1. York

My flat was in the Old Town, about half a mile from the castle. It was a tall tenement of weathered stone, and I lived on the top floor. I stepped out into the Edinburgh air and walked around the side of the tenement to a sheltered little alcove where the bins are stored; it’s the spot I use as a Disapparation point. I checked my watch; it was ten to eleven in the morning, and the day was bright and dry, but rather chilly.

When I arrived at my destination, almost two hundred miles to the south, I was confronted by an instantaneous change in the weather. I hoped that I had arrived in an April shower, and that it would quickly pass, but it seemed unlikely.

The trees behind York Crown Court, where I’d arrived, were providing some protection but a glance to my right, to the River Foss, showed a surface jumping with the falling rain and patterned with ever-expanding and intertwining ripples. A raindrop splashed onto my face as I looked through the spring leaves above me. When I cast my eyes upward I could find no break in the gloom. From horizon to horizon the sky was the grey of wet slate.

Fastening my duffle coat and pulling up the hood, I walked out from beneath the sheltering green canopy. We had arranged to meet at eleven, at the bottom of the steps up to Clifford Tower. As usual, I was a few minutes early. As I approached the corner of the Court building, I looked gloomily up at the sky; it seemed unlikely that the rain would end any time soon.

I expected to have a long, wet wait for Lavender. Astonishingly, I was wrong.

For the first time ever, she had arrived at our rendezvous before me. Upon seeing me, Lavender smiled and waved. She was wearing a pale trench coat with the collar turned up, and was sheltering from the rain under a bright pink, daisy-patterned umbrella. There was no one else around, the weather had seen to that.

Lavender was moving with the short-stepped, heel-flicking gait of someone who was afraid that they were about to fall off their shoes. I watched in consternation as she scampered across the street to meet me. Concerned for her safety, I lengthened my stride and walked rapidly towards her.

As we approached each other, I critically examined her latest choice of footwear. They might have been brown brogues, were it not for the shiny black spike elevating her heel by over four inches. I sighed inwardly at the sight of sensible shoes rendered senseless by bizarre Muggle fashion requirements. And I knew that even though they looked like brogues, I could never call them such in front of Lavender. I also knew that, whatever colour they were, they certainly wouldn’t be brown. I wondered whether to make a comment, but decided against it. Lavender had a good sense of humour, but fashion was always a risky topic to joke about.

As she approached, the shower was beginning to blow over and the rain had begun to ease. Perhaps we’d be lucky with the weather after all. If not, we could always Apparate back to Edinburgh. Lavender slowed to a walk and put down her umbrella; it was a wise precaution, as it was at my eye-height. When we met, in the centre of the car park access road, she reached up to my face, pulled back my hood and pulled me down to her level. Because of the heels, I didn’t have to bend quite as far as usual.

We kissed, and it was on the lips. After six months of being “just friends� and only a week of being “a couple�, a kiss on the lips, even the light, friendly, breathy brush she gave me, was thrilling. I savoured it. It was our fourth public kiss of greeting, and I wondered how many more it would take before I finally stopped counting.

‘Hello, Mark,’ she said, her cheeks dimpling as she smiled at me.

‘Good morning, Lavender,’ I replied, grinning.

Lavender looked up at the still dark sky. ‘What’s good about it?’ she asked.

‘You’re here,’ I told her, smiling. That got me another kiss. ‘It was your idea to meet here, Lavender. After yesterday’s interrupted evening, I thought that you’d be coming up to my place again. I did invite you for Sunday lunch today, remember?’

Once, I’d have been happy to meet her anywhere. Now, however, her choice of a neutral venue was worrying me.

‘I know, Mark, but I wanted to be somewhere different, and this is where we met for our first date,’ she told me. ‘At least, for our first sort-of-date,’ she corrected herself.

I realised that despite our discussions, she, like me, was having difficulty deciding when, exactly our relationship had begun. Was it six months ago, our first night out together, or was it a week ago, when she finally decided that we were a couple, not simply friends?

‘What do you have planned for us today?’ I asked.

‘I thought that we could walk along the river, and then go along to that restaurant on Coppergate for Sunday lunch,’ she suggested.

‘Sounds good to me.’ I nodded, not wanting to disagree with her, though I wondered whether I could afford yet another meal at an expensive Muggle restaurant. I knew the place she meant, we’d been there once, just before Christmas. I wondered whether they would let me in. On our previous visit I’d known where we were going, and had dressed accordingly. I looked doubtfully down at my corduroy trousers and duffle doat.

Lavender didn’t appear to notice my worries she simply smiled, took my hand, and led me past the conical mound on which the quatrefoil keep perched. As we walked towards Tower Street, the park, and the River Ouse she told me about the “triple-A� - the All Auror Alert which had dragged her from my flat the previous evening.

I’d thought that last night was going to be the night, but duty had called her away. A triple-A is a call for help; it meant that one or more of Lavender’s fellow Aurors were in trouble. She’d still been holding the Auror Identity Card which doubled as her emergency Portcard between her teeth when it automatically activated thirty seconds after the alarm had sounded. The alert had interrupted our progressively passionate evening.

Lavender wasn’t on standby, so she didn’t have to answer the alarm, but most Aurors still did. After all, one day it might be them calling for help. She’d had the card between her teeth because, when she vanished, she had been holding her wand while still trying to refasten her blouse.

After the Portcard had snatched her from my living room, to send her into unknown danger in a flash of bright blue light, I’d begun to worry about her. Some of my concern was my natural, “she’s on a mission� worry, but mostly I’d been concerned about the expression on her face when she’d left. It almost seemed she’d been relieved to be leaving me. I worried that she was having second thoughts about us.

In a way, it was understandable. I had my own concerns about our, quite literally in my case, fumbling relationship with her. Although I hadn’t wanted her to go, if I was being truly honest, I’d actually been a little relieved myself when she left. Since the sudden change in our relationship a week ago I’d known that the inevitable would happen, that one day we’d end up in bed together. The previous evening I’d been certain that it was, in fact, about to happen. But I was worried. Would I be any good? Would I embarrass myself in front of her? What should I do? What would she like?

I brought myself back to the present. She was chattering happily, and I needed to listen.

‘It was Blundell, McLoughlin and Pepperell who called the alert,’ she told me. I nodded knowledgeably. The names meant nothing, but she expected me to know the name of every Auror. ‘They’d cornered Boris Bulstrode; he was wanted for using the Imperious Curse on a keeper at the dragon sanctuary. But he had some Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, and in the confusion he brought the ceiling down on them, trapping Trudi Pepperell. Blundell called the alert when that bloody idiot McLoughlin cast a Reducto in the darkness. He missed Bulstrode and blew out a wall instead. Bulstrode almost got away, but Fanny Upjohn, old “Spider� Webb, and I managed to stun the git as he tried to escape on a broom. Bulstrode had a soft landing. He landed in the dragon dung he’d stolen. You know how much that stuff stinks, Mark! I don’t still smell of it, do I?’ Lavender finally paused for breath.

‘You smell wonderful,’ I assured her. She hugged me.

‘Thanks, Mark. Anyway, by the time I’d got rid of the smell and done the paperwork, it was one o’clock in the morning, Sorry.’

‘It’s okay,’ I assured her. She lapsed into silence, and I continued my contempations.

