Part One - Dinner

"Thank you for helping me with dinner," said Oliver, sipping from his wine glass. "What did you say this was again?"

Julia laughed. "It's a ruby port from Portugal. It goes well with chocolate, doesn't it?"

Oliver looked up guiltily from where he had dipped his fingers into the mousse once more. He licked the velvety dessert from his thumb and took another sip. "It's excellent. Where did you learn to cook like this?"

"From my dad," said Julia, covering the little bit of mousse that was left. "I'm just glad I was home when you came pounding on my door," she added. "The look on your face was priceless."

"Yeah, well, you saved me." Oliver shook his head. "Again. Who would have thought that was supposed to be a soufflé?" He pointed to the deflated mess on the stove and grinned ruefully. "My mum would be devastated."

"It's a spectacular failure," Julia teased as she rinsed her hands and began to wash the dishes. "One of the best I've seen."

Oliver set down his glass and walked over to the sink. He touched her hand to turn off the water and felt a warm tingle shudder through his arm at the contact. "Don't. I'll take care of it later—and much quicker."

She gave him an amused look. "A man who washes his own dishes quickly? What, with magic?"

"Er, well…" Oliver stumbled over a reply, which was unusual for him; he was used to both the verbal and physical upper hand in a relationship. What relationship? he asked himself as soon as the thought passed through his head. Julia was his neighbor, nothing more. He had always found her pleasantly attractive, pretty even, as well as friendly and fun. He had just never thought of her in that way…until now.

"I'm teasing." She laughed again, probably due to the startled look on his face. She dried her hands and turned around. "But if you insist, I won't persist."

"Nice line," Oliver murmured, moving closer. He was suddenly captivated by her sense of humour, and her eyes—how had he not noticed her eyes before? They were clear and bright, a beautiful sapphire blue that stood out on alabaster skin dotted with freckles and a spot of mousse on her cheek. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail that matched her casual shorts and tee. She wore an apron now smudged with chocolate and powdered sugar.

He had pounded on her door in desperation, relieved to find her lounging on her balcony after a long Friday at work. He was supposed to be having the team over that night, and sick of pizza and beer, he had tried his hand at some of his mum's old recipes. He had failed completely not only with dinner, but dessert as well, and had begged her to help him. She had saved the entire meal, whipping up a delicate sauce for the bland chicken and complimenting it with a quick salad, then working on the mousse as they ate. His teammates had been suitably impressed even if they had given him a hard time. He owed her, and he wanted to thank her properly.

"You're looking at me funny," Julia said, narrowing her eyes as she poured herself another glass of the sweet wine and leaned back against the counter. "How much have you had?" She swirled it before taking a sip, watching him over the rim of the glass.

"It's not the port," Oliver replied. "You're really beautiful when you're making a mess of my kitchen."

Julia blushed and put down her glass. She began to untie the dirty apron. "I'm a fright and you've definitely had too much if you think otherwise. You should get back out there. You have guests, you know."

"No, they're fine without me," he said, waving absently at the other room. "Probably don't even miss me." He was still gazing at her, unable to tear his eyes away in spite of her protests.

"They're your teammates, and you should be with them." Julia paused. "Although you still haven't told me what you play, you know."

"It's a little like football and rugby combined," he said, taking another step closer. "Only quite a bit higher." He couldn't help it: he reached out and rubbed the spot of chocolate from her cheek. She blushed and ducked her head away, then turned under his arm for an artful escape. He caught her hand before she could move away.

"Wait," he said, his voice dry. Why was he so nervous? He cleared his throat and summoned all his courage and confidence to do what he so desperately wanted and needed to do. He pulled her closer, his hand still wrapped in hers…and she didn't resist.

"Don't go," he said softly. "I haven't thanked you yet."

She gazed up at him with a coy grin. "You've thanked me about a dozen times, Oliver. You have friends to entertain. I should go."

Oliver reached casually into his back pocket and touched his wand. He was relieved when the silent incantation worked and the door to the other room slammed shut and locked. "They can wait," he murmured again. His brought his hand to her face, ran his fingers through her hair until he came to the clip holding it back. He released it and let her hair fall around her shoulders. She continued to just gaze at him as he pulled her closer, so that their bodies were pressed together.

"Nice trick with the door," she said, sounding casual even though Oliver could feel her heart pounding in her chest. "Can you do that with the lights too?"

He grinned and reached behind him once more. With a quick flick this time and another silent spell, the overhead lights were off, leaving only the moon shining through the large window over the sink.

"Impressive," Julia said. She did not back down as he lowered his face to hers. She smiled against his lips. "Is your flat wired or something?"

