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.
* * *
Culinary Secrets by Gmariam
Chapter Endnotes: Thanks again to Jess for working with me on this a bit!
Yes - I do know her answer. And no - I'm not telling. ;-)