Lavender was only twenty-four, three years younger than me. She was five foot four of glamorous, curvaceous femininity. But her reputation preceded her like an angry dragon. She was Lavender Brown: werewolf, Auror, and man-eater; a woman who had a different man every night. At least that’s what the papers said. When I’d met her six months earlier, I had simply thought that she was lonely and a little lost.

My mother disagreed. One day, soon probably, I’d have to take Lavender to meet my Ma. I wasn’t looking forward to it. Last weekend, the day after Lavender and I had agreed that we were in a relationship, I finally told Ma the name of the wee lassie I was seeing. Ma didn’t use her usual polite understatement. Lavender wasn’t merely “an interesting choice, Mark�, her usual term of disapproval; no, my girl was a “gallus wee besom�. My mother wasn’t the only one to let me know that I was going out with, to use the polite translation, an unmanageable hussy. Many of my friends and work colleagues agreed.

It was true that Lavender had been in a lot of intense, and short, relationships. But I’d lasted six months, a record. I’d been the “and guest� at the functions she’d attended. But I’d never been entirely sure what else I was.

For months, I was the bloke who listened to her, but didn’t try it on with her. But that ended last week. Now we had moved from friends to - to what, exactly? We were going out together; she’d finally agreed that’s what we’d been doing.

I was crazy, I told myself. We’d been in a comfortable, if celibate, relationship for months. I’d wanted our relationship to change and it had changed, with remarkable suddenness. I’d moved from being “friend� to “boyfriend� and that would inevitably lead to…

That was the trouble. Part of me wanted to tear off her clothes and jump on her, but a greater part of me was terrified that if I was no good, if I failed to satisfy her, then it would be over before it had really begun. I wanted to keep her, but I wasn’t certain how. Her remark on my sofa the previous night hadn’t helped. “Take it easy, Mark, you kiss like an over-enthusiastic teen,� she’d told me just before the alert sounded.

I hadn’t had a girlfriend, or a girl, since Cara finished with me on the fourth anniversary of the battle. She had accused me of lacking ambition, of grieving too much and of being fixated on the death of my little sister, Lillith. The seventh anniversary was now approaching; the seventh anniversary of my sister’s murder and for the first time since Cara, I had a girl.

Unfortunately, according to everyone I knew, it was a girl who would be bad for me. I had thought that Rhianna Wrigglesworth was my friend; we’d worked together in York for a year, sat in adjacent desks and shared a lot of confidences. I’d confided in her when she’d visited me in the Scottish Office. I’ve been back in Edinburgh for some time. Rhianna didn’t beat about the bush. She was as blunt as you’d expect a Yorkshire lass to be. “You’re going out with a girl who has a reputation as a tart, who was in your sister’s year at school, and who was attacked and scarred by the man who killed your sister. Do you really think that’s a good thing?� she had asked.

I told Rhianna that I had a girl I didn’t deserve. I told her that I was in love with Lavender, and she laughed at me. “I’ll be here to pick up the pieces,� she’d told me. “You’re hopeless, Mark. You really know nothing about girls, do you?�

Perhaps I was doomed to be a failure.

‘You’re hurting my hand, Mark,’ Lavender said. She looked up at me in concern.

‘Sorry.’ I released her hand, realising that I’d been unconsciously transmitting my worries. We had reached the river and we automatically turned right. ‘Are we going to call into the King’s Arms?’ I asked, hoping to divert her from asking me what was wrong.

She’d again fallen silent, which was very unusual for her. ‘The King’s Arms?’ she asked.

We were walking upstream with the river on our left, heading towards King’s Staith. It was a part of the city I was very familiar with. Woodsmill Quay, the huge brick former warehouse where I’d lived briefly during my year-long secondment to the Yorkshire Law Office stood on the opposite bank. We were slowly strolling towards the King’s Arms, the pub where we’d met the first time we’d gone out together.

‘The King’s Arms, remember?’ I said.

‘Of course I remember. It was our first not-a-date,’ she said.

She stopped suddenly next to the river boats. When I, too, stopped, she turned around to face me. She looked up, and I stared into her violet eyes. ‘Why did you ask me out? Why did you agree to my conditions?’ she asked.

I stared down into her face. As I thought about my answer I looked at eyeliner, mascara and eye shadow and wondered how long it took her to prepare herself. Did she do it for me, or for herself? Did it matter?

‘I didn’t think,’ I admitted.

She arched an epilated and pencil enhanced eyebrow and I realised what I’d said.

‘I mean,’ I added hastily, ‘the opportunity presented itself, and I took it. I knew that if I didn’t ask you then, I’d never get another chance. If I’d stopped to think, even for a second, you’d have left the Yorkshire Law Office. You’d have been gone. As for the conditions, you said “just friends,� and I was happy to accept it.’ I gave her a rather sheepish smile. ‘But I sort of hoped for more,’ I admitted.

‘But why me?’ she asked. ‘You must have heard about me, about what the papers said.’

‘Of course I had heard about you. I read the papers, but I don’t believe them. I wanted to get to know you better, I wanted to get to know the beautiful girl I first saw five years ago,’ I told her. ‘Why did you say yes, Lavender, and why did you impose the conditions?’

She sighed. ‘Please don’t think badly of me, Mark,’ she began. Unfortunately, that was never a good beginning. ‘I intended to say no,’ she admitted. ‘But I had second thoughts. I decided that I owed you at least that much, that you deserved at least one date.’ Her eyes flicked across my face, trying to read my expression.

‘Merlin, Mark, you must know why,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re stupidly modest, you know. “First saw five years ago� sounds like you passed me on a street or something. You didn’t just “see me�; you pulled me out of a burning building and took me to St Mungo’s! I was barely conscious and you got me to the hospital. And Seamus arrived and chased you away before I even found out who you were. When I met you in York last year I didn’t recognise you, and I wasn’t very nice to you, and you helped me despite that. And you looked so forlorn when you asked me.’ She stared sadly up at me. ‘That’s why I said yes.’

She’d felt sorry for me. Great! I again lost myself in memories trying to persuade myself that there was more to it than that.

Six months earlier, we had met at the bottom of the steps to Clifford Tower. It was the day before Halloween, a Saturday, and the previous day she’d made the headlines of the Daily Prophet, for all the right reasons. I still had the cutting. “Werewolf Auror Despatches Killer Vampire� the headlines had said. The report was completely inaccurate, I knew that. Neither Auror Bones, nor Inspector Beadle were even mentioned in the newspaper report, despite the fact that they’d both been there. I knew what had really happened, because I’d been there, too.

I got to know her on that first day. We talked and ate and drank. She did most of the talking, of course, but I didn’t mind, because I could watch her, listen to her, for hours. When she got excited, Lavender talked with her whole body; hands, arms and even eyebrows and nose. Her nose twitched and wrinkled as though there was a bad smell under it whenever she mentioned someone she didn’t like. Usually, that was one of her ex-boyfriends.

If that ever happened when she mentioned me, I would know it was over. It hadn’t happened, I told myself hopefully, as I found my lifeline and clung to it like a drowning man.

On that overcast October day, on our first not-date, I learned quickly. It was fascinating to watch and listen to her as she talked about her job in the Auror Office, and about her friends. She had complained about the Daily Prophet’s report, but admitted that her parents would be pleased that, for once, she wasn’t in the gossip columns for her wild, or even “abandoned� behaviour. I told her that I didn’t know what, exactly, she was supposed to have abandoned. She admitted that she’d certainly abandoned her common sense on several occasions, and her dad had told her that she’d abandoned her morals.