"No idea," he said, stopping her with a kiss. She closed her eyes and kissed him back, and Oliver rejoiced in the simple pleasure of that first contact with another human being: the feel of new lips, tongue, teeth against his own. It was deliciously exciting, and felt so right. Until she pulled back, smiling mischievously.

"What else can you do?" she asked playfully. "Besides ruin a chicken and burn dessert?"

Her teasing tone was driving him mad with desire, not to mention her sly grin and the subtle challenge he saw on her face. Maybe it was the wine, or the chocolate, but he suddenly and intensely needed to be with her. He sensed, however, that he'd have to play her game—and that only made him want her more.

"I can do this," he finally replied. Another wave behind his back lit the one and only candle in the entire flat, a gift from a former girlfriend he silently thanked for both the candle and for dumping him on his arse in the Leaky Cauldron six months ago. "And I can do this." He flicked his wand at the wizarding wireless, hoping something soft and quiet would come on.

He was lucky: the Purple Pygmy Puffs were crooning their latest soppy ballad, and he felt Julia relax against him almost immediately. His body responded, and he wrapped his arms around her waist. She gazed up at him with a challenging look on her face.

"So do you do that for all the girls who cook for you," she asked, "or just for me?"

Oliver narrowed his eyes, his pulse pounding with desire. "Just you," he said, his voice husky, and he leaned down to kiss her once more, hungry for her mouth and the sweet taste of the wine they shared. She returned the kiss with enthusiasm, her hands roaming freely up and down his back and sending shivers through his body. Yet he sensed she was holding back, and he was much too interested in her to push without asking. He kept the playful tone as he pulled away and began to kiss her neck instead. "Do you cook for loads of other blokes, or just me?"

He felt her shudder and knew she was smiling, enjoying his soft touch. He grinned to himself, certain he would soon have what he wanted. Her response caught him by surprise, though.

"I only cook for men who burn soufflés," she murmured, then giggled as he nuzzled a particularly sensitive spot on her neck. "Or neighbors who occasionally dress funny, play secret sports up in the air, and can turn on their lights and music without a word."

Oliver stopped, his head falling briefly to her shoulder before he looked up and gave her a rueful grin. "If you insist, I won't persist," he told her, forcing himself to step back. The warmth between them evaporated into the distance that now separated them, and he almost groaned with wanting it back, needing the feel of her pressed against him once more.

"Oh, you don't have to tell me everything," she said, tilting her head and laying a hand on his cheek. "Not yet. Just a bit more, so I know what I'm getting into."

"Fair enough." He nodded. He poured himself more wine and offered her another glass as well. Sipping slowly, he thought about what to say. He could make up a story, but she struck him as far too smart to swallow it. He could feed her more vague facts, but he sensed she'd merely raise an eyebrow and wait for more. He liked her, he really did, and yet…how much could he tell her?

"I play a sport called Quidditch," he finally said. "My team is Puddlemore United. We play on broomsticks…that fly." There went her eyebrows, and the questioning glint in her eyes.

"You fly? In the air?" she asked.

"Yes, in the air. I'm not crazy," he insisted when he saw the skeptical look on her face. "And I'm not dangerous. I'm just … different than other people."

"In what way?" she asked. "Different because you like to eat fried skate with ketchup or different because you have an extra toe or…something else?"

Oliver laughed. "I don't have an extra toe, no, and I don't even know what skate is. No, I can just do things other people can't do."

"Like fly a broomstick and light candles with your mind?" she pushed.

"Yes." She nodded to herself. She set her glass down and Oliver felt his heart drop, certain she was going to leave. She surprised him yet again.

"Show me."

"Show you what?" he asked, confused.

"What you can do," she replied, arms crossed over her chest in a clear signal: she wasn't moving on until he did. "And I don't mean with your lips. I'm quite satisfied with that."

Oliver hesitated. She was Muggle, but there was something about her that made him trust her almost implicitly. He wanted to show her, and not just to get back to where they were. Her quick wit and charm was something he found as attractive as her blue eyes and freckles. She was special; she deserved the truth.

Taking a deep breath, Oliver took out his wand; she narrowed her eyes but did not say anything. He cast a quick charm on the table in the corner, one of the first spells he had learned, and it hovered in the air in front of them. He thought he saw a flash of fear behind her eyes, but she shut it down immediately and asked him the last thing he would have expected.

"Are you a spy?" she demanded.

"For what?" he asked, completely confused. He really liked her; why couldn't she just accept that and move on now?

"MI6, Scotland Yard, I don't know," she said, waving her arms about. "Because that," she pointed at the wand he still held casually in front of him, "looks like some sort of secret weapon."

