favorite days to head to the bookstore. They were getting ready for weekend sales and had their latest best sellers and fresh new inventory set out and set up. It allowed them a couple days to figure it all out, as well as lessened the crowd. Well, at least for now. Later in the afternoon or early evening, he was sure just about anywhere would be a bit busy on a Friday night… Which was why he planned on having something to dig into while lounged out in his living room, maybe with the latest hits on the radio.

He had gotten the paperwork done early, having a couple other places to track down the book for the latest customer. Frank didn’t expect it would be too hard of a search, and planned to get on it the next day. For tonight, however, he had a date with himself. Or that was what he thought. His fingertips brushed against the spines, bumping along in his own little language, finally settling on one catchy title and pulling it out. Gazing down at the colorful and yet plain covered book, Frank leaned the side of a shoulder against the bookcase, flipping a couple of pages and staring down at the first chapter. That was the easiest way to decide if something was going to grab you.

If you weren’t interested, if you couldn’t be grabbed in the beginning, how did an author ever hope to keep your attention? Currently, the non-fiction work about theories behind wandlore didn’t quite grab his attention, and he sighed and pressed it back where he’d found it, pulling away from the shelf in search of something else. Maybe a new book on spells… Or something to freshen up on. Pressing his jumper sleeves up his forearms, he leaned over slightly to gaze at a few titles gathered together.

Shifting slightly, his gaze turned upwards, allowing him to stand a little more straight, a hand reaching out for its next victim (something about learning to wordlessly cast magic) when he heard a voice.

“Do I know you?”

He jumped slightly, having not heard anyone walk by. Or if he had, he hadn’t acknowledged the subconscious feeling of someone behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, his hand dropping from its intended destination, Frank raised his eyebrows in curiosity. Seeing her look towards him forced Frank to glance around him—no, he was quite alone. And unless she had the ability to look through objects… His eyes once again found her face, no sign of recognition on his.

“You don’t play for the Cannons…?”

A laugh escaped him; a bit of a disbelieving one. She was confusing him with someone on a professional quidditch team? He recalled Ed playing for a short time, but he didn’t think they looked… No. That was no doubt before she would remember. Merlin, Frank hardly remembered. But don’t tell Eddie that…

“No… I think you have me confused with someone else.” Giving her a grin, his hand found its way into his trouser pocket, the other running through his freshly cut hair.  He stepped forward suddenly, forgetting momentarily the few books he had all ready stacked up on a stool he’d had near him. “I’m Frank.” Offering his hand out of his trousers, he figured the least he could do was introduce himself.

Laney quirked a brow, another dusky, keen attribute sharpening her face, very like her mother’s, but decidedly more... Irving-ish. It disappeared into the wilds of her fringe, which nearly caught her eyes in their march to untrimmed freedom. The man seemed to think she was staring past him, at another poor soul. Invisible, or highly skilled in blending into bookshelves, apparently.

The glimpse of a clean-cut, boyish face framed with clean-cut, boyish hair was made whole when he turned around, leaving behind the silly over-the-shoulder glances in favor of the realization that she was, indeed, speaking to him.

One side of her small but billowy mouth raised in a grin, a small, sideways smirk at his laugh. Did he think himself not comparable to the men who took to the field (and then to the sky)? Obviously he had not seen his own backside. Perhaps Laney should be a good civilian and suggest he buy a set of full length mirrors. Hell, a set of mirrored walls.

“Mmm... No.” It was a simple answer. “I wouldn’t confuse your face with anyone’s.” Again, simple. If a bit direct. But perfectly innocent. Conversational. “It was your... shoulders. They looked very like a professional’s. You must at least be into sports...?”

Her eyes glanced from his face, to the books on the stool, and back to his face... and then traveled south to the hand. Extending her own long digits, chipped navy nail polish and all, she gripped his hand gingerly (but somehow still firmly), but didn’t really shake it. “Frank, I’m Laney.” No need for the Lorraine shenanigans. It wasn’t her fault she hadn’t been born the Laurent Jr. Daddy had wanted. “Lane, if you aren’t into the cutesy two syllable thing...”

His hands did not speak of Quidditch, or even of the books he’d been piling en masse (though she was no expert on bibliophilism). But Laney could tell, being rather taken with the habit herself, that he was a smoker. It was one of those subtle but native traits.

“So what do you do, then, if you aren’t a Cannon?”