‘A Knut for your thoughts,’ she said.

‘I was just thinking about us, now, and about our first date … or, at least, our first not-date,’ I told her.

‘Going on that ghost-walk was an inspired idea of yours!’ she told me. ‘It was so funny, all of that “spooky� Muggle nonsense. You gave me a fit of the giggles, and I thought that the guide was going to explode!’ She looked up at me thoughtfully. ‘You know I was going to make excuses, don’t you? Before we’d even met I’d decided that it would be our only date. I knew when we met at Clifford Tower that if you asked me out a second time I was going to put you off, tell you that I was busy. But you cheated, Mark. You asked me while I was still laughing.’

‘I thought that it would be my only chance, Lavender,’ I said. I looked down into her eyes and decided to take a chance.

‘You aren’t who you pretend to be, Lavender,’ I said. ‘You put up a good front, but…’

‘Good!’ she interrupted. ‘They’re two of my most impressive weapons.’ She looked down at her chest.

‘I’m trying to be serious, Lavender,’ I said. ‘If we’re serious about us, we need to be serious with each other, sometimes.’

She didn’t speak.

‘Why here?’ I asked. ‘Why did you choose to meet in York? I offered to make Sunday lunch for us. We could have met at my place, or at yours. Why here?’

‘Because I don’t know what I’m doing, Mark,’ she said. ‘Because this morning, my parents invited me round to Sunday lunch today too, and they told me that I should bring Mary, that it was about time that they met her.’

‘Mary, who’s Mary?’ I asked in confusion.

‘Mum and Dad noticed that I haven’t been in the gossip columns for a while,’ said Lavender. ‘No photographs of me with a bloke on my arm. At Christmas Mum asked if I was restricting “my activities� to Muggle men. I told her that I had a new friend. I told her all about you.’

‘You did?’

She shook her head. ‘Not exactly, Mark. I didn’t tell her everything. Because you weren’t my boyfriend, and I didn’t want her to think that you were. I told her where we’d gone, and what we’d been doing, and she thinks you’re a good influence on me.’

I smiled.

‘She also thinks you’re a girl called Mary Moon.’

2. Rye

It wasn’t the first time Lavender had told me something which rendered me speechless, and I knew that it wouldn’t be the last. As I silently processed Lavender’s words, a few spots of rain began to fall.

‘Mary Moon!’ I said, embarrassed and annoyed. ‘Merlin, Lavender, of all the…’ Words failed me, so I simply shook my head in humiliation and despair. Despite my obvious discomfort, she began to laugh. It seemed that she was oblivious to my feelings. My mortification was merely a joke to her. Why, I wondered, why did I let her do this to me? She grabbed my arm and looked anxiously up into my face as the descending droplets increased in frequency and it began to rain in earnest.

‘Sorry,’ Lavender told me earnestly. ‘I didn’t want Mum to think I had a boyfriend.’

‘Having a girlfriend is okay with her, is it?’ I asked sarcastically.

‘I’ve got lots of girl friends,’ said Lavender, giving me her best smile. ‘Parvati, Padma, Susan, Bobbie, lots.’

The rain, which had been steadily getting heavier, decided that it was time to really dampen my spirits and the downpour began in earnest. I considered making for the pub, but it was still a hundred yards away. The water was falling in drenching torrents, and Lavender’s shoes weren’t suitable for running anywhere. I looked for, and found, the nearest sheltering doorway.

‘Hold tight,’ I told her. I firmly grabbed her hand and strode rapidly up the side street towards the dingy alcove.

For me, it was a brisk and very wet walk, for Lavender it was a fast trot. She clung silently to me, leaning on me, holding me with both hands in order to maintain her balance. She didn’t even attempt to put up her umbrella. By the time we reached the doorway my duffle coat was soaking and the cold rain had penetrated through to my shirt. Despite my hood, my hair was wet too. Lavender’s trench coat was rain darkened and dripping, and her hair was plastered to her skull. For a split second I took comfort in the fact that she, like me, was obviously physically uncomfortable. But she looked so miserable that I couldn’t stay annoyed with her. She shivered, and so did I.

‘Och, noo we’re drookit,’ I said.

‘Aye, drookit, the noo,’ she said, making a pathetic attempt to copy my accent. She began to laugh. It was an edgy, nervous braying noise which I’d never heard before, and I looked worriedly down at her. Seeing my concern, she stopped making the unnerving noise and put on a rather brittle smile.

‘It’s really sweet the way you turn into a full blown Scot when you’re angry or annoyed, Mark. I assume that drookit means wet.’ She paused thoughtfully and a worried look curled at the corner of her mouth. ‘I hope it means wet. It doesn’t mean finished, does it? You aren’t going to leave me, just because I told my parents you were a girl called Mary, are you?’

She lowered her shoulders into a slump, pushed out her bottom lip, allowed her head to droop to one side and looked contritely up into my face. I had seen Lavender manipulate men before, and I knew that she was good at it, so good that I wasn’t certain whether what I was witnessing was genuine or not. I knew what was coming next, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to resist. Inwardly, I cursed at the manipulative wiles of Lavender Brown. Outwardly, I smiled with the certainty of a man resigned to his fate.

‘Wet means wet, Lavender,’ I told her. I paused, but saw her anxious remorse and took pity on her. ‘Drookit means soaked to the skin,’ I said.

She impetuously threw her arms around my waist, and I wondered if she really had been worried. She couldn’t have been. Surely she knew that she had me caught, hook, line, and sinker. I once again wondered how, and when, she’d gained complete control of me.

She pulled herself in tightly and rested her cheek on my chest. ‘Little Lavender is vewy sowwy, big Mr Marky,’ she began, in her little-girl voice. ‘Vanda didn’t mean to upset her lovely Emmsy-wemmsy. Vanda didn’t think; she’s a vewy silly girl sometimes.’

As she spoke, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her wand. Suddenly my clothes were warm and dry, and so were we.

‘Is nice Mark all warm and snug and better?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Aye, it’s aw braw, hen,’ I told her.

‘I have no idea what you just said,’ she told me. I watched her puzzle over the words.

‘And that’s why you should never attempt a Scot’s accent, Lavender,’ I told her, as I again moderated my accent. I looked over her head and out onto the street. The rain continued to lash at the pavement, and the gutters were becoming streams. ‘Your attempt at drookit was rubbish, and simply adding “the noo� onto the end of a sentence makes you sound less Scottish, not more. You might as well say “it’s a braw bricht moonlicht nicht the nicht�.’

‘Braw means fine,’ she observed. Her eyes lit up when she realised that I was both teasing and translating for her. ‘It certainly isn’t bright, or moonlit, or night.’ She turned and looked out at the grey skies, and the rain. ‘It’s wet and dank and miserable, and…’

‘Dreich,’ I told her. ‘If you really want to know, it’s a richt dreich day, Lavender. One thing we do have in Scotland is good short words for horrible wet weather.’ I looked down into her eyes and kept my face straight. ‘I wonder why that is?’ I asked her.

She burst out laughing, slipped her arms over my shoulders, and pulled me down for a kiss.

It was a very long kiss, and it seemed to me that it was in turns tentative, forgiving, tongue-tanglingly passionate, and determined. About halfway through it, when she had pushed her tongue into my mouth, I had cupped her buttocks in my hands and lifted her from the ground. When we finally separated, panting, she briefly nibbled at my lower lip before I lowered her carefully back down. She looked up at me thoughtfully.