Oliver almost laughed out loud, but he knew that would certainly ruin anything that might be going on between them. He shook his head and smiled, pocketing his wand once more. "It's not a weapon, no. And I'll say again—it's safe. I'm safe."

He moved back toward her to gauge her reaction. He noticed her chest heaving, and wondered why. Was she scared, or was she still interested? He leaned towards her again and took her face in his hands.

"I really like you," he murmured, admitting it to them both. "Trust me."

She nodded, and a slow, sly smile spread across her face. But it was different now…there was a knowing glint in her eye, and a slightly cruel slant to her mouth.

"I do," she said, and her voice had changed. It sounded older, deeper…threatening. He dropped his hands and stared.

"What's going on?" he asked. Her hair was darker and longer, her eyes red and glowing. When she laughed, he saw sharp, pointed teeth. He gasped and pulled away.

"What are you?" Oliver cried.

She answered with a scream so hideous his insides turned to ice, but he felt nothing as the world twisted slowly into darkness.

* * *

Part Two - Breakfast

Oliver woke in a sweat, his arms flailing at the tangled bedsheets. He glanced around the room, trying to make sense of his surroundings, of what had happened. Running a shaking hand through his hair, he swore vigorously when he couldn't remember and threw himself out of bed. He hurried to the shower and tried to scrub the strange feeling of nausea and disgust from his body.

The team had come over. He had cooked a dry chicken and ruined the soufflé. He had begged Julia to help. They had talked afterward in the kitchen, sharing the last of the port wine she had brought over. They had kissed. They had talked some more.

And then she had screamed.

Or had she? Why couldn't he remember anything else after that? Was it just dream? He was still alive, after all, even if he felt like hell. Determined to understand, he dressed quickly, frowning at his ragged reflection in the mirror. Tired eyes and a pale face stared back at him. Trying not to think about it, he grabbed his keys and his wand and headed upstairs to Julia's flat.

Taking a deep breath, Oliver knocked on the door. There was no answer; he pounded and waited and tried again. Still nothing. His heart racing with trepidation, Oliver was tempted to break in, but tried to calm himself. There had to be a rational explanation. He turned back toward his own flat and ran into Julia on the stairs.

"Good morning!" she smiled brightly, her teeth straight and white, her eyes bright blue once more. She kissed him on the cheek, and it was all he could do to stop himself from recoiling. He didn't respond, just stared at her: at her brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail again; sunglasses on top of her head; a music player strapped around her upper arm. So normal—so beautiful.

She wiped her brow with the back of her hand. "Sorry, I'm a mess again. I was running. But you look like you've seen a ghost, what's wrong?"

"I don't know," Oliver said, shaking his head as he continued to stare. "Maybe I did. I'm not sure."

Her smile faltered slightly. "Did something happen? You really do look terrible. Come on in. I'll cook us some breakfast."

"That would be great," he said, following her into her flat. If he was hesitant, he pushed it aside, determined to find out what had happened the night before.

Julia's flat was as different from his as possible: warm and homey, neatly cluttered with candles and photographs and pillows in only the way a woman could decorate. Julia excused herself and ran down the short hall to the bathroom, reappearing ten minutes later looking refreshed and wearing a simple sundress. Her wet hair glistened in the sunlight streaming through the windows, and Oliver was once again struck by how attractive she was…when she wasn't screaming at him, red eyes glowing.

"So tell me about this ghost," she said as she ground some coffee beans and began to brew them in the Muggle coffeepot. She moved quickly to the refrigerator and took out milk, eggs, sausage, and a loaf of bread. After tossing the sausage into a pan on the stove, she grabbed a bowl and began to beat the eggs and milk together, adding a dash of cinnamon and vanilla. Oliver sat at the counter across from her, fascinated as he watched her work; he could almost forgot about the terrifying vision of the previous night.

"I'm not really sure what it was," he finally murmured. He glanced out the window, then back at her, desperate for the truth. "Only it was you."

She stopped dipping the bread into the creamy egg mixture and looked over her shoulder at him. "Me? What are you talking about?" She sounded slightly nervous, and Oliver shuddered as he remembered her dark hair flailing about his kitchen, the excruciating scream…

"I think it was a dream," he began.

"I certainly hope so," Julia pointed out, placing the sopping bread into a second pan on the stove. "Seeing as I'm very much alive. You don't have prescient dreams, do you?"

"What?" he asked.

"Dreams of the future," she replied. "It's not one of the other unusual things you can do, is it?"

"Er, no," he replied. "At least, I don't think so."

