2009.
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Her name is Julie and she has thick, glossy black hair and vibrant green eyes. They could almost be siblings, but for her heart-shaped face and olive skin. Harry dates her because he has nothing better to do, and she dates him for the same reason. When he takes her to his flat, she asks, "What's the cat's name?" and Harry answers, "I don't know."
Julie stares at the tabby, who shrinks from her, and declares, "Magic."
Harry tries not to flinch.
She cooks him hot breakfast, which Harry has never bothered to fix for himself, and periodically reminds him, "This is just a temporary arrangement, you know," her large eyes flashing under her lashes. Harry answers, "I know."
He tangles his hand in her hair and closes his eyes when they make love, quietly. It's the closest he comes to peace. Julie closes her own eyes and moans. If their love life bores her, she doesn't complain, and Harry sometimes wonders if she hasn't been running, also, and just wants a rest.
It's just a casual arrangement when she moves into his flat. A matter of convenience. Cheaper this way, and Julie was spending most her nights over anyway. Her belongings fill up the spaces Harry never thought to use.
She is still waiting for something better to come along, months later, when they've settled into a routine. Harry vaguely hopes she finds it, because he wants her to be happy, but also vaguely hopes she doesn't, because he wants to continue being comfortable, content. He secretly takes malicious pleasure in the fact that true love is fantasy, and if he can't have it, no one will.
...
Harry takes off for a couple of months. He was badgered and nagged into answering a summons. He's been visiting phantoms he's long wanted to forget.
He returns to find his apartment large and empty again, and the cat is missing. A note on the table says, 'At my mother's.'
Harry drinks in the evenings because he has nothing better to do, goes back to his pointless muggle job and wastes his time the same as always.
Three weeks later, she shows up with her luggage and a cat carrier, and while he busies himself making dinner she tells him all about her affair with an old boyfriend back home, and how she's dreadfully in love with him but it will never work out. Her tears smear the make-up around her eyes, and Magic sits on her lap, purring.
She can't eat the dinner, so Harry fixes tea. He places a steaming cup into her trembling hand and looks hard at her damp face while she seems not to notice him. He says nothing.
Later, Julie is sleeping upon his shoulder, naked in their rumpled sheets, her tears finally forgotten. Harry winds a hand into her smooth, heavy hair.
He pulls her closer and whispers a single spell into her ear.
"Stay with me."
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Fin.
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Strange infatuation seems to grace the evening tide. I'm unclean, a libertine ...Without you, I'm nothing. -Placebo, edited
(I'll take it by your side.)
Such imagination seems to help the feeling slide.
Instant correlation sucks and breeds a pack of lies.
Oversaturation curls the skin and tans the hide.
And every time you vent your spleen,
I seem to lose the power of speech,
You're slipping slowly from my reach.
You grow me like an evergreen,
You never see the lonely me at all
...Without you, I'm nothing at all.