As simple of an answer as she gave, it forced a slight burn to his ears. It was a compliment, wasn’t it? Or was she saying he had something on his face? His hand reached up and scratched-rubbed the side of his cheek in an attempt to give himself something to do before it finally fell back down to his side, thumb hooking into the trouser pocket. “Ah, right.” It brought out an embarrassed cheeky grin and made it difficult to meet her eyes.

Then his eyebrows came down slightly as he frowned in uncertainty, glancing downwards, however momentarily, to his shoulders. A soft chuckle escaped him; now he knew she was making fun of him. “No. Not really.” His clumsy nature mixed with sports? He’d have to be playing opposite his team to do any good, in his opinion. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d like to be into sports.” Another nervous laugh got free and he felt the burn sliding down his cheekbones. “Just…” He needed to stop talking. Shaking his head, he tried to focus on something other than her fun and crazy hair and her easily captivating eyes.

“Frank, I’m Laney.”

She didn’t shake… instead of forcing it on her, he merely gave it a gentle squeeze of acknowledgement before pulling his own back. “Nice to meet you, Laney.” He rolled his fingers together, longing for that familiar inanimate object that he juggled between his fingers and lips. He’d forgotten how long he’d been in the store for. When he was nervous, he tended to smoke more.

“Oh, ah, what do I do?” He wasn’t a parrot, he swore. He glanced up above her for a moment and moved his head to the side, making a face and finally smiling, looking down at her once again. “It’s complicated.” His thumb dug deeper into his pocket and he leaned to the side slightly before standing back up straight. “What I mean… is that I am a bookhunter. So… someone wants a book, and I… hunt for it.” He rolled his eyes and laughed, biting the corner of his lower lip. “Well, maybe it wasn’t that complicated.”

Drumming his free fingertips against the outside of his jeans, his eyebrows rose. “What about you, Laney?”

“Just...” She echoed, her head moving a bit as she mimed the word. Her eyes bore into him, though humorously so, waiting for a response. He wasn’t into sports, but he wanted to be? Definitely not a Slytherin alumnus. But he was good looking enough to have trained hard at some point in his life. Or maybe just very, very lucky.

Which meant Laney might be in luck now, too.

His nervousness was cute, and while the impression he gave did not exactly match the one she’d imagined from behind, it did match his boyishly good-looking face and forget-me-not smile. Besides, Laney sometimes liked to play with the ones who were soft around the edges. They refused less often because they seemed to be... intimidated. But whatever for? She was perfectly innocent. George would attest to that.

“Complicated? Try me.” This was, presumably, the explanation of the loaded ‘just’ she’d heard a moment prior. But one glance at the surroundings might give her a clue. Not that Laney was concerned with the bookshelves in the least. They were not the same brand of eye candy as this man before her.

A bookhunter? How the bloody hell did one hunt for books? She knitted her brows together as her lips drew into a pursing smirk, exposing the dimples deep in her sharp cheeks. “No wonder you’re in such great shape. All those books out there, begging to be lassoed while they ravage the jungle.” She winked. “My job sounds boring in comparison, but I’m sort of a hunter, too... of Snitches.”

“Actually, that’s why I’m here. I’m finally moving everything into my flat and I’m looking for a few rarities for my shelves and coffee table. Maybe a few things on the history of the Magpies. You wouldn’t be able to... tranquilize one for me?” As she said it, she fished her wand from its resting place and waved it carelessly, as if to suggest books could actually be Stupefied or some such thing. (Granted, there had more than one Care of Magical Creatures manual to bite at her ankles in that communal space known as Slytherin Common Room).

He held his breath a moment, watching her head bob before smiling and letting it out quickly. “A bit too uncoordinated.” It was lucky he was able to stand still without teetering, though in the right situation he was known to lose balance when too engrossed in something else, focused as he could be. “It’s impressive those that… that can, though.” Some part of him had always been slightly jealous of those who could stay on a broom and juggle a bat or ball. He had a hard enough time just getting a broom in the air, let alone hanging on…

The look on her face told Frank all he needed to know that his job title, as usual, was a bit confusing. And complicated, as he’d mentioned to begin with. Still, you didn’t understand how it would be complicated until you actually heard it, he supposed. Then, if he hadn’t mentioned it could be confusing, would it have been in the end? Kind of a chicken or egg dilemma. Regardless… he figured he could dive deeper into an explanation if she expressed interest…

“No wonder you’re in such great shape. All those books out there-”

And his cheeks burned as his eyes glanced down quickly and momentarily at himself—great shape? Biting his lower lip and frowning in concentration, he finally shook his head slightly and looked back up, acknowledging her sense of humor with a laugh. He would probably end up tying himself up with the rope, but… “Someone has to keep them in line. Imagine the riots if more books acted like The Handbook for Magical Creatures.”

