A scant hour or two past twelve, what rays of light that fell through half-drawn shutters cast long shadows and gave surfaces a quiet glow—pretty, Bai had to concede from her seat by the window, although when the glare began to creep onto her papers it had lost a few points.

Work. No matter how soon she started on it or how early it was completed before the deadline, there was more of it almost always. Pile upon pile it would wait in her inbox, sitting there with all the smug patience of bureaucracy. The Tournament had only generated even more, and quite frankly even she had gotten sick of it; there were days that she would find herself with free time, but they were few and far between and had only grown fewer. Having her break here, in a busy café whose prices kept all but those who could afford them away, was the respite she desired. Needed.

Ma’am, I don’t suppose you’d like to try this one, then. . .?

Or, should have been.

Carefully shuffling those papers into a neat pile, Bai slipped them into their folder—an expensive-looking thing made of black leather—and smiled. “ไม่มี,” she demurred, enforcing its meaning with a slight shake of her head. The twist to that full-lipped mouth was rueful, but her tone was firm. “I couldn’t possibly. Truly.”

And that was that. Expression faltering, the waiter backed away, apologizing profusely as he retreated to the counter. As he busied himself with another customer, Bai noted his still burning ears with regret; there was always his ilk around, but no matter how much of a nuisance they made themselves out to be she never found satisfaction in waving them away.

Sighing softly, her elbow propped on the table and chin posed on the back of her hand, she let her eyes drift towards the window and thought of dragons.

It was an exorbitantly expensive café (as far as these things went), indoors, smooth-paneled, polished up all nice. Normally indoors did not suit Darian as he preferred to take his tea with some entertainment, and could not watch the crowds so well inside. But his birth month was a scorcher, and even his dashing suits could not keep him cool above the neck during the height of the afternoon. He ducked inside the one place where he wouldn't have to deal with tourists.

Today he was a portrait in monochrome, black silver and blue. His hair lent him color, but his ensemble was cool. He headed for the counter, mindful of the sun's creeping fingers onto some of the tables, and that's when he saw her. Oh, yes, he saw her.

What a lady, what a jewel; he could just swoon. Forbidding as a china doll with the hidden fierceness of a tiger -  lingering over papers like a bureaucratic goddess - yes, he could make these things up all day.

High-class ladies preferred protocol. Usually. Unless she was one of those - no, no, he was getting ahead of himself. Darian did not invite himself to her table but rather leaned over the counter and made his order. While his cuppa was brewing he glanced back at her. His dark blue eyes flickered in undeniable interest, just waiting and waiting to catch her own.

When he did, head tilted, hips canted, he slanted her a smile. The Game, what a pleasure, can't I please sit with you? He was a professional, and if he couldn't charm her long-distance into sharing her table he'd have to go mope in the men's bathroom or something equally sad. That was a terrible option, nobody wanted that.

As soon as the door had swung open, she had noticed him right away.

Chin still cupped in the palm of her hand, the rest of her still angled towards the window, Bai glanced in his direction a look swept under dark lashes. Tall, she noted the distance from neck to heel—and from the set of his shoulders and the ease of his gait, confident. And, he had style; one had to have a certain amount to pull off a blazer such as that—metallic whorls of gold and silver, done in a floral pattern that would have looked ridiculous on others. It was something one either had, or didn’t.

(Oh, how fond she was of style.)

But, as if she had never looked in the first place, Bai looked away. She was professional—a professional, and one did not mix business with. . . leisure. (Her lip almost curved at the thought.) Despite the need for a brief time-out, she was, in the end, here on business; she had even brought her work along—her syllabi, her notes, the files for the new thesis she was working on, everything. There was still much she had to do before term officially began- was he looking at her?

. . .He was.

Intrigued, she looked at him—really looked at him, this time, openly. Perhaps, she thought as she leveled him a curious look that gave nothing else away, maybe too confident… Well, there was really no helping it now, was there?

A smile ghosting red, red lips, she quirked a brow at him in reply.

She looked back at him, and Darian would've known if there'd been a hint of anything like rejection in that gaze. She was aloof, but not unfriendly. Solitary, but not cold. And how could she be, in a place like this? The wooden tables and floors were lit by dusty columns of sunlight, that warm glow which snuck fingers through the slats of the shades, and even for a cafe in the middle of the day it was quiet. Private. All the customers keeping to themselves. She was surrounded by paperwork, and behind him even the little clink and hiss of expresso were curiously muted. It was the kind of place Darian'd doze if he hadn't company, eyes half-mast, head tipping, fingers curling on the lacquered tables - that much more boring than outside where Hogsmeade bustled (Darian had never heard of such a thing as inner peace). But today even the locals were steaming, and in here he had a woman looking at him with eyes of cool black glass.