"Thank heavens." She smiled at him, more relaxed. "Because I had a really good time last night. I'd hate to miss out on another chance to save you from your own cooking."

"Me too. But about last night…" He trailed off, unsure what to say, worried that she would berate him for forgetting. Instead, she surprised him again.

"You don't remember, do you? Is that what this is about?" She laughed as she tossed the toasted bread into the air; it landed with a satisfying smack back in the pan.

"Sort of," he mumbled. "I'm sorry, all I can remember after dessert is this dream, and—"

"—and I was a ghost?" she asked. She chopped up a handful of strawberries and raspberries and tossed them into a bowl with sugar, a slightly amused look on her face.

"No, you were a banshee," he admitted.

She burst out laughing. "A banshee? But that's awful! No wonder you were so pale when you saw me!"

"The thing is…it felt so real," he said.

Julia appeared thoughtful as she took down two mugs from a nearby cabinet and poured them both a cup of hot coffee. "Last night I asked you if you were a spy. Do you remember that?"

"Yes," he said. He closed his eyes and sighed: the coffee was delicious.

"And now you're asking me if I'm a screaming banshee," she continued, turning around for plates. She speared several chunks of toasted bread onto each one, added some sausage, and doused it all with maple syrup. She placed the bowl of fruit between them to share.

"I'm not asking, not exactly," he replied defensively. "I'm just…just…"

She laughed again, and the sound was infectiously cheerful. He was slowly starting to believe that her red eyes, the evil cackle, the piercing scream were all a dream. He dug into his plate and grinned with pleasure: it was one of the most unusual breakfasts he'd had in years, but one of the best.

"You're not sure?" she asked mischievously. "Really, Oliver—do I look like a banshee?"

"No, of course not," he said. "It must have been a dream. I'm sorry."

Julia winked at him. "I've been called worse."

Oliver helped himself to more fruit and decided to continue. "I have another confession then: I really don't remember much after we talked last night. Just the dream. It was that intense."

"Well," she said, wiping her mouth of syrup. "We finished another bottle of wine, so maybe that's why. It would also explain your dream—not to mention your nose." She tweaked at his nose with another grin.

Oliver narrowed his eyes at her. "Then why aren't you feeling it this morning? How come you remember everything?"

"I didn't have as much," she replied with an easy toss of her shoulders. "I know better. I watch myself. A girl has to stay safe."

"And were we…safe last night?"

Julia gasped in surprise and laughed, then apologized profusely. "I'm sorry, I really am. I should be angry, shouldn't I?" She affected a serious face and wagged her finger at him. "What kind of man are you if you can't even remember what happened between us last night? I should throw you out right now."

"Or you could just tell me," Oliver replied as blandly as he could. The feeling of uncomfortable horror from his dream had almost disappeared, though he still couldn’t remember much about the previous night. He did, however, relish the playful mood they bantered with, and was glad it had returned.

"Honestly, there's not much to tell," she said. "After you levitated your table—which was quite a trick, by the way—we talked a bit more about you being different, only your teammates started knocking on the door before we got any…further."

Oliver nodded as he started to remember. "I told them off, we had some more wine, and then I do remember more kissing."

Julia actually blushed, which Oliver recognized was rare for her. He loved the way it made her look: vulnerable when she was always so confident. "Yes, and then they broke down the door, after which I quietly snuck out and left you to them. I've no idea what happened after I came home. I'm sure I don't want to know."

Oliver wished he did, but it wouldn't be the first time a night with his team resulted in severe memory loss. "Did we make plans for tonight?" Oliver asked instead, hoping they had. He finished his breakfast and sipped at his coffee and finally felt completely human again.

"No, but I was sort of hoping we might." Julia smiled at him, such a warm, sincere smile that it just about made him drop his mug and kiss her again. "I had a lot of fun rescuing your dinner. Maybe I could show you how to cook at my place tonight."

"I'd like that," said Oliver. "Can I bring anything?"

"You can bring your magic stick, for one," she said, leaning across the counter to kiss him. He grinned against her lips. "And I don't mean that one, I mean the one you keep in your back pocket. You still have some explaining to do."

Oliver pretended to groan. "I don't suppose you'll go out with me otherwise?" he asked.

"Not a chance, Oliver Wood. No secrets."

"No secrets." He nodded. "And what about you? Do you have any secrets?"

"Of course I do." She leaned toward him, wet hair falling in his face, another sly smile ticking his ear. "I really am a—"

He stopped her with a kiss; he didn't want to know.

And if her eyes flashed before the world went dark, he ignored them as well and surrendered to fate.

* * *