Hunter of Snitches? An eyebrow rose as he considered her words, his lips pursing to the side in thought. Did she go after people who snitched on others? And then, why was he finding out about it? He hadn’t told any secrets lately that he knew of. No. It must be some other sense of the—oh. Snitch. His eyes showed comprehension as he took her in once again, attempting to place her.

History of the Magpies. As in the Quidditch team? Feeling a bit out of place, but attempting to think up titles, he glanced around the bookstore. He wasn’t well versed in that section of literature, sports being something he didn’t put much value into, but he knew his way around the place well enough… And had a couple that he had heard were a good read. Glancing sideways down a row, his eyes moved over nearby titles.

“So you are a Seeker?” Leaving his stack of books where they were for future browsing, Frank walked towards Laney and to one the left of her, motioning for her to follow as he moved slowly down, eyes scanning words and letters. Upon finally reaching the section, he leaned forward and lifted a hand, his fingertip brushing spines in a delicate way. A noise of triumph escaped him as he finally pulled out a book, offering the older looking text over. Hurray For Murray, from the jacket cover, was about the life of Eunice Murray, a past Seeker for the Magpies.

At the same time, his eyes had moved back to the stack, his fingers once again moving over spines. His search ended with another noise of discovery, pulling out another ancient looking text that went into detail about the balls used in Quidditch, including crafting of a snitch. Handing it over for her inspection, he finally took a moment to breathe and assess the situation, feeling a bit awkward all of a sudden. She was a celebrity then? “How long have you been playing?” 

Uncoordinated? Excellent. That could work in Laney’s favor. The next best thing to a dexterous broomsman was a slightly clumsy, obviously soft and adorable man who needed a bit of... direction... in his life. Laney might have been a pessimist (or at least a realist) about a lot of things, but good-looking men weren’t one of them. She could work with what they gave her. Assuming he wasn’t some muggle plucked up from London and Imperiused to find books in the strangest of places. She supposed that wasn’t a very likely outcome, and so she smiled-- as much to herself as at Frank.

She shrugged. “I do like a talented rider... but there are other good qualities in wizards,” she offered. “Witches and wizards,” she corrected herself after a moment’s pause. Her intentions were already thinly disguised, and she wasn’t doing much to hide them. She didn’t want to scare this one off, though, not so quickly. And so she made the suggestive conversation a slightly more casual, friendly chat. “As long as you have friends who can pull you on the backs of their brooms in a pinch, I think you’ll survive.”

Laney let out a breathy, close-mouthed laugh. “I dodged that one,” she admitted. “A bit too young. My Creatures Teacher was a little...” More human. “Tamer.” Oh, and she’d never taken Care of Magical Creatures.

The young woman grinned, flashing her dimples and this time baring her teeth. She could read the confusion on his face, as well as the sudden enlightenment. “Mmhmm. It’s what I’m good at. Or I’ve been told.” She also knew it; she wasn’t the humble sort of girl. If he was into that kind of thing. “But I’ll have to retire one day,” she lamented, following after him. Her eyes moved like a clock pendulum: left shelf, back of cute man’s head, right shelf, back of cute man’s head. “And then I’ll need a new career. How do you like this one?”

She resisted the urge to pick up random books, instead allowing him to take the lead, to show her himself in his element. Even if he didn’t know he was doing just that... even if he didn’t know she was studying him.

Bright brown eyes glittered when he plucked a very old tome from one of the towering rows. She reached for it, brushing her hand against his as she took it into her own grasp with all the entitlement of someone who had already paid for it in cold, hard galleons. Rusty gaze absorbed the surface before meeting his eyes again. “Hmm?” She asked, her mind catching up with her eyes. “Oh, since school... but professionally? Only this season.” She grinned. “This is exactly what I need. I have his spot now, you know. Rest in peace, Murray.” She appeared to toast the book in Frank’s direction. “I think I need a smoke in his name before I buy this.” She held it one palm, her hand spread flat like a balance. She seemed to be weighing the hefty history.

“How old are you?” She asked bluntly, as if it had just occurred to her. She didn’t really care, either way. But he had one of those faces. He could be older or younger than he appeared, and she wouldn’t have been surprised. She reached through her bag and pulled out a carton of cigarettes. “Can’t take merchandise outside, can we?”

“I do like a talented rider... but there are other good qualities in wizards-”

His parted mouth hung open slightly as he blinked at her, finally pressing his lips together in a thoughtful purse to the side, merely nodding his head in what he assumed would be agreement. He agreed, right? Good qualities aside from a good ride—being able to—no, be a good rider! A slight blush flared up and he glanced away, smiling slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

“Yes… I figured it… yes. Someone would, no doubt.” What else were friends for?