‘I’ve decided that I don’t want to be in York any longer. It’s much too dreich. Hold tight,’ Lavender ordered, offering me her arm.

I did as I was told. The moment she was sure that my grip was firm, she Disapparated.

We arrived in a secluded little nook; there was a brick wall to our left, and a steep and overgrown embankment both to our right and behind us. It wasn’t raining and, in fact, the sky above was a pale blue. The clouds, however, were the dirty, icy grey of week-old snow and the sky subtly shaded into grey as it approached the horizon. Even here, the weather looked vaguely threatening. It wasn’t surprising, after all April was the month of showers.

As I inhaled the subtly different air of yet another location I discerned the faintest whiff of the sea, but the overwhelming smell was of the fumes of Muggle cars. I wondered where we were. I’d assumed that she was taking us to her place, or possibly to mine, but she hadn’t. This was neither Edinburgh nor Appledore.

I did not recognise the place, but wherever it was, it was warmer, and drier, than York. I unfastened my duffle coat. Lavender turned to face me, and gave me a critical once-over.

I looked down at myself, wondering what she was thinking. My old and rather faded shirt was a predominantly green tartan. To be precise, it was Stewart Hunting tartan. My olive green corduroy trousers were past their best too. They were, however, comfortable, and at least my brown suede desert boots were new. Most of my Muggle clothes were old, because for the past six months I’d spent most of my money going out with Lavender.

‘Well?’ I asked when she looked up into my eyes.

‘I suppose you’ll do,’ she told me, and then she sighed.

‘Damned by faint praise,’ I told her sadly.

‘It’s my fault, Mark. I was never really bothered about your appearance, because we weren’t going out with each other, we were only…’ she paused, trying to decide what to call it.

‘Going out together?’ I suggested. She gave me an odd little wistful smile. It was a smile I’d seen a lot of over the past week, ever since we’d moved from being friends into being … whatever it was we were.

‘This way,’ she said. She took my hand and led me through a garage court and out onto a narrow road. We walked only a short distance along it before turning right and ascending a peculiar Muggle street, leaving the traffic behind. I looked at the name plate, high on the wall.

Mermaid Street was narrow and steep. It was a jumble of mismatched properties, every one unique. I found my eyes flicking from property to property as I tried to make sense of the different shapes, sizes and materials. Many of the walls sloped oddly and some were uneven. Even the precipitous rooflines were at odds with each other; some properties were gable fronted, others showed the street their eaves. The upper floors of the black-timbered Tudor buildings thrust out in front of their timber clad, brick, or oak shingle neighbours. Everything was different, some houses were large, others small; some were a few steps above the roughly cobbled street, others a few steps below.

As we strode up the street, hand in hand, I looked down at Lavender and continued reflect on our relationship.

We’d been “together� for six months, we’d taken each other to restaurants and to the theatre. I’d even taken her to the cinema; the first film we’d ever seen had been something called “Ladies in Lavender� which she chose simply because of the title. It made her cry, and it affected me too, if I’m honest. Despite, or possibly because of, her tears, she thought that it was wonderful.

On our first not-a-date we’d agreed that we’d go Dutch, and we had, always. But an Auror gets paid more than a Law Office Bailiff and once, when money was tight for me, I’d hesitantly suggested that we simply go for a walk on the beach. We discovered that we both loved watching the sea, and spent several pleasant evenings walking on various beaches around the country.

But during all those months, we hadn’t really been “together� I was not “Lavender’s latest bloke� at least not in the sense most people who knew Lavender would understand that phrase. In fact, by that definition, despite the sudden change in our relationship, I still wasn’t. That fact continued to gnaw at me. I wasn’t sure why.

I wondered where she was taking me but, foolishly, I didn’t ask.

Lavender kept to the narrow flagged footpath, her stiletto heels making rapid taps on the stones. The regular tik - tik - tik of heel against granite slab was the only noise she made as we climbed the narrow street. It was so quiet that I could hear myself breathing. Behind us there was the occasional sound of a Muggle car; above, a few seagulls cawed raucously; otherwise, there was nothing.

Her silence began to worry me. She had been quiet all morning, I realised, and she was never quiet. Her constant stream of chatter was my barometer. I tried to listen to her every word; although often I didn’t need to, a random sample was sufficient. Monitoring the general tone of her speech allowed me to assess her mood; her current silence left me adrift in a sea of uncertainty. As we passed underneath a swinging sign which announced the location of The Mermaid Inn, she finally spoke.

‘Relax, Mark, they don’t bite,’ she told me.

‘Who don’t bite?’ I asked.

‘My parents, of course,’ she said. ‘This is “the Ancient Towne of Rye�, one of the Cinque Ports. It’s where my parents live. Where did you think you were?’

‘Don’t know,’ I said. ‘I know I’m next to you, and we’re somewhere less wet than York.’ I didn’t know, I didn’t care, and I hadn’t bothered to ask, I thought to myself, I really was pathetic. Nevertheless, Lavender had squeezed my hand and smiled when I’d said “next to you.�

It was not until then that I realised exactly what else she’d said. Now I had something much more serious to think about. Her parents! I began to panic. I was trapped. I could not run away, I could not even plan. We had never talked about our families, not until last week. That was another of Lavender’s rules. I knew nothing about her parents. This was important, and she’d sprung it on me.

I consoled myself with the thought that she obviously wanted me to meet them, but I worried that my clothes weren’t new, that Lavender’s reputation for unsuitable boyfriends might prejudice them against me and, worst of all, that they thought I was a girl called Mary.

‘Turn right here,’ she directed as we reached the top of the street. She released my hand, and grabbed my upper arm with both of hers. She held me tightly as she tottered across the uneven cobbles to the path opposite. Once she was safely across to the opposite pavement, she released my arm, and reclaimed my hand.

‘Interesting shoes, but a wee bit impractical for a cobbled street,’ I told her, trying to take my mind off our destination.

‘They’re new, and they were very expensive,’ she said. ‘They’re taupe leather ankle boots.’

‘Taupe? What’s a taupe? Is it the make?’ I asked.

‘It’s the colour, silly!’ she scolded.

I’d been right, her shoes weren’t brown. I filed the word “taupe� alongside the word “hydrangea� which was, I knew, her favourite shade of pink, and wondered if I’d remember it. I forgot so many different colours, because, so far as I could tell, taupe was brown, and hydrangea was pink.

‘They look brown to me,’ I said. ‘Why aren’t they brown?’

She stared up at me quizzically. I could tell that she knew from the tone of my voice that I was teasing her again, but she wasn’t sure where my comment was leading.

‘Brown is boring,’ she said, falling into my trap.

‘Not in my experience, Lavender,’ I told her. ‘Brown is anything but boring. Or have you decided that from now on you’ll be Lavender Taupe?’

She laughed, and she pulled me to a halt, and we kissed again.

A week ago, I was happy to simply make her laugh. Whether it was a tinkling giggle or that dirty, raucous snort she gave when I said something close to the knuckle, it didn’t matter. The laughter that creased the corners of her eyes had always been enough reward. That was no longer the case. Now, laughter brought kisses, too. I concentrated on the kiss, trying to make it gentle and mature, trying to stay calm and in control.

