Julie couldn't decide, just now walking down the snow-swept High Street of Hogsmeade, what her mood was. She'd started the Saturday morning in a fairly bright mood quite in correspondence with the rare opportunity of a break from work. A bright ray of sunshine had woken her up, coming in through the window of her London flat, the air smelled fine and crisp outside and she was quite ready to forgive herself for getting up rather late. Hogsmeade was her last resort in trying to find some Christmas presents for her family - pre-holiday time in the Department was hellish and the earlier one got Christmas shopping over with, the better.

Normally, Julie loved buying gifts. They were, in a way, taking a break from the everyday - you said something with them, and the something was unusual in most cases. Gifts were bright, lovely things or sly things or chocolate-velvet-dark goodness. Extraordinary, in a work. And fun to conceive of.

This Saturday was quite late on the gift-planning timescale. Impossible as that seemed, Julie hadn't found anything suitable in London. The big, huge, colourful, impossibly diverse London. Oh, and she hadn't shirked the strange shops and the muggle shops, but still nothing. Hogsmeade was a bit of a gamble, at least after the metropolis, but dice are always welcome in the hands of the desperate.

In a nasty reversal of fate, after the shining and almost-clean London, Hogsmeade was a disappointment. Julie suspected it might have been just the norm for the cold, unobliging North. None of that winter cheer, just grey skies and snow that seemed perfectly ready to melt, although the wind blowing through every street from every imaginable direction was piercingly cold and turned both Julie's hands and cheeks bright red.

Now, she felt she'd been to every shop, with no luck whatsoever. There had been self-erasing stationery she'd for a moment considered getting for her mother, a Foe-glass (with the same designation and a very great dose of irony, which made Julie grin widely at the bemused shop assistant), a mistletoe arrangement that was said to take over the house in only three days. All of this was rubbish. When Julie found herself contemplating a pair of colour-changing socks, she finally grasped that she was growing seriously insane and fled the shop as fast as she could.

A strange kind of absent-mindedness had descended on her, clouding her sense of duty. She felt she might even enjoy the miserable weather and feel quite cheerful if she could possibly not have to worry about gifts. She was tired, but restless, anxious to do something. Julie felt a dire and sudden need to have some friend around, to do just what she wanted to.

She stopped in her tracks, in the middle of the street, bent on getting an overview of her options - and if they were gloomy, giving up. The streets were busy, the nearing Christmas drawing people out of their houses and making everything seem perfectly normal, quite the heyday. She could spot students in the crowds. Right and left of her shops stretched, but as she went over them in her mind, nothing seemed suitable.

She turned around slowly, and discovered that she was standing in front of Madam Puddifoot's. This amused Julie so, that she suddenly laughed. It was a horrible place, that much she could remember from her schooldays. But obviously she couldn't say she'd never been there. It was probably crowded now as well, although Julie couldn't see inside through the foggy windows. The place seemed to ooze a pink kind of venom. In fact, a more than gentle hint of candy and rose perfume wafted from its opening door onto the unsuspecting street.

Deciding to rather walk about the area than be left stranded in front of Hogsmeade's most awful spot without anything to present as her day's work, she swiftly turned on her heels, ready to walk away.

Wesley frowned at the elderly woman sitting across from him. She didn't seem to notice, instead continuing to blather on about her seventh husband, who had died a mysterious death that sounded sort of similar to the deaths of the previous six. Wesley decided that he would not point out the flaw in the cougar's plan--giving away the end of the story in the prologue never hooked a reader--and let the glare fall from his face. No point in wasting the effort if she wasn't even going to be affronted. Instead, he stared idly at a slowly rotating pink snowflake suspended from the ceiling.

This just wouldn't do. However interesting it might be to be married to a black widow of a woman, Wesley had no desire to become a victim. Besides, the whole thing really wasn't his style. It required much more long-term planning and commitment than he was ready for. Maybe I could just be her on-again, off-again boyfriend Wesley wondered. That would give him time to purge the arsenic from his system. He grinned. Wouldn't that just rile the old bird up, to think that her special soup was having absolutely no effect on her target? That was almost amusing enough for him to call the day a success.

The grin faded. How sad, that that was the most amusing thing he'd thought of all day. Hardly instantly gratifying, either. Had it really been that long since he'd been to Madame Puddifoot's, that it was no longer a place where ridiculous and hilarious things happened? He supposed there had been more scandal in his youth, because back then everything was causing a scandal. You couldn't set foot out your door without causing a scandal--bloody 1970's.