So she got out of dealing with the destructive book? That hardly seemed fair… How lucky. And, come to think of it, she could have technically have had to dodge it. Some books, and their temperaments, were very interesting and occasionally hard to keep straight. For example, Frank had learned the hard way that you don’t stroke a dragonhide ingredient book with fangs and nostrils that puff out smoke. It doesn’t tame it; it only induces a breath of melt-your-clothes-off fire.

Laney seemed quite sure of her talents. Raising an eyebrow, Frank considered her question with a laugh. “Ah, well… I love what I do. It’s exciting when you finally get to get out and hunt… Dangerous as well.” Frank loved his job, even when he was stuck researching in a stuff office with loads of books, deciphering where it could be. It wasn’t always exciting, after all.

Only this season… did that mean it took a while to be picked up? Or that this interesting flirt was fairly new out of school? He didn’t have long to ponder it, his attention being redirected to her. “Oh… Oh? Well. Yes.” Rest in peace indeed. Then she mentioned a smoke and his tongue came out to run quickly across his lips.

But, wait, before buying—

“How old are you?”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard by the change in subject. “I’m, ah… Twenty seven.” He rubbed his forehead in surprise and let out a soft laugh before shaking his head. He felt old with that confession. “What about…” He blinked at the carton.

“Can’t take merchandise outside, can we?”

“No, I guess not.” Then he put two and two together and shook his head, eyes widening slightly. “We can leave it here, though, and get it—you can get it after you…” Motioning to the carton, he bit his lip. “You smoke then?” He set the book he was holding back on the shelf where he’d grabbed it from, leaving he one in her possession with a watchful eye.

“What’s the most dangerous scenario you’ve been in?” She asked automatically. It was a question he should suspect, after all... though perhaps more often from an eleven-year-old boy than a... well almost woman. She was a legal witch, anyway. But something about Frank’s face was alarmingly innocent. He might have been bookish, but he was also... decidedly rather innocent. Perhaps she would catch him off guard, in which case the squirming to answer would be equally delicious. She wasn’t cruel. Just curious.

Not bothering to mention that the infamous Murray had been a seeker way back in the 40’s, Laney instead smiled, refreshed for some reason by his apparent disinterest in sports. She’d always gone after the athletic ones, the ones who would rather roll around in the grass or break a few bones in bed than read by candlelight. But she could picture it now... she did like a good book when she wasn’t forced to read something specific... and she wouldn’t mind a bookshelf in her fancy new lavatory, with its old-fashioned bath and rows and rows of bubble potions. Maybe going after a book hunter was the next chapter in her life.

“Twenty-seven,” she repeated. “Good age.” And, pretending not to hear his question, she kept her own to herself. After all, he hadn’t really asked in full, had he? She could admit it later. First, she needed a smoke.

Handing the book back to him and expecting him to put it wherever the little hiding place it had emerged from happened to be, Laney concerned herself with shaking two coffin nails from the carton.

“Great, hide it for me,” she murmured in thanks, already heading for the door. She looked over her shoulder, grinning at him. “Guilty. Just like you. Ciggy?” She waved the pair and floated out of the shop, turning to cross one arm over the other and light both sticks with her wand. She took a drag of both, as if they were one single, large cigarette, and then held them both out, obviously offering one up to him.

“Oh.” He frowned in thought, glancing off to the side as he pursed his lips, attempting to think of a good story to tell. Most dangerous scenario… Rubbing the back of his neck, Frank let out a soft chuckle. “Well…” Fiona had been in quite a few bad ones, and recalled hearing about the one where she almost died. He hadn’t had anything quite that close, though. “We ended up in the Caucasus Mountains, spring, when the snow and ice hadn’t thawed yet.” Realizing the story was going to be longer than he felt comfortable talking for, he shook his head. “Well, it was in a cave we could access from a lake. And I had to make it through the ice and into the cave. It was very cold… but worth the find.”

Frank supposed it was better for his health that he didn’t have as many dangerous stories as he wanted. The number of times he slipped on a narrow high ridge had been lost on him; he couldn’t keep track after a while. There was magic, though, and other safety equipment for those type of hazards. It was the actual wards and spells sometimes put on an area that one had to watch out for. People were very mistrusting no matter what era they came from, it seemed.