Lavender was still smiling when she pushed herself free, so it must have been another reasonably good kiss. She slipped her arm around my waist, and I reciprocated the gesture. We continued down the street which, only a few dozen yards ahead, turned sharply right. As we approached the corner I made out a church ahead. I glanced down at Lavender. She had lapsed back into silence; her bright red lips (Rich Berry, she’d once told me - I’d told her that I’d thought that Rich Berry was a rock and roll singer) were pursed and she looked anxious. Somehow sensing my gaze she caught my eyes and smiled reassuringly.

‘Not far now, it’s almost straight ahead,’ said Lavender, as we turned the final corner. I followed her contented gaze as she lost herself in memories. The church was a typically grand early English building; it was now on our left, on our right was another terrace of old buildings, brick at one end, Tudor at the other. Like Mermaid Street, the road past the church was uneven cobbles, which had been polished by centuries of use, but unlike Mermaid Street, it wasn’t steeply sloping.

‘This is the town where I grew up, Mark. What do you think of it?’ asked Lavender nervously.

‘It’s picture-postcard pretty,’ I observed. ‘It feels like it’s really old, like we’ve stepped back in time,’ I told her.

‘It is old,’ Lavender told me. ‘There’s something a little magical about Rye, even the Muggles can feel it. It used to be a port when the Tudors were on the throne, but since then it has managed to crawl two miles from the sea.’

We reached the end of the street, passed through a narrow gap between two houses and strolled towards the gable wall of a third property. I examined the house carefully.

The roof sloped steeply and dormer windows jutted out haphazardly, but it was no more unusual than the adjacent properties. It was, however, almost as though the house was trying to hide and I wondered if Muggles would be able to see it. It was set back from the street, partially behind the adjacent houses and crouching half-a-storey below them. The red painted front door in the centre of the old brick wall was down a flight of seven steps. Fancy lace curtains prevented me from seeing anything but a vague blur through the glass panelled door.

Lavender led me down the steps, rang the doorbell, and then entered.

‘It’s me, Mum,’ Lavender shouted, her voice rather more shrill than usual. ‘I changed my mind. I’ve brought … someone … to meet you and Dad.’

Lavender shrugged off her trench coat and hung it on a hook next to the door. I followed her example, hanging my duffle coat alongside it.

I stared at her. Her sweater was light brown (or more likely a similar colour with a much more exotic name). It had a high round neck and sleeves which ended above the elbows. There wasn’t even the slightest hint of cleavage. By Lavender’s standards it was demure, despite the fact that it was tightly hugging her curves. Her skirt had a high-waist and was longer than the ones she usually wore, almost knee-length. It was tight at the hem and the brightest blue suede I’d ever seen.

‘Wow,’ I murmured.

She smiled and winked at me.

First impressions were important, I reminded myself. She obviously hadn’t forewarned them; she was as worried as I was. I wondered if she’d ever brought a boyfriend home to meet her parents. I thought rapidly back over weeks and months of conversations, complaints and confessions, and decided that she almost certainly hadn’t, at least not since Seamus.

I needed to find a distraction, something to calm my nerves. I looked around the hall.

The pale pink room was bright and busy. The walls were bedecked with paintings, mostly stormy seascapes, on which a tiny single-masted yacht bobbed rather precariously. The shelves were fussily full of vases and ornaments. To the left a narrow flight of stairs curved up. On the right hand wall was an open door; a second door was directly ahead and to its left, partially under the stairs, was a lace covered table on which stood a large vase of flowers and dozens of photographs. I had to smile to myself; Lavender’s passion for frills and clutter was obviously a family trait.

‘Just a moment, darling,’ a female voice called worriedly from through the open door.

I stared at the nearest photograph. The Lavender in the frame was four or five years old and sitting on a wooden floor. Her curly and beribboned hair was in tight ringlets and she stared back at me curiously. The flouncy lilac robes she wore were spread in a carefully arranged circle around her, and she was twirling a parasol.

The door to next to me was pulled open and a burly, shaven-headed man of about fifty stepped out. My worries immediately fled. They were driven out by panic and fear. He was shorter than me, most people are, but he was a lot wider, too. The man glared at me as he fought, and failed, to keep the look of disapproval from his face. I stared back but my attempts to calm myself were failing, mainly because his eyes were, disconcertingly, the same shade of violet-blue as Lavender’s. Worse, he somehow seemed vaguely familiar. But when, and where, could I possibly have met him before?

‘Hello, Daddy,’ said Lavender, failing to keep the nervousness from her voice.

‘Lavender,’ he nodded politely to his daughter, his face impassive. Then he turned to face me. ‘Who’re you?’ he asked gruffly.

‘Mark Moon, Mr Brown,’ I held out my hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’

Lavender’s father’s hand was beefy and calloused. He took my outstretched hand in a vice-like, bone-crunching grip and, under the pretext of shaking it, attempted to crush me to death.

‘Huh,’ he said as he continued to squeeze my hand. I didn’t even attempt to return the squeeze, because I knew that I’d never win. I held my breath, clenched my jaw, and simply concentrated on keeping the pain from my face.

‘Please, Daddy,’ Lavender whispered.

‘That’s enough, Don,’ another voice said. Mr Brown finally released my hand.

When I looked over my shoulder towards the other voice I saw a curvy, curly haired woman wearing colourful robes and a white, lace-edged apron. I stared at her, looked back at her husband, and wondered why I was having a strong feeling of déjà-vu. There was something nagging in the back of my mind, but my brain was busy with more important things, like urging some feeling back into my fingers.

‘Come though into the parlour, please,’ said Lavender’s mother. ‘Did I hear you say that your name is Mark?’

‘That’s right, Mrs Brown,’ I said. ‘Mark Moon. I’m very pleased to meet you.’ I again held out my hand and she gave it a gentle, and perfunctory, shake.

‘Mar-K Moon,’ I heard Lavender’s mother murmur thoughtfully to herself as I followed into the room, while behind me her father gave a snort of annoyance.

The parlour was a long room, with windows at each end. It stretched the entire length of the house. At the end which overlooked the street was a dining table. It was covered in an ornately embroidered lace cloth and was set for two people. At the other end of the room, with a good view over the rooftops of the Muggle town and across to the sea, was a chintz three-piece-suite, and a low table covered in lace doilies.

‘Sit down, please,’ said Lavender’s mother, indicating the sofa. It was a two-seater, but it was filled almost to overflowing with an abundance of fancy embroidered cushions. I was forced to hastily rearrange them in order to clear enough space to park myself.

The moment I dropped onto the seat, Lavender daintily perched herself on my knee. She’d only sat on my knee a couple of times before, and never in front of anyone else. I was unsure where I should put my hands, so I settled for placing one on the arm of the sofa and grasping a cushion with the other.

‘This is nice, isn’t it?’ shrilled Lavender.

Trying to ignore the distraction created by Lavender’s presence on my lap, I determinedly concentrated my gaze on her mother, who appeared considerably less hostile than her father.

‘You said that you wouldn’t be here today, Lavender. You should have told us that you were coming to dinner, and you certainly should have told us that you were bringing a guest,’ said Mrs Brown firmly. Her voice was light, almost polite, but from the way her lips were pursed, I could tell that she was not happy.

‘Sorry, Mum,’ said Lavender. ‘We were going to eat out, in York. But it the weather was horrible, and I decided that it was time for you to meet Mark.’

Lavender’s mother gave me a brittle smile. ‘I’m forgetting my manners, and so is Lavender, she hasn’t introduced us.’ she said. ‘I’m Carmine Brown, Mark. Call me Carmine, please. I’m pleased to meet you. You’ve already met my husband, Donald. But I don’t think that he introduced himself properly.’