Black Widow was blinking at him. Wesley blinked back. Had she asked him a direct question, finally? Had she finished telling him the story of her undeniably long, long life? Wesley laughed and finally she looked displeased. The man shook his head, readjusting his glasses at the top of his straight nose. He stood up and shrugged his cloak on. Then came the scarf, then the hat (a lovely knitted thing he'd made last winter when inspired to try spinning his own yarn), then his gloves. Feeling the need to make conversation while he bundled up, he looked down at the poor murderous darling and winked cheekily.

"My dear, you've been a great chat, and I have no doubt that you'd be a fantastic shag--can't see how you could've kept getting husbands otherwise. Unfortunately," he said, grunting slightly as he tugged the gloves on. "A long slow death is not something that even I would find amusing, particularly not when it's mine. Good day to you." He grinned at her, tossed a Galleon on the table and left the shop.

He was followed out by a number of paper cherubim, who were flitting around his head singing carols in horrible thin voices, all of them in different keys singing different tunes. Wesley pulled out his wand and started trying to incinerate them, but unfortunately they were quite quick, and Wesley was not as young as he used to be. He started off laughing, but quickly became frustrated as the things started singing louder and swooping closer and closer to his woolly-flap-covered ears.

"Bugger all! Cease your nasty droning and let me be!" he shouted, waving his wand wildly at the things.

The sudden commotion behind Julie's back was apparently quite enough to have her turn rather hurriedly on her heels again. Perhaps she was higher strung than was appropriate for a Saturday. But Auror reflexes weren't exactly put in a box come five o'clock Friday night and neither was a certain sensitivity to everything that might seem suspicious. Dark wizards had lots of disguises and - as they were always taught - would not fail to employ even the most ridiculous or silly ones - an Auror, in short, always had to be a step ahead.

Alright, little naked singing boys with wings probably weren't the ones behind the Apparition Bug. They were hideous and perfectly hellish nevertheless and somehow reminded Julie vaguely of pixies they'd been shown once in a cage to scare them into learning their spells. The pixies had been repulsive then and these cherubim were being exceedingly so now. Even from the distance that separated her and a man being quite clearly assaulted by the bunch.

Cherubic assault - sounds like a great charge. The department had, now probably buried under all the paperwork, a sort of book of ridiculous offences. Mostly they seemed to bear the general character of personal insults or snipes aimed at the government, the public, the press - whoever was behaving worst on a particular day.

She pulled out her wand. The man was having little luck getting rid of his menace. It was a ridiculous situation and Julie wouldn't have wanted to be in it her self (however unlikely her going to Puddifoot's in the first place or her being unable to dispatch the cherubim - she hardly thought of it that way and sympathized heartily with whomever might find oneself so indisposed). It didn't take all the weighing though for her to start firing.

A few of the cherubim burst into bright flames right above the man's head. Despite the fact that Julie was, naturally, a rather good shot, it was still slightly risky trying to avoid setting the man on fire instead of the multitude of her flittering targets.

Julie hurried away from the middle of the street towards the cafe, simultaneously trying to take out the remaining cherubim.

"Would you mind standing still?" she called out to the man.

Heads were turning gradually, albeit somewhat lazily. The bright flashes mechanically attracted attention, but their source was of little interest to the general public - nearly everyone disliked (in the least) the unavoidable toll of visiting Madam Puddifoot's, even the regulars.

There was a bright flash of fiery cherub death above his shoulder and Wesley jumped. Luckily, he didn't shriek, but he had to work pretty hard to keep from doing so as more and more of the cherub devils incinerated. They were flying closer and closer to him in an effort to protect themselves from whoever was helping him. Wesley jumped and twisted and swatted at them, focusing on that to keep himself from making any noises that would have been more appropriate for a twelve-year-old girl. He didn't want Black Widow to hear him and think maybe she'd lucked out after all.

"Would you mind standing still?"

"Stand still? You think I want to stand still and just let these awful winged denizens of Hell flitter about--" Wesley shouted, not looking at the speaker. He was far too frustrated to worry about being polite. Not that he ever worried about being particularly polite anyway, but still. He would normally have been slightly more polite. But he did finally glance over and when he did, he stopped shouting and did as she asked.

Wesley never could ignore an order from a strong, attractive young female.

She had to be at least half his age, but that had never exactly stopped Wesley before. He felt, the thought coming with extreme reluctance, that this was one girl he would not be able to take advantage of--and it wasn't just because she was currently saving his sorry old arse from enchanted paper. It was certainly a shame, but she was probably too strong to be easily wiled by him, and Wesley was not one to waste his efforts. Still, he contented himself with the fact that he would owe her after this incident, and therefore get at least one dinner date with her.