He supposed he was at a good age. Not that he had long to ponder it, of course, before she distracted him, leaving his curiosity unanswered. And, for the time being, unnoticed. Frank accepted the book and stuffed it under an arm. He could drop it off near where his things were. Then he watched her pull out two cigarettes, once again licking his lips sub consciously.

Hide it? He blinked and took it from under his arm, glancing around to try and find a place to stash it where it wouldn’t mess up the alphabetical order of the books around them. After working as a librarian for a while, Frank had a hard time not keeping things in order. Once again, though, she distracted him. Just like him? Had he said he smoked? Glancing down at his hands, suddenly feeling self conscious—did he smell like cigarette smoke?—Frank frowned and brushed his free hand off on his sweater.

The offer was too much to resist, though, and he finally put the book aside, glancing around it to make sure he recalled where to find it after, and quickly moved ahead to catch up with her. “Sure.” It wasn’t his choice brand, perhaps, but he wouldn’t pass up such a gracious offer. Once outside, he felt a bit chillier, crossing his arms over his chest, watching in slight fascination as she lit both cigarettes. Raising an eyebrow, he finally flashed her an easy smile, accepting one of the ones and placing it between his index and middle finger, lifting his hand up in a sign of gratitude.

“Thank you.” And then it quickly made its way to his lips, a deep drag bringing with it all the familiarity and relaxation he was accustomed to. Blowing the smoke out into the wind, he stuffed his free hand into his trousers, leaning just slightly to the side. “So do you have a lot of free time with your career? Or do you just like books that much?” His smile reached his eyes as he leaned against the building. She didn’t seem like she was a closet bookworm.

Laney quirked a brow, wondering the array of spells one might need to employ to scale a slushy mountain. The only slushy mountains she’d ever scaled were... in the form of dessert. She might have been adventurous and reckless, but she could also be very lazy. And who didn’t love a good cherry slush? Mmmm...

“Wait, so...” She narrowed her eyes, mind racing. “You swam under the ice in a lake in them middle of the mountains... just to get a book?” Who the bloody had hidden it there in the first place?! “Was it made of platinum and full of immortality-inducing spells?” It was the only explanation, aside, perhaps, from a hermit owner with far too much time on his hands. “That’s some Dark Lord shenanigans right there...”

Not as concerned with how books were shelved-- so long as hers remained hers, after the little smoke break-- Laney was out the door before Frank. She didn’t watch him pause to blink and find where to put the thing. As if it were a child, or a glass figurine.

Then again, it might well have been more valuable than both.

She watched him take it, delighting in his little gestures, and the way he seemed to capture the cold. “No problem. We need to stay warm. It’s going to be a terrible winter,” she offered cheerfully. She liked the snow, preferring to wear layers, but she disliked flying in it. It always made her lungs sting, and her tongue water for a relieving puff of polluted nicotine.

Wrapping her own coat around herself with one arm, and not bothering to slither into the sleeves, she took another drag and tried not to choke at his question, which made her laugh. “Do you think we’re that lazy?” Well, yes, Laney was. “Training is hell. Especially during the off season. But yeah, when we have a string matches, we usually get some good free time afterward... it helps that we can Apparate.” She snapped her fingers before crossing her arm over her chest again.

She released the smoke in a slow stream and tilted her head, hair falling every which way, obscuring her high, pensive brow. “But I do love books. Especially when they have nothing to do with lesson plans.” She’d always liked the essays assigned near the end of term, when they couldn’t reply on the boring chapters of required text. When she could weasel her way into a permission slip for the Restricted Section, delight in the screams, shivers, and sinister songs of old pages. “I’m trying to design a shelf in my new flat, and I’d love some pointers on how to best organize it...” It was a half-truth. She was decorating, and she was finally tackling the shelf, as she’d seemed to imply when she first bumped into this charming young book hunter. But help was not something Laney often desired, not when she was on her home turf. Her nest was her own, and every little mess, corner of chaos, or perfectly arranged shelf lay exactly how she wanted. In other words, a distressing mix that would undoubtedly stress her step-mum, should the old bat ever be invited inside. “Your place must look like a library,” she guessed.

“Wait, so… You swam under the ice in a lake in them middle of the mountains… just to get a book?”

Frank’s mouth opened and then slowly closed, finally nodding his head. Yes, he supposed he had. Though the swimming wasn’t really that bad, it was more the current… proper spells and all helped insulate you from the mind numbing bitterness that it would otherwise have been. Plus, he’d had the bubble head charm, among other precautions. If the current took you away, though, and you somehow lost your wand… well, when the spells were up, they were up, and one way or another, you would be in trouble.