I didn’t know what to say to that. I was certain that Donald Brown had introduced himself exactly as he wanted me to remember him. He hadn’t told me his name, but my still throbbing fingers definitely wouldn’t be forgetting him any time soon. Lavender wasn’t helping. She remained uncharacteristically silent. As she leaned to whisper in my ear she pushed her breast against my upper arm and I was forced to disguise my groan as a cough.

‘Sorry,’ Lavender said. ‘But it had to happen sometime.’

‘Have you known Lavender for long? Did you go to school together? Do you work together? Am I right in thinking that you’re Scottish? Where are you from? Would you like a cup of tea?’ Lavender’s mother asked.

Almost swept away by the flood of questions, I attempted to regain my footing by answering the easiest one. ‘A cup of tea would be nice, thank you, Mrs … Carmine.’

Carmine Brown smiled triumphantly. ‘Lavender, be a good girl and make us all a pot of tea, please. And keep an eye on the beef joint for me. And you’d better set another two places at the table, too. And prepare some more vegetables for yourself and Mark. Your father and I will look after your friend, don’t worry.’

There was only the vaguest glimmer of the hint of a threat in Carmine Brown’s final sentence, but it was enough to worry me.

‘Sorry,’ Lavender whispered in my ear as she lightly kissed my cheek and stood.

‘Okay, Mum,’ she said. ‘Mark’s a wizard, by the way. You don’t need to wonder about whether or not I’ve brought a Muggle to meet you.’

‘That was obvious,’ said Mark’s father. Mrs Brown looked at her husband quizzically. ‘He didn’t react to the paintings and photographs in the hall, Carmine,’ he explained to his wife.

‘I won’t be long,’ said Lavender with exaggerated brightness. With that, she strolled from the room swinging her hips, and leaving me alone with her parents. ‘Oh, and remember my friend Mary, Mum?’ she called over her shoulder. ‘There is no Mary, there’s only Mark. I’m sure he can explain what’s been going on better than I could.’

It was obvious from Carmine Brown’s expression that she’d already figured that out. Her husband, however, was a different matter.

‘What?’ Lavender’s father began. With that, Lavender made her escape. The moment she left the room, he clenched his fists and began to stand.

‘Donald,’ her mother said sharply. He sat back down and contented himself by glowering at me from under his brows. Carmine turned and smiled at me. It was the smile of a tiger about to pounce.

‘Have you known Lavender for long, Mark?’ She asked me again.

‘That depends on what you mean by known,’ I said unthinkingly. She looked at me askance.

‘Don’t try to be clever, son,’ Donald Brown growled. I heard his knuckles crack.

‘I mean, it’s complicated,’ I said hastily. ‘The first time I actually met her was the day after she was bitten. But that was once, five years ago. We didn’t meet again until last October. I’m a Bailiff in the Law Office, Department for Magical Law Enforcement. I was working in York when the vampire arrived in Whitby. I was assigned to the Auror liaison duties by the Sheriff, so I was waiting for the Aurors when they arrived. I recognised Lavender the moment I saw her, but she didn’t remember me. When she closed the vampire case, I … asked her out. We started seeing each other.’

‘Six months,’ Lavender’s father grumbled under his breath. I turned to face him.

‘Just as friends,’ I added.

Don Brown continued to glare at me. ‘Friends! Six months! Are you gay? Do you like to be called Mary?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘I… No!’ I said. ‘It’s…’

‘Complicated, you told us,’ said Carmine, laughing. Her laugh was disconcertingly like Lavender’s.

‘So, why are you here, Mark?’ she asked.

‘I’m here because Lavender brought me. It was raining in York. She said that she had an idea. We Apparated to some garages near the bottom of Mermaid Street,’ I said. ‘I know that she didn’t tell you we were coming. She didn’t tell me, either. I think it must have been a spur of the moment decision. You must know what she’s like.’

‘I thought I did,’ said Carmine thoughtfully. ‘You’ve been with Lavender for six months, Mark. Why hasn’t she told us about you? Why Mary? I must say that you don’t look like anything like any of the men Lavender has been photographed with over the years.’

‘I, er, I hope that I’m not like any of them.’ I said. ‘And I think that Lavender has told you about me, about us. I wasn’t her boyfriend, just a bloke she was friends with. We were just going out together but sort of not, if you know what I mean. It was … we just did things we liked … but instead of doing them alone, we did them together … no pressure, no … er…’

I paused, but Lavender’s mother did not speak. ‘I think that, probably, whatever she’s said that she did with Mary, that’s what she actually did with me.’ I hesitated. ‘The usual Lavender exaggerations and distortions apply, of course,’ I added. ‘After all, she seems to have given me a sex-change. You’d think I’d have noticed.’

Carmine laughed, and even her husband was beginning to relax a little. ‘You said “I wasn’t her boyfriend,� past tense, why?’

‘Tea,’ Lavender announced proudly, shimmying back into the room with a laden tray. ‘I was at the door, listening to that last bit. Mark’s right, pretty much everything I said I’d been doing with Mary, I had really been doing with Mark. I lied about his sex because I didn’t want you to think I had a boyfriend.’

‘And have you?’ her father asked.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I nodded in agreement and tried not to look uncomfortable as they scrutinised me carefully.

‘Moon,’ said Lavender’s mother eventually. ‘It’s not a surname I know. I don’t suppose you’re a Pureblood, are you?’

‘My Ma’s a Muggle, and Dad was a werewolf, so he couldn’t go to Hogwarts,’ I said. I saw Lavender’s father tightly grip the arm of his chair. ‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘It isn’t hereditary.’

What house were you in?’ Carmine asked. ‘If you’re a Ravenclaw, we’ll have the set.’

‘The set?’ I asked.

‘Lavender was a Gryffindor, but Don was a Hufflepuff, and I…’

‘Mum was in Slytherin House,’ interrupted Lavender as she poured the tea into delicate, flower-patterned china cups. ‘She was a Greengrass, before she married Daddy.’ She handed her father a cup and saucer. ‘Mark was a Hufflepuff, just like you Daddy.’

Carmine smiled broadly at her daughter as she, too accepted a cup and saucer from her.

‘They wear you down, Hufflepuff boys, don’t they, Lavender?’ said Carmine. ‘When they set their mind on something they simply won’t stop working until they get it.’ She smiled fondly at her husband.

He said nothing, but I thought I discerned a twinkle in his eye. I didn’t know what to say. Lavender looked at me in amazement. The silence was making me nervous, so I spoke.

‘My sister was the Ravenclaw,’ I said. ‘Lillith had the brains; she was in Lavender’s year.’

‘Merlin!’ said Lavender’s mother. ‘I thought that you looked vaguely familiar. You were at Hogwarts, at the battle. You were outside the gates, at dawn.’

‘So were you,’ I almost shouted when I realised why they’d seemed familiar. ‘You were looking for - you were looking for your daughter - you were looking for Lavender.’

Carmine nodded and turned eagerly to her husband. ‘There was a lanky young Scotch boy outside the gates who spoke to us. Do you remember, Don?’ she asked. ‘You were looking for your sister, Mark. Did you find…’ she left the question unfinished. My face had told her the answer.

