The first time, it was an accident. They ran into each other in a seedy pub in muggle London, both wanting to escape from their lives for just one night. They didn't recognise each other. That was the only excuse they could use; and it was a valid excuse – it was dark and they were tired and both were more than just a little bit drunk. He awoke the next morning – head throbbing with the beginnings of a debilitating hangover – to an empty bed, the only signs that someone else had ever been there the stains on the sheets and the memory of red hair and freckles.

It didn't count. He could barely remember it; he wasn't even entirely sure who it had been. He had a vague idea – red hair; freckles; it wasn't that hard to work out who it might have been – but he wasn't willing to acknowledge that. It was a mistake. It wasn't going to happen again. End of story.

The second time, they were both considerably less drunk; sober enough to recognise each other, drunk enough not to care. It happened in almost the same way as the first time. Hurried; no talking; an empty bed come morning. Except this time, he was left with much more than the hazy image of freckled skin and there was no hangover to distract him.

That time didn't count, either. Probably. He was drunk; he wouldn't have done it sober. That meant that it didn't count. But why couldn't he stop thinking about this? About trying to justify it; trying to find a way out of admitting to it? Shouldn't he have forgotten about it by now? Moved on? Disregarded it as inconsequential?

The third time, they were both sober. Another chance meeting – but weren't they all? – and they were exchanging phone numbers. Phone numbers. Not even his closest friends knew that he had a mobile – it was far too muggle a thing to admit – but he'd readily supplied the information to him. Slightly shorter than him; stockier, too; always ready with a smile; and by all accounts they should hate each other.

Their first date was three days later.