Luckily he hadn’t earned a story quite that remarkable. Laughing and shaking his head, Frank tilted his head slightly. “No… it wasn’t made of platinum.” It had been a family heirloom with needed banking information and family titles. Things that were important to the family it belonged to. Hearing ‘Dark Lord’ made Frank pause and frown slightly, an odd prickling sensation on the back of his head. He had been at Hogwarts during the final battle… he’d suffered through torturing muggles and kept his head down as low as he could.

That had been a rough time in his life. No one on the side of Harry Potter would have been caught calling him the Dark Lord, though; calling him anything besides ‘He-who-shall-not-be-named’ had ended with stern glares and gasps of disbelief. However, Frank couldn’t pinpoint exactly why he suddenly felt uneasy… “It was a little ridiculous, but well worth the fun adventure.” And the price the family had been willing to pay.

Back to the present, however, Frank enjoyed the calming smoke as it curled up in his lungs like an old friend. “It has gotten quite a bit colder.” He wasn’t a weatherman, though, and didn’t know about predicting the weather. He preferred the mild temperature of fall, mingled with the leaves falling, darker colors, and sweaters and trousers. Now that it was transitioning into winter, he needed a new winter coat. Something a little thicker than his sweater…

He stuttered with her rhetorical question. “No, no I didn’t mean that-” He assumed quidditch players weren’t allowed to be lazy, and had to stay in top shape to perform right. Not that she had any issues with that, from his view. Frank just wasn’t very versed on the rituals of quidditch professional teams and what all they did, aside from battle for the cup.

“But I do love books. Especially when they have nothing to do with lesson plans.”

He should have been more careful with how much he inhaled. The smoke was too much as he tried to take another sudden breath, coughing and covering his mouth at her statement. How far out of Hogwarts was she, to still recall lesson plans? Finally catching his breath, Frank wiped his eyes and tapped the cigarette, watching the ash fall down precariously. What to say?

Pointers? She continued to confuse him and keep him on his toes. “Uh… well, I’m not sure how great I would do, personally. I’m pretty… unorganized.” The cigarette settled with an air of familiarity between his lips as he took a steady inhale, the smoke blowing shortly thereafter from his nostrils. “But shelves for books, those aren’t very complicated. Do you have someone to install them for you?”

Making a face, Frank laughed and shook his head. “My office looks cluttered, and books are all over the shelves, sure…” Come to think of it, he had books in all places of his apartment. “-But I wouldn’t call it a library per say. It’s just a place for a lot of different… things.” He had his books, notes, work files, and electronics that he dabbled with for fun, all smashed together in the office. Sometimes it overflowed into his living room.

After another deep inhale, he finally figured out what had bothered him. “Where were you during the second war?” Not sure if he was explaining it very well, he felt a blush to his cheeks, more than the cool and crisp air had all ready done. People around his era, a couple years younger, and those older than had been part of it. And it was something they would recall, knowing where they were when things went down. “You know, they have a section open up at the Museum for it. Kind of crazy, that it’s part of our history, now, and that… it feels sometimes like it just happened.” He had lost friends… Another trail of smoke escaped his mouthl

Laney grinned genuinely as he nodded in lieu of verbal admission. The more she heard about his job, the more dangerous and exciting it really did sound. He wasn’t kidding. There was something to this book hunting business... and it only made the uncorrupted book hunter himself all the more interesting. Perilous jobs for good boys? Curious.

Laney shrugged, as if to say you can’t win ‘em all. “I’m sure it contained some very interesting material, then,” she suggested, trailing off and leaving the imagined details unspoken. There were any number of routes one could go, she supposed. If was a little caught off guard, the seeker assumed her new acquaintance was remembering the stickier details.

“I’m glad to know you can swim.” Way to lighten the mood and sound like a complete creep. Three points for Laney!

She exhaled, turning her chin to blow a steady, slate storm cloud away from her new companion. “Do you like it? The cold?” She took another drag, holding it in and staring at him pensively. “I mean you must be able to tolerate it, what with the mountain lake...”

A flick of her jaw and she attempted to push the shadow of her locks from eyes. Instead they swept away and back again, skimming her profiteering gaze with dusky serenity. Calm in the form of chaos. She wasn’t a sugary sort of girl.

She let his words dwell in the air before she offered a noncommittal mmhmm, and, finally, a smile. She couldn’t let him hang too long. He was too like a puppy. “Take it easy, I’m not offended. We do have a leisurely life... when we’re not breaking bones to please roaring crowds. The paychecks are brilliant.”