‘Lillith was killed at Hogwarts, Mrs Brown,’ I said. There was an embarrassing silence; I foolishly filled it with a trite correction. ‘And, it’s Scots, or Scottish,’ I told her. ‘Scotch is a drink.’

‘I’m so sorry about your sister, son,’ Don said. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘It was a long time ago,’ I said. ‘Next month it will be seven years, but…’

Lavender leaned over and kissed my cheek.

3. Appledore

‘After you,’ I said as I opened the kitchen door. Carmine smiled, stepped in front of me, and walked into the parlour. I heard the word “Aberdeen� and realised that Lavender had been discussing my job with her father.

‘Lavender tells me that you’re trying for a promotion,’ Don Brown said.

‘Yes,’ I said. I sat on the sofa and settled myself next to Lavender, preparing myself for a long cross-examination. ‘The interviews are next week.’

‘Don’t get too comfortable, Mark. We really must go,’ Lavender told me firmly, before her father could ask anything else.

I glanced at the ornate painted bone-china clock on the wall. It was only a little after half-past seven in the evening. We had spent most of the day with her parents and, for me at least, the time had flown by. For some reason, however, Lavender suddenly seemed very eager to leave. I assumed that she was worried that her mother would bring out even more photograph albums for me to look at.

I looked out of the window towards the sea, towards the south. The grey-green waters were churning, and slivers of white foam slid shoreward. The clouds were rolling in with the tide, and the sun was no more than a grey-pink tinge on the western horizon. It would soon be dark, and the night would probably be stormy.

‘Are you sure that you don’t want a Firewhisky before you go?’ asked Don, again.

He seemed determined to open the bottle of Bunnahabhain Fifteen-Year-Old, and to use me as the excuse. Lavender had bought a bottle of the expensive oak-aged Firewhisky for me for Christmas, and she’d bought the same for her father. I was beginning to wish that I’d never mentioned how much I’d enjoyed it.

‘Thanks for the offer, Don, but no thanks. I wouldn’t want to splinch myself. I find Apparating difficult enough when I’m sober,’ I admitted. ‘Next time, perhaps?’ I turned to address Lavender’s mother. ‘Thank you so much for showing me those photographs, Carmine. Lavender was such a cute little girl, wasn’t she?’ I paused and looked carefully at Carmine. I’d discovered that she had a surprisingly mischievous sense of humour. ‘Who would have thought that she spent so much time dressing up and pretending to be a princess?’ I asked innocently. Carmine smiled.

Lavender moved her leg sideways and gently pressed a stiletto heel onto the side of my boot. It was a polite warning, and I heeded it.

‘Thank you for helping me with the washing up, Mark. And for your help preparing afternoon tea, too,’ said Carmine. ‘I’m glad that you know your way around a kitchen, because Lavender is simply hopeless. I tried my best when she was younger, but she was simply…’

‘Mother,’ said Lavender firmly. ‘I think that you’ve told Mark enough of my secrets for one day.’

‘I think you have told him quite a few, too,’ she said firmly, staring into her daughter’s eyes. ‘He certainly seems to know some things about you that we didn’t.’

‘Hmmm,’ murmured Lavender evasively. She stood and smoothed down her skirt. ‘Come along, Mark,’ she ordered, so I, too, stood.

Carmine smiled at me. ‘You must come again, Mark, next Sunday, perhaps?’

‘He’s busy,’ Lavender said, before I’d even had a chance to calculate my shift pattern.

‘Am I?’ I asked, still puzzling through my shifts.

‘Yes,’ she told me firmly.

‘Pity,’ said Carmine. ‘Oh, well. Call in any time, Mark, there’s no need to wait for Lavender to bring you. Just knock on the door any time you’re passing. Next time I’ll show you the photographs of her tenth birthday.’

‘Mother,’ Lavender groaned and dragged me out into the hall. Her parents stood and followed.

‘I live in Edinburgh, Carmine,’ I reminded her, while helping Lavender into her trench coat. ‘I’m not likely to be passing.’

‘Good luck with the interview, lad,’ Don said. ‘If you need any advice…’

‘Bye, Daddy,’ Lavender pointedly kissed her father on the cheek. She was suddenly desperate to leave, so I hastily pulled on my duffle coat.

‘Bye, Princess,’ he said, hugging her.

‘Goodbye, Mother,’ Lavender gave Carmine a hug and a kiss.

‘Bye, darling,’ she said. She stared seriously into Lavender’s face. ‘Now, you be good, and be nice to your young man, my girl.’

‘Yes, Mummy,’ said Lavender, sighing.

Bye, Don, bye Carmine,’ I said. Carmine looked up into my face and puckered expectantly, so I bent down and kissed her cheek.

‘Goodbye, Mark,’ she said as she patted my shoulder and kissed my cheek in return.

Don held out a hand, which I took with some trepidation. His handshake was firm but, this time, not life-threatening. As we shook hands he clapped his left hand on my shoulder.

‘Bye, son,’ he said. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you.’

‘It has indeed,’ confirmed Carmine.

Lavender opened the door and dragged me outside. Her parents stood at the door, arms around each other, and waved us off.

‘They’re very nice, aren’t they?’ I asked. Lavender merely grunted, and we retraced our steps past the church. Lavender didn’t speak until, after one final wave, we turned the corner and were finally out of sight of her parents and their house.

‘I hate you,’ she said venomously.

‘What?’ I said, as my world began to crumble.

‘How did you do that?’ she asked. ‘It only took you about ten minutes to win Mum round. She thinks that you’re wonderful, perfect. Bloody hell, Mark, you even did the dishes with her! What in Merlin’s name were you talking about in there?’

‘You,’ I admitted. She groaned. ‘What did she say?’

‘That you’re a good girl, really,’ I said.

Lavender snorted and tossed her head scornfully.

‘Even Dad likes you, and he hasn’t liked any of my boyfriends, except Seamus. It’s just not fair,’ she said petulantly.

I pulled her to a halt, turned to face her, and grabbed her upper arms, forcing her to remain facing me. She wasn’t really angry, I realised. She wasn’t the spitting, clawing she-cat she could be. She was merely annoyed, and annoyed was easy to deal with.

‘I’m really very sorry that your parents seem to like me, Lavender,’ I said apologetically. ‘I obviously misunderstood your intentions. I thought that’s why you took me there to … to introduce me to them. What did you really want; did you expect them to murder me, or ban you from ever seeing me again?’

‘They tried that, with Cormac,’ she said. ‘Mum and Dad ran into us in Diagon Alley. Dad hated him, told me never to see him again, because…’

‘Actually, that’s one of the things your mum told me in the kitchen,’ I said. ‘I really can’t believe that you went out with McLaggen, Lavender. But I ran into him at school, and I can believe that he was stupid enough to try to give your dad advice about his fishing business, despite knowing nothing about fishing.’

‘And Dad’s spent his life at sea,’ said Lavender. ‘But that didn’t stop Cormac, the expert on everything. I refused, of course. I didn’t listen to my parents. Cormac “talked a good fight�, as Dad would say, but that’s all. He claimed to be good at everything, but he was all talk. He wasn’t even very good in…’ she stopped mid-sentence.

‘I’m not sure that your dad likes me,’ I said, trying to ignore the implications of Lavender’s abrupt silence. ‘I think that he’s just decided to give me the benefit of the doubt, for the moment. He seemed a bit scary at first, but after what your mum told me about Cormac and Declan, I can understand his reaction when I arrived unannounced. He means well, and your mum is really lovely.’

