Tap tap tap.

A scruffy man, totally indistinguishable from the other patrons of the Leaky Cauldron, looked over at her from his seat three stools down the bar and made a face, his eyes glancing pointedly at the pen she was touching percussively to the dirty, old wood. Cecilia returned his look with one of her own and flipped the pen in her fingers, bringing the other end (the one that hadn't come in contact with the bar) to her lips and gently resting it between her teeth.

She was deliberately sitting at the bar with her back to the tables in an attempt to avoid her usual pastime: people-watching. She habitually observed people. Part of it was business; she was always on the lookout for someone who looked interesting, or so innocuous that they had to be fascinating. She looked for people with strange habits, like Barbara had had. But in truth, a great part of her desire to watch people was simply the result of her natural curiosity.

Whatever the cause, she was trying to break herself of the habit. She didn't need to seek out people to write about anymore. More than enough witches and wizards solicited her to write their life stories. Being less nosy curious would improve her social life too, she was sure; people generally didn't like feeling interrogated in casual situations, and Cecilia sometimes forgot herself and asked too many questions. Sure, asking questions was perfectly normal when getting to know someone, but Cecilia had a hard time being casual and easy about it. She tended to get very serious and more than once had been caught writing notes on her hand.

But it wasn't just her social relations she was hoping to improve. She was feeling confused about where to go next, and what to do; like she'd lost herself over the years of being immersed in other people's lives. When she was sitting alone, reflecting or reminiscing quietly, the things she remembered were usually not her own memories. The first time she'd realized that she was fondly recollecting one of Barbara's romantic enterprises, she'd been horrified--and that's why she was currently sitting in the Leaky Cauldron, which was never without a few interesting characters, staring at the wall behind the bar and determined not to look at anyone.

"Another butterbeer, please," she said in the direction of the bartender. She bit her lip, but she couldn't resist talking more: "Should be filling up soon, right? I guess it's about that time of night."

With a sigh, Artemius walked into the Leaky Cauldron, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last. However, his recent decision weighed on him. But, he had now earned a drink, and so headed for the bar with something other than boredom on his mind.

"Heya, Tom," he greeted, catching the bartender's eye.

"Baxby," he replied, coming towards him. "Butterbeer as usual?"

"Nah," Artemius answered. "I don't deserve to be happy. I've just sold my soul to the Ministry. Get me a rum and cola."

The bartender chuckled. "You're a weird one," but nevertheless made the drink. Yes, it was very American, but so was taking a job that was against everything you stood for just to pay the bills.

"And I've lost my mind, to boot," he added, sipping through the straw, the sickly sweet alcohol mixing with the bubbly cola. He coughed. "Good God, that's disgusting. Thanks, Tom." The bartender merely chuckled and walked away. Artemius sipped at it again with a disappointed, yet justified grunt.

"Heya, Tom."

Cecilia jumped and looked around before she could stop herself. Someone was approaching. Mercifully, he came to the bar between Cecilia and the unfortunate music hater who persisted in throwing the young woman dirty looks; thankfully, he was also addressing the bartender and not Cecilia, which meant that she wasn't tempted to speak to him. Speaking to him would have been different from speaking to a bartender and would have required her to look at him, and looking at him would have inevitably led to her carefully observing his mannerisms and likely making him feel awkward.

But he'd addressed the bartender by name! Cecilia hadn't even known the bartender had a name. The bartender knew his name, too! If this stranger knew the bartender's name, and the bartender knew his name, the likely conclusion would be that Baxby, whoever he was, frequented the Leaky Cauldron. Why? If he was coming in at night, he probably wasn't the sort of person who stopped in on his way to do errands in Diagon Alley. What sort of people came in alone to dingy pubs at night? Well, people with reasons to just drink. What did Baxby have to drink about?

Baxby...the name sounded familiar. Cecilia took a moment, closed her eyes and put her head in her hands. She mentally ran down the list of names in her head. She didn't think it was too recently that she'd heard about--wait! She sat up abruptly as a she recalled an incident from her sixth year at Hogwarts. There had been a fight between two third years over the treatment of werewolves and she'd been one of the prefects who broke it up. Baxby had been one of them, Artemis--no, Artemius Baxby. She looked over at the man who knew the bartender's name. Cecilia had a good eye for faces and it was him. Taller, longer hair, but even looking at him in profile she could see the same sharp, clever look that seemed to be his default expression. He was looking a little worn, but if the Ministry was involved that wasn't a surprise. Cecilia was curious. She scooted over one bar stool closer to him.

"Baxby? Artie Baxby?" she said, smiling at him. "Hullo; do you remember me? Cecilia Gerhardt." She held out her hand. "We were in Ravenclaw together."

"Baxby? Artie Baxby?"

Artemius stopped sipping and looked to his left -- there, a girl was gazing intently at him, an expression of awe stamped on her face. He cocked his head to the side. That was very odd. "Yes?" That was, after all, his name.

She beamed. "Hullo; do you remember me? Cecillia Gerhardt." He watched as she jutted out a hand towards him. "We were in Ravenclaw together."

Having known a great many people, it took a moment for him to sort through, but putting her head on a Ravenclaw's uniform made it considerably easier. His eyes widened in recognition and a smile came on his face. "Ah! Yes! Cecilia. Cecilia Gerhardt. I remember you!" He took her hand, his grin getting big. "Yes! How've you been? You were a couple years older than me, weren't you?" It was out his mouth before he remembered it was rude to talk about a lady's age. "Err... what're you doing now? How's life for you?" He was jabbering, it was sure, but he was nervous. Her intense gaze was also slightly unnerving, but the curiousity reminded him fondly of the little ones, which amused him, as well.