Reaching out an arm, she gingerly hovered over his shoulder, alarm registering subtly in her expression. She grazed his shoulder as he coughed, and pulled away again, just as silently and carefully. It was there and then gone.

Couldn’t have him choking to death on her watch.

Right...

“A book fiend is unorganized? I really haven’t seen everything, have I?” She shook her head in gentle dismay. “I was just going to sort... install them myself.” She roamed his face, searching for clues. “A few wand waves, some nails, a few measurements. It can’t be all that hard. Unless...” He wanted to come over and help. Off the calendar.

“I bet your place is as charming as a beater’s bachelor pad. And you even have an IQ.” (It only applied to male beaters, of course. Laney loved her dear friend Malynda, who was vicious on the field and viciously brilliant off of it.)

“Where were you during the second war?”

This time there was no way around it. Nothing to do but laugh. And so she did. Letting her arm hang limp so that the cigarette smoke snaked up lazily like the contents a charmer’s basket, she crossed the other one over it and directed her dimples at the ground. “Jealously hoarding biscuits from my baby brother, under the second landing at my father’s house. We had this brilliant little levitating lift that went from the kitchens up to the attic. It was for food and letters and clean socks, but I could still fit inside it when I was nine. Derbyshire.”

“You know, they have a section open up at the Museum for it. Kind of crazy, that it’s part of our history, now, and that… it feels sometimes like it just happened.

She had not been there, at the battle. Her older brother had been evacuated with the rest of the younger children. He had been in no real peril, if honesty served memory. He was a Pureblood, even if he was not up to snuff for the Irving family. Too soft around the edges, Clinton.

“It’s always seemed a bit far away to me,” she admitted with a shrug. “But it is weird, to think about how young I was then... and how... not quite as young I am now.” She finally raised the smoke to her lip-level and looked at him properly. But before she took a drag, she continued, as if suddenly remembering something. “I should check it out, really. I always thought it was a bit cheap that we only read about it in history class. Books are good--” She offered another smile. “But they don’t really give a full picture. They sort of desensitize you. Numbers, dates, whatever will be on the test. I can’t imagine having been on the battlefield...” Only the quidditch field.

Even if her family still routinely made comments at the dinner table, or spoke of the old days as if they were made of solid gold. Even if she herself had been instilled with a certain... pride... about blood, and the things for which the not-so-good had fought to retain. Even if she had a thing for roughness, Laney still couldn’t imagine the bloodshed and the crumbling walls. She’d appreciated Hogwarts, however much of a birdcage it was at times, and however often she had griped about it. For her, the war was not entirely political. Rather, it had been a war between the nostalgia of childhood and the nostalgia of her ancestors. A war between two places to which she longed to belong. And thus, very complicated...

“Anyway, the last time I was there, the main exhibit was still the Troll Wars. They even had authentic smells. Disgusting, no?”

“I’m glad to know you can swim.”

Smiling at that, a breath of a laugh escaping him, Frank lifted a shoulder in uncertainty. That was a good thing then? “Decent enough at least. What about you?” He could have kicked himself—really? That was the question he was going to ask? If anything it was only going to add to the awkwardness he was creating between them. His tongue wet his lips quickly before he chewed absentmindedly on the bottom of his lip. Stupid question.

Glancing around for a moment as his lips clung to the cigarette, inhaling the warmth and addiction quenching breath it held, he tried to see the ‘cold’ that she was asking him about. A smoky chuckle left his lips and he pulled the cigarette away, huffing the rest out to the side as his eyes finally landed on her face. “Warming charms are quite amazing… But I do prefer the cold over the hot.” The Amazon in the summer was miserable. Thinking about it made him feel an itch coming on.

“You seem to take it well.” His free arm reached across his midsection to hold on to his other side loosely, giving himself something to do and not shiver as the wind bit through his sweater. Next time he’d wear a longer shirt underneath it. He’d stand in a blizzard for a smoke, though. It held a heat all its own that could stop the uncontrollable shaking of the hand that held it. Now that was some powerful dark magic.

Frank didn’t understand sports that focused on violence. Sure, it was fun to watch and invigorating for the crowds, but how painful to realize you go to work to dive and swoop and roll away from inanimate and charmed objects that are designed to beat you down. He much preferred books that didn’t want to be found. Or owners of said books who misplaced them amongst booby traps and questionable locations.

Her light graze only served to make him feel sillier, accepting the pink tinge and hoping it was accountable to the cool weather. “Organized chaos, perhaps is a better… description. I know where things are and how to find them. But I was never very good at keeping things… you know. Where they should go.” She was going to put her shelves up herself? Glancing over her in mild shock, he finally nodded—he could see his sisters doing the same thing. That whole independent woman thing. He could understand it.