I looked down into Lavender’s face; her attempt to make herself angry had failed. She was now working on retaining a sullen, silent annoyance. What had she expected me to do?

‘If you’d wanted them to hate me, Lavender, you should have told me!’ I said seriously. ‘I could have belched and farted and picked my nose and swore and been generally obnoxious.’

She looked up at me, and burst out laughing.

‘No you couldn’t, Mark,’ she told me firmly. ‘It’s simply not in your nature. You are what you are. No deceit, no hidden agenda.’ I released her arms and she ducked inside my hands and hugged me, slipped her arms around my waist and resting her cheek on my sternum.

‘You’re wrong, Lavender, I’ve always had a hidden agenda,’ I confessed. ‘You know what it was.’ I gently touched the end of her nose with my forefinger.

‘You think that was hidden?’ she asked, tutting. ‘Oh, my poor innocent, Marky. You asked me out, remember? You might have agreed to “just friends� at the time, but I knew you didn’t mean it. No bloke ever does.’

I shrugged, and decided not to pursue that point to its logical conclusion.

‘Don’t be annoyed with your parents, please,’ I said. ‘They’ve been worried about you. Your mum told me, when I was drying the dishes. They worried when you were injured in the battle. They worried when you were bitten, and then, when you finished with Seamus and started … partying … your mum called it, they didn’t know what to do.’

Lavender smiled ruefully.

‘Your parents really love you, Lavender,’ I said. ‘And they aren’t the only ones. I…’

‘You should not have told them about the Muggle nightclubs I used to go to,’ she said fiercely, and I knew that I’d gone too far. I’d managed to annoy her again. Not for the first time, she let me know that she did not want to hear the words I wanted to say.

‘Sorry. I didn’t know that they didn’t know,’ I said. ‘I assumed that they knew what I knew, that you’d told them…’ I lapsed into silence, uncertain what to say next. I had been surprised to discover that, in some matters, I was the only person Lavender had confided in. ‘I’ve had a really nice day, thank you for taking me to meet them. If you didn’t want them to like me, and you didn’t want me to be rude to them, why did you take me?’

Lavender was silent for a moment, deciding whether to stay annoyed. She decided against it.

‘I wanted to know what they would think of you,’ she told me. ‘And I … never mind, I’ll tell you later.’

I knew that there was no point in pressing her. ‘When will I see you again?’ I asked.

‘Again?’ Lavender asked, suddenly playful. ‘The night isn’t over yet, Mark.’ She looked across to the horizon, and up onto the mournful gloom of the dusk. ‘In fact, the night hasn’t even started. What time do you start work tomorrow?’

‘It’s my shift switch-over,’ I reminded her. ‘I start working nights tomorrow. I’m not due into the office for another twenty-four hours.’

‘Good,’ she said. She smiled wickedly. ‘You aren’t going home yet, Mark. You don’t escape your punishment that easily. Come on.’

Lavender again lapsed into silence, and once again, I began to worry. She didn’t speak again until she’d led me through the garage court to the safe Apparition point where we’d arrived.

‘Hold tight,’ she ordered.

I did as I was told, and an instant later I found myself standing on the doorstep of her cottage in Appledore.

‘Oh,’ I said nervously.

She dragged me inside, shrugged off her coat, and pulled mine off, too. She said nothing; she simply hung up the coats, grabbed my hand, walked straight past the door to her lounge, and led me upstairs to her bedroom.

‘Lavender…’ I began as she opened the door. I got no further. She gently placed a forefinger on my lips, silencing me.

She led me into her flouncy, pastel-shaded bedroom and across to her lace bestrewn four poster bed. ‘Sit,’ she said. I obeyed.

She knelt down in front of me.

‘I…’ I began.

The look she gave me was enough. I was not to say another word, until she allowed me to. Looking down at my feet, she unfastened my shoes, loosened the laces, and removed my shoes and socks. Grabbing my knees, she pulled my legs apart and used them to push herself back up onto her feet. She stepped between my thighs, grabbed my head and pulled it into her breasts, turning it so that my right ear was pressed against her heart. As I rested my suddenly spinning head on that soft cushion, she finally spoke. Her words tumbled out, disjointed and confused.

‘I know that you’re nervous, Mark,’ she said. ‘I could tell last night. You’ve seen my scars… You’ve seen me naked … literally naked … but you’ve seen me naked in other ways, too. You’re the only person who has spent a night with the wolf. You’re the only person who has been prepared to spend a night with the wolf. It’s been six months Mark. I know you, and you know me… You’re worried about what might happen if we… When we… I need to tell you something… I’m worried, too. In fact, I’m terrified. I took you to see my parents, because… Really, I don’t know why I took you… Perhaps I hoped that they would hate you… Perhaps I hoped that they would finally approve of something I’d done…’

The hammering of her heartbeat in my ear told me that she was not lying. My hands were on my legs, I wasn’t even touching her, but her honest anxiety was calling to me. I lifted my hands. The left I slid up her back, pulling myself even more tightly into her chest. The right I slid around her hips, to finally cradle her right buttock. Her hands were holding my head so tightly that it hurt; her fingernails were digging into my scalp.

We were pressed against each other and she was overwhelming my senses: all I could feel was her body; all I could hear was her halting, confused voice; all I could smell was her perfume; all I could see was her sweater stretched over the curve of her right breast.

‘I might not…’ I began to tell her.

She hissed me into silence.

‘I think that I’m nervous for the same reason you are, Mark,’ she told me. She took a deep breath. Her heart continued to hammer, but her fingers relaxed and they began to run through my hair, combing and caressing. I could feel the warm waft of her words, her sweet breath, on my scalp. ‘I’m nervous because this will change everything. I’m nervous…’ she hesitated, and then the words came tumbling out. ‘I’m nervous because whatever it’s like, it will … it will mean something. Not like … some of the other times.’

She grasped my skull and pulled me away from her chest. I looked up to see her face coming slowly down towards mine. Her eyes looked rather moist I noticed, a moment before she closed them. Then we were kissing; her lips were soft and warm upon mine, but our kiss was so gentle that it was almost chaste. I slid my hands over her body, up to her shoulders, and I gently pushed her away from me.

‘We don’t have to … if you don’t want,’ I said. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

‘And we have to do it sometime,’ she said. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes…’ I began.

‘But everything will change, won’t it?’ she said.

I nodded.

‘Daddy says that we’re all boats on the ocean. He says that even when we plot our course carefully, sometimes an unforeseen wind takes us somewhere we didn’t intend to go. Sometimes we like it there, sometimes we don’t, but we’ve got to keep sailing,’ she said softly, grabbing my arms and lifting them from her shoulders.

‘And you think that this is a good time to bring your father into this conversation?’ I asked.

She laughed, pushed me backwards onto her bed and lowered herself on top of me, sliding her forearms under my shoulders and again grabbing my head in her hands. She kissed me, and this time it certainly wasn’t chaste. I moved my hands onto her thighs, and slid them up to her hips. She lifted her lips from mine, but only by a fraction. Our noses still touched, her lips were only millimetres from mine.

‘The zip is on the left hand side,’ she whispered. She was so close that I could feel her words on my mouth.

My scrabbling fingers soon found it, but my first attempt failed.

‘There’s no rush, Emmsy,’ she said. ‘You don’t need to be at work for twenty-four hours. And I have even longer.’

I took my time, followed her instructions, and eventually, we made it.