"Thank you very much, my dear fiery angel of sharp-shooting," he said, grinning at her as she removed the last of the devils. "I'm sure they would have followed me all the way back to London. I told them they didn't need to be tipped, you see, because they're made of paper, but they didn't take very kindly to that." He winked. "Wesley Coleman at your service. What's your name, dear?"

"Stand still? You think I want to stand still and just let these awful winged denizens of Hell flitter about--"

These sorts of situations weren't all new to Julie. Obviously. Only usually one barged in to the rescue of whomever with a flag and cry of "Aurors! Stand back and beware!". Well, not really, but something along the lines. At least everyone probably imagined it to be that way. There was something very pleasing in being a voice of authority, in the work time - or maybe it was reassuring or even merely a diversification of life. Perhaps some of it had settled down in her voice and hid and tried to make Julie think she was either all herself or all Auror.

This wasn't of course exactly the kind of situation. For example, the magic words were not apparently words at all. But with the man standing still, Julie did have a much easier time turning the remainder of Puddifoot's most loyal fiends into flakes of ash, gently drifting downwards.

"Thank you very much, my dear fiery angel of sharp-shooting."

Julie frowned lightly. She had to admit she wasn't called a fiery angel of sharp-shooting all that often. But among other things (like impertinent and ridiculous) it was also amusing. Civilian life was, on the whole, rather more fun, because no one took it for granted that Julie could, for instance, take out a cloud of paper cherubim without much trouble.

"I'm sure they would have followed me all the way back to London. I told them they didn't need to be tipped, you see, because they're made of paper, but they didn't take very kindly to that. Wesley Coleman at your service. What's your name, dear?"

Now she actually smiled, because despite the fact that the man could have been her father (and by addressing her as 'dear' wandered off almost into grandparent realm), he was positively amusing. Maybe even endearing in his wooly hat, his obvious joviality and his recent plight.

"I think in this instance I was the one at your service," she replied. Julie was hardly arch, but her eyes twinkled. This would have made a ridiculously modern episode of a fairy tale, with gender equality and all. "Julie Richmond. And I think the trick is not to be clever when faced with such an imminent menace as they."

She was starting to like the day rather better.

"I think in this instance I was the one at your service."

Wesley grinned, looking down at the smoldering, ashy bits of paper cherub corpses littering the ground at their feet. Once out of the fray he'd been concerned about the possibility of embarrassment--because really, being attacked by fat, naked, singing children made out of enchanted stationary wasn't something that just anyone could pull off without losing a good many debonair points--but it would really make a good story to tell at the pub, where everyone would be too drunk to wonder why Wesley couldn't burn the damn things himself.

Perhaps he could even write an article about it! A lifestyles piece about the risks of dating in the wizarding world, with expert opinions (completely fabricated by himself) on safe dating practices including where, when, what and whom. He would avoid any outright mention of Madame Puddifoot's, but really anyone who had caught so much as a whiff of the place would get his joke; why, the piece might even end up being helpful to people looking for alternatives, although Wesley certainly wouldn't concern himself too much with that aspect.

"You were indeed, and I'm very grateful," he said. "You're quite the shot; do a lot of pixie-hunting as a child? You don't want to hear about my exploits with that lot," he added with a cheeky wink and a laugh.

"Julie Richmond. And I think the trick is not to be clever when faced with such an imminent menace as they."

"Quite right! They had no appreciation for the art of language, and I'm not at all inclined to forgive them for it just because they were of somewhat less stout constitution than my usual critics," Wesley said with a sly smile. "Alas. Next time I will know better than to get smart with the decor!" He reached up, readjusted his hat, and offered her his arm.

"Well, Julie," he said, "it has been a pleasure to meet you, and I am not the sort of man who easily gives up his pleasures. Will you join me for a drink at a far less hostile establishment? The Hog's Head, perhaps?" He winked, just in case she couldn't tell that he was joking.

"You're quite the shot; do a lot of pixie-hunting as a child? You don't want to hear about my exploits with that lot."

Julie grinned for two reasons. The first was that seeing Wesley Coleman as a man in his late forties or fifties fighting off paper cherubs outside Puddifoot's and calling them "awful winged denizens of Hell", she could quite imagine that the exploits of his earlier years involving pixies could hardly be something orthodox. Maybe the man was just bluffing - that was an entirely reasonable possibility, because winks and laughs and vague terms were really the best way. After all, she might not want to hear because it was a horribly tedious tale of trying to get a pixie for a pet and being denied by his parents, year after year.

The second reason was that the adorable adolescent idea of pixie-hunting was so utterly amusing in her head, sitting next to the real, serious big boys, nervously throwing its one metaphorical leg over the other. You know, behind the door with the sign "Auditioning: reason's for Julie's expertise in shooting".