The hanging ‘unless’ was almost lost on him, the silly, clueless man that he was. “It’s not terribly hard, no… Ah, but I mean, I do have some experience.” What was he doing? And then she was talking about his ‘pad’ as if it was anything more than a place to sleep, eat, and relax. Since he didn’t know any beaters personally (well, professional ones, anyhow), he could only take her word for it.

Frank blinked, biting absentmindedly at his lower lip as he quickly added ten to nine. In Derbyshire. She was nineteen. He was nearly out of Hogwarts at that—Frank smiled and focused once again, coming back from memories. “Derbyshire has amazing countryside.” Then again, many areas throughout the United Kingdom were breathtaking. Plus it seemed the easiest thing to comment on.

She was still quite young, no matter how she might feel. Nineteen… Frank tried to remind himself that his younger sister was around her age. That was not okay, to think… well surely admiring wasn’t a bad thing. His cigarette rested between his lips loosely as the smoke filtered lazily away. It felt far away to him as well, as if he was remembering a movie he’d watched. His smile was a ghost of hers, late in response, and not as sincere as Frank’s smiles usually were. “Yes. It’s quite good, the exhibit. The bit I helped with, it was very…” Disturbing? Haunting? “Factual.”

Troll Wars. Groaning at that, his easy going smirk slid back on to his face, his fingers snatching the cigarette away as he leaned to the side slightly, shuffling his feet together and all in all getting slightly closer to the younger woman. “Those were pretty bad. Makes me glad I can’t have nightmares about that time in history.” Tapping the ash away, the cigarette lifted back to his lips; Frank squinted at Laney a moment before grinning. “I can’t imagine how they contained the smell. Or got rid of it… I would think it would have lingered on.”

“What about you?”

For a moment, Laney couldn’t believe anyone would take such light flirting to another planes-- sincerity. Could she swim? She felt her mouth switch, and she brought a hand to her throat, splaying her fingers to calm it, encouraging the serpentine twist of gray to leave her body before it began to crumble with laughter.

“Yes.” She stretched her arm out, cigarette leaving a trail like the aftermath of fireworks in its wake. “Yes, I can swim.” She sobered her face, deadpanned. “It’s my one great passion in life.”

A man who liked the chilly weather was a man Laney could get on with. Shroud herself as she might in layer upon layer of dusky clothing, and blanket upon blanket imported from here or there or everywhere, the young woman spent as many nights kicking it in her knickers in front of the fire, or splayed on cool sheets with a favorite record, a book or magazine, her journal. It wasn’t so terribly hard to put on a coat, if the cold became pesky. But then half the fun was being annoyed by it, wasn’t it? She needed a reason, after all, to bang on Dominik’s door and demand he let her in before his afternoon wakeup. The cold was a good excuse for many a slinky adventures round London.

She stared back, pleased and somewhat amused that he’d met her eyes. But she broke the glance first, trailing down to his stomach as he shivered at the treasonous weather. She could imagine, just then, exactly what he meant by organized chaos.

“Too much organization is dull,” she offered, hoping to nudge him in the direction of freelance shelf-building. A little bit of honest flattery never hurt. But he was slow on the uptake. At least it was cute. “Good,” she added, noting his experience. “Maybe I could enlist you for a day?” Or a night.

If there were any sudden enlightenments concerning the age of the procurer of cigarettes, Laney either didn’t notice them, or chose to ignore them. Perhaps a bit of each. It was always fun when they learned her age... she tended, since graduation, to find herself most often in the company of older adults. But she was also a confident and expectant sort of girl, one who didn’t think such gaps meant anything at all, unless it was... say... whatever age Basil happened to be at the moment. Trollteen sounded about right.

Derbyshire. Amazing countryside. Right. Laney shrugged lopsidedly, using only one shoulder. “It’s nice, yeah... but it’s one of those things you never notice if you live there.” She’d always craved another life.

“Wait, wait.” She waved her hand around like a sassy, fed-up woman in a long queue at Gringotts. “You never told me you were a part of it. Well, now I can just lie and tell you I’ll get there eventually. I’ll have to go.” And by that, she meant she wanted to go.

She cringed at the idea of Permanent Troll Perfume. Taking a consoling, final drag, she held the smoke in her longs, letting it swirl, and then let it out. She tossed the ashy bit to the ground and stomped it out with her boot; the faint but impressive hiss which followed was something one could only experience in the winter. It was one of her favorite things about snow.