Vincent hitched his thumbs through the belt loops of his trousers, stretching lazily, hands slipping into his buckets to brush the familiar comforts of loose change and a half-empty cigarette pack. He brought a hand up to the back of his neck, rubbing it as he stared into the window of the bookshop; he stood a meter from where the old swinging sign cast its shadow on the cobbles.

The sun felt nice, the knowledge that it was late morning and here was loitering about after a long night’s slumber even nicer. Sleeping in was almost as good as being able to stay up all night, sip butterbeers on the sidewalk to his heart’s content while philosophizing in that boyish, broish way with Julian, or meet Beatrix somewhere that wasn’t the library or the back of the Quidditch bleachers. He could read dodgy old Charms books at three in the morning-- even if he couldn’t practice any of the hexes. He could bedroom lock his door and turn off his alarm clock. He could dig through William’s old room, and Atticus’.

But those Charms were wearing on him. His wand hand itched each time he read about magic that would turn a surface into scrambled puzzle pieces, the incantation right there on the page. He wondered vaguely (or quite frequently) how much trouble he would get in for “accidentally” trying out a jinx on a tree in the back garden. He felt a bit bad about the trees-- trees had landed him his first girlfriend, after all. He did owe them a bit. But his mum would kill him if he practiced on a sleeping William, if William happened to visit. And William would kill him after that. He knew the value of his brother’s face, besides.

Vincent dropped his arm, took his other hand out of his pocket, and crossed into the shade. Pulling open the door, be paused to let a short old woman pass, nodding and just barely making eye contact before slipping into the shop. The air was cool enough compared to the sun-drenched street, but obviously dusty where light filtered through the windows. It was a most familiar sight, a comforting one, one that felt like home.

The boy gave another nod-- this time to the clerk-- before moving into the aisle where the Charms books were kept. Slim texts, fat tomes, sleek guides, and theses old and new presented themselves in elegant rows, their hard covers a palette of every imaginable shade of beige, earth, and brown. He passed these, handsome gold lining and all, and made for the back where the words behind the covers were darker. He browsed the shelf beginning with A’s, as anyone was want to do, and soon found a book which caught his eye. Pulling it out of its place, he opened the cover and immediately felt a wash of pent-up magic. It was an unsettling energy for someone who spent a particularly generous amount of time reading, but a sleek one, too. Civil. Clever. Charming.