His order was up. Darian took his cuppa with the most gracious incline of his head (and, more valuable to the serving boy, the ever-important clink of coin) and turned back her way. He hooked a heel in a stool, tilted his head, canted his hips. He had dark eyes of his own, yes, and thick lashes too - he had an expressive mouth, and a lithe figure, and clever hands. The quirk of a brow, the curl of a smile, the deliberate way he slid his eyes to the free chair at her table and then caught her own again.... he was the master of a million little nonverbal cues. They didn't have to be subtle, but there was a hint of grace to them - like a dance, with a number of steps to be taken and protocol to be observed. Darian was leisurely in his seduction; his gaze held hers without urgency, merely intent. It put a kind of thrill in his blood that maybe someone quick with a diagnosis might call addiction. When she smiled back, he moved in.

"I couldn't help noticing," he purred, as he approached her table and bent at the waist, a cheeky little tea-balancing bow, "That you looked overworked. Might I be a distraction and share yon empty seat? I promise to be most entertaining." He smiled up at her, then winked, the devil's own charm paired with choirboy curls.

The brow twitched a little higher. ‘Overworked’? Now there was something she hadn’t heard before. . .

Amused, Bai looked at him, letting that slight curve of her lips widen ever so slightly. Already a handsome figure to begin with, he was even prettier up close—and of course he’d have a tongue to match. “That depends,” she replied smoothly, as she slid over that folder to the side with a delicate touch, “on your idea of entertainment.”

As they roved over his face, taking in the curls, his gaze, that charming turn to his lips, those slanted eyes were lit with curiosity, almost clinical in its gleam. For all that his hair reminded her of. . . butterflies, ridiculously enough, there was something so very feline about that sly smile despite lacking an obvious predatory quality. Every movement, too—from a simple stroll to an impudent half-bob—was made with a grace that was deliberate, yet unaffected, and did nothing to deter her impression in the least.

So, yes: feline. And not the domestic variety, either.

Gracefully, almost lazily, Bai sank back into her chair, legs crossed at the ankle as she neatly folded her hands on her lap. Without warning, she smiled—a quiet, subtle one that teased and coaxed, as if inviting him to take a seat if he hadn’t already. Go on, it seemed to say, dropping the challenge in front of him like a handkerchief. Entertain me.

What was said was, “Bai Li Yang,” and she held out her hand for him to shake, still smiling that languid smile. “I am one of visiting professors from Salem.”

Her brows drew up just that increment more, but their effect slid off the smiling facade that was Darian Morgan. He had so much practice at undermining the elegant; it was exactly as much fun as flirting. But he resisted the urge to turn sleek into sleazy. There was something about those eyes that kept him on course.

"I'd rather be banished than a bore," he told her. "Send me off if you find me wanting, but - " his Welsh accent rolled up under his words all musical lilt - "I don't think you will."

She examined him, but his own gaze was level. Those eyes, those eyes, those eyes. What a mesmerizing air she had. Darian did not doubt many other men had been sent off wanting; she was at once enticing and untouchable. Well, mostly untouchable. But his confidence had rock-solid foundations buttressed by countless conquests and allowed him to do what many men would not dare: approach her.

“Bai Li Yang. I am one of visiting professors from Salem.”

"Oh," he murmured in pleasant surprise. Eisenberg, Victoire, and now a Salemite, what luck! He did so like getting friendly with their foreign guests. "Darian Morgan, at your service or certainly negotiable." He bent over her hand without missing a beat. Though, true to their only recent acquaintanceship, he did not brush lips over the milky white back of it. It was the surest sign of decline in their modern era that such actions were no longer considered appropriate. 100 years ago he would have been the most courtly of the gentlemen; now he got called a pervert and smacked with handbags. So tragic. "What an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance. Welcome to the UK!"

Bai Li Yang was an enigma he would not have expected from their American delegation. Certainly Darian liked Americans - he liked their cutthroat consumerism, their utter lack of shame, their New York City fashion hellhole and their glamorous Fifth Avenue - but he did not consider subtlety one of their many virtues. As a faithful follower of the Aesthetic Movement, he attributed all mystery to her exotic Eastern roots.