"Quite right! They had no appreciation for the art of language, and I'm not at all inclined to forgive them for it just because they were of somewhat less stout constitution than my usual critics. Alas. Next time I will know better than to get smart with the decor!"

Now Julie openly laughed. She wasn't at all certain how she'd managed to procure herself the company of (most likely) the least tongue-tied individual in magical Britain. It was like "Charm Your Own Cheese" without a wand.

"Well, Julie, it has been a pleasure to meet you, and I am not the sort of man who easily gives up his pleasures. Will you join me for a drink at a far less hostile establishment? The Hog's Head, perhaps?"

For a moment, Julie eyed him. She spotted a lone bit of ash on his coat. To hell with presents. She hid away her wand, tucked her hair behind her ears and then ceremoniously accepted his arm. Before moving on, however, she turned to face him, mock serious and eyes sparkling with amusement.

"But only if I can rely on you being perfectly decent to the attendants of whichever place we're going to. I'm not as good at setting people on fire."

Liar.

He was very pleased by her reactions to his little quips, and continued grinning at her to show his satisfaction. Wesley was a boisterous, fun sort of fellow and he liked his environment to suit him, rather than the other way around. Some people came away with the impression that the fifty-year-old man's sole purpose was to get his own enjoyment from ridiculing others, but it simply wasn't the case. Wesley did often get a great deal of amusement from poking fun at people's oddities, that much was certainly true, but he did, on occasion, like to sincerely make other people smile.

Now, Julie was very lucky to have caught him in such a mood, because they didn't come very frequently. He was much more likely to take the mickey out of people he met, since on the whole he found them less than entertaining and therefore had to squeeze entertainment out of them; and the most interesting parts of boring people were their flaws. But Julie had some quality about her that was very winning, and was threatening to absorb him and blind him to the flaws he knew she must have. He was incredibly curious about her, and therefore inclined to be much kinder to her than others.

That, and she had delivered him from the Apocalyptic anti-cherubim. The action established a sort of credit for her in Wesley's regard. The red hair helped too.

"But only if I can rely on you being perfectly decent to the attendants of whichever place we're going to. I'm not as good at setting people on fire."

Wesley laughed and patted the hand she'd placed in the crook of his arm, steering her down the hill towards the Three Broomsticks.

"Julie, I'm afraid that my being considered decent depends entirely on the ability of the person I'm addressing to forgive a joke. I know you must have a good sense of humor; after all, you haven't slapped me. Yet," he added thoughtfully.

"Besides, I don't believe you. I'm sure you're more than capable of setting anyone on fire," he told her with a cheeky grin and suggestive waggle of his eyebrows. His goal was now to make her slap him--he never felt accomplished in a conversation with a woman until his cheek was stinging.

Jokes relying in their capacity to amuse on a double entendre of the word 'fire' were not entirely unfamiliar to Julie. Association is a powerful force in language and Julie's hair was ample material for such association, conscious or not. She couldn't exactly have claimed to get that a lot. But in some other situation, it wouldn't have been entirely unexpected.

This time it apparently was, although having heard Wesley talk for five minutes ought to have instilled in Julie a conviction that nothing of the kind could really be unexpected. It was a little early in the day and a little low on the drinks count, though and Julie felt a faint blush rise to her cheeks instinctively at first. This had little to do with contemplation and rather more with some primal, childish embarrassment with anything that had some second meaning. Words are, after all, magic and magic is dangerous when it's strange – volatile, it can go either way.

She laughed with a faint frown, though, and shook her head. This was merely silly.

"Now, there you are wrong. Some are perfectly non-flammable. In a strictly pyrotechnic sense." She cast a purposefully stern look at Wesley, perhaps to persecute any elaborations on the subject.

"Although I suspect that given the high alcohol content in a pub's populace we might all be in danger." Julie mildly surprised herself with this remark – perhaps Wesley was contagious.

Despite some examples to the contrary, though, alcohol didn't always provide for a broader, more forgiving sense of humor. Julie momentarily imagined a magnificent pub brawl, with her companion on some table hurling wit with the structure of a perfectly constructed argument and occasionally ducking the stray chair or bottle. And she would probably stare at all this in horror - an excited kind of horror. Well, that was the more reigned in version anyway.

"In fact, how often are you involved in... these kinds misunderstandings?" she asked, amused. Maybe the man did this regularly as an excuse to be introduced to young compassionate women. A trick Julie could not, upon her brief impression of Wesley's character, consider entirely below him. "Any ones of outstanding merit?" Faint dimples showed near the corners of her mouth.