He slid into the chair across from her, smile peaking from sly to warm. Tea was momentarily forgotten in favor of curiosity, which lit his inquisitive gaze and folded his hands under his chin in attentive schoolboy mimicry. "As an alumni and one who is related to at least half of Hogwarts," he continued, "allow me to serve as a most humble example of foreign hospitality. Or if you'd prefer, a devoted diplomat to the denizens of Diagon!" He flashed her a smile and uncurled a finger towards the door. "I have a shop just down the way," he offered, proof of his qualifications for such a prestigious position. His tone was teasing, easily and sweetly so.

The curl of her smile unfurled another, infinitesimal inch, baring the slightest glint of teeth. Oh, how he spoke of a matter of want—on her end, no less—with an easy confidence that made his words ring with truth, regardless of whether it was true at all; it was something so few could claim. How… quaint—novel, even, for it wasn’t every day that she found one who did.

And no doubt that he could.

Once he let her fingertips fall from his hold, Bai laced them together and tucked them away to her lap, clearly amused. Within only moments of her time, Darian had earned at least that much. “It wouldn’t happen to be an accurate representation of yourself, would it?” she asked sweetly, inclining her head with that same smile at his welcome and him. Though she was one for finery herself, she had to marvel—even if only briefly—at just how out of place the word ‘humble’ was, being spoken within close proximity of a figure such as himself. The thought alone was almost obscene.

Smiling faintly, she tilted her head in consideration, letting those dark, dark eyes travel over him openly. The look on her face was lit with interest, ever so slightly thoughtful, almost humorous… and, if one tilted his head ju~st so, well on its way to matching his own. “Why is it something cosmetic—aesthetics-related—is the first thing that comes to mind?”

"Madame, you wound me," Darian cried, sadly placing down his cup (it had yet to meet his lips, though this was the second time he'd raised it). He laid one hand languidly over his heart, a star of hot flesh against the cool silver-gold of his blazer. Sharply and suddenly he pressed in with his palm, fabric creasing, mouth twisting, theatrically demonstrating the agony of his stuttering pulse. She doubted him! Well, he seemed to shrug as his hand fell away, gentlemen are forgiving. "Would I lie to you?"

He did not quite manage to keep the laughter out of his voice. She wasn't the only one who needed entertaining.

"I'm a designer," he confirmed, "Of both muggle and magical clothing." He hadn't much of a foothold in American fashion, more's the pity, at least not yet. Once he hadn't thought to be that ambitious, but Dolly had changed that around. He dressed her for her last American tour and the press went crazy, his sales tripled, for a brief while the scene buzzed with his name... and she coaxed him with sweet promises of more. More. He was still thinking about it, having after five years thoroughly plundered the European wizarding stage. He laced his ringed fingers together and shrugged. "I tailor, too. Embroider, even. Though you won't see me admitting to that on my business cards."

At ‘designer’—a rather magical word for her, though she was loathe to admit it—Bai looked him over then, again, albeit the interest this time was more… intent. Fashion and clothing was a topic she did not to get to discuss frequently back home. And Darian Morgan was not altogether a common name. To combine it with location and occupation…

“I may have heard of you,” she said, the light in her eyes almost as impish as the creature that so often sat upon her shoulders. “Perhaps during my stay in Manhattan. Although, when so many names are thrown at one, it makes it rather difficult to remember…” For both Wizarding and Muggle fashions were admired in the Empire State. For that reason alone many lines had been blurred willingly, to the point that a Muggle designer might find a witch’s gown stirringly familiar, and the witch in question may deign to buy. “Perhaps I shall have to pay your boutique a visit.”

But not, she was content with, now. Talking shop when one hadn’t come to discuss it was so… gauche. It was worse than being outright rude. “I once had my heart set on becoming one myself,” when she had been little more than a mere slip of a girl, one who was only just discovering the meaning of luxury.

The lift to her lips was almost a smirk. “And then I realized that my desires were more… base… than that.” Something, she couldn’t help but bank on, she felt he would understand.

Though, how he would interpret was entirely up to him, of course.

She looked at him with renewed interest. "May have heard of me?" he repeated, metaphorical ears perking, "Ah, we'll have to fix that, please do stop by. Believe me ~ I'll spoil you rotten."

He knew, just from looking at her, she'd be a tough egg to crack. Suggestions of finery seduced so many, but not her - no, never her, not this poised polished peach. Honestly, Darian didn't know what he was going to do if she turned out to be boring. He'd come up with such a good story for her in his head: the Icy Temptress of the East - men'd do anything for her smile! And his professors had said he was too theatrical... pffft. He hoped she'd traveled, that was always exciting.

"Really?" Now it was his turn to look at her with admiring interest. "How wonderful. Oh no, my God," he looked at her harder, pointedly so, laughing: "What exactly do you teach?"