Artie cocked his head to the side, a gesture which Cecilia (somewhat mockingly) mimicked, laughing a little bit and smiling a little half-smile. It was an odd sort of twitch, a movement she associated with children and puppies. Now that the image was in her head, she concluded that Art did rather look like a dog. Maybe not a puppy; he was too tired-looking for that, but he certainly gave the impression of a droopy, tired old dog. The only thing throwing it off for her was the distinct lack of facial hair (not that that was a bad thing; she didn't really think he had the chin for a facial hair) and his grey eyes. Dogs generally had big, dark, watery eyes. After a moment of thought, Cecilia decided that if she had to place Art's eyes within the canine family, she'd call them a wolf's eyes.

"Ah! Yes! Cecilia. Cecilia Gerhardt. I remember you!"

Well, thank Merlin for that, Cecilia thought, shaking his hand vigorously and grinning at him. It would have been terribly awkward if he hadn't remembered, and she would have been obliged to hastily give some light-hearted comment about being short and overlooked, hoping he'd laugh along and miss the edge of bitterness in her voice at being forced to tease herself about her height (a sensitive subject for her) and the flush that would have shown in her cheeks.

Of course, being romantic and versed in storytelling (and therefore knowing the many possible amorous outcomes of chance reunions at bars between former classmates of the opposite sex) Cecilia was prone to blushing anyway, so she was still somewhat struggling to cover it up by swishing her hair over her cheeks, looking down and shaking her head, chuckling as though she was recovering her breath after a particularly funny joke. Art had a very sweet, disarming grin that did something to shed some of the exhaustion from his features. Cecilia tried to imagine him the way she remembered him from school, with chubbier cheeks that he hadn't grown into back then.

"Yes! How've you been? You were a couple years older than me, weren't you?"

Cecilia made a cute little grimace, then grinned at him. "That's right, three years older," she said with a laugh. "Not that it made much of a difference in Ravenclaw; we all acted older than we were." Small talk. Cecilia loved talking, but small talk had no substance. Normally in conversations she started asking questions, skipping right to the meat, as it were--but she restrained herself. She vowed silently that she would not ask any questions that didn't come up in the course of them speaking, and she wouldn't press a train of thought that made Art uncomfortable no matter how curious she was.

"Err... what're you doing now? How's life for you?"

"I've been well, very well, for the most part. I've gotten into the memoir business," she said. "That is, I find interesting people who've lived interesting lives, and I write it all down in a narrative for the reading pleasures of the wizarding community. It's really wonderful, much better than being a fiction novelist. All the characters and events are already figured out! The worst thing I've noticed is when you come across people who are sure their lives are more fascinating than they actually are. There's just no debating with them," she said, shaking her head almost fondly.

"And what about you? Did I hear you say something about the Ministry?" she asked, trying her best to sound casual. Cecilia was always casual in seeking information about people, for her part, but her tone of voice tended to lack the same nonchalance.

She seemed to smile quite a bit. It was a simple, honest smile, not one hidden under pain or a facade. It was rather clean and pure, he'd like to say -- it was refreshing. "I've been well, very well, for the most part. I've gotten into the memoir business," she explained. "That is, I find interesting people who've lived interesting lives, and I write it all down in a narrative for the reading pleasures of the wizarding community."

"Ah!" Artemius nodded, grinning. That was certainly an odd occupation. Now that he thought about it, she'd always been a little nosy. Good to put an otherwise viceful trait to good use. "That sounds like a good fit for you."

"It's really wonderful, much better than being a fiction novelist. All the characters and events are already figured out!" He chuckled. Writer's block. Not an unfamiliar term. "But, the worst thing I've noticed is when you come across people who are sure their lives are more fascinating than they actually are. There's just no debating with them," she said, shaking her head almost fondly.

Artemius grimaced in sympathy. "Yeah, I know how that is. Some people tend to think they're more important than they really are. Boosts their self esteem, I suppose, but makes them a little foolish to everyone else." He nodded knowingly.

"And what about you?" she asked. Man, that smile was exquisite. It'd been so long since he'd seen a smile so big... "Did I hear you say something about the Ministry?"

He gave a bashful grimace. "Oh. Yeah, that." He gestured to his drink. "I, err, I sold my soul to the Ministry," he repeated. "I've got a job as security guard, until I can build up a resume of some kind that doesn't involve farmwork." He nodded, realising how stupid that sounded, and grinned at his own pathetic life. "Today was my first official day of work, and I think I have earned a little penance for doing something so stupid. In fact, if my father were alive, I bet he'd flay me alive," he added. And he probably would, sad to say. He also wouldn't much like Artemius being so friendly with drink, either, or his wife out working at St. Mungo's again, but there wasn't much to be done about that. "It's -- it's monotonous, but it's something." Monotonous. As monotonous as white in an arctic winter. Still, her smile was infectious -- god, that was brilliant. Maybe he didn't need butterbeer to feel all warm and tingly inside... This smiling ghost was doing more for his soul than anything else he'd had in the last month or so. It was very reassuring. He found himself wondering how long it would last.

"That sounds like a good fit for you."

Cecilia laughed and rolled her eyes playfully at him. She heard that all the time, but since nosiness curiosity was one of her defining traits and the one she was usually remembered by, she'd gotten used to comments like "that's the perfect job for you" or "it was either that or journalism, I suppose!" She waved the comment away genially, offering no other response to it; it didn't really require one, since any reply would just be stating that which was obvious to both of them.

"Yeah, I know how that is. Some people tend to think they're more important than they really are. Boosts their self esteem, I suppose, but makes them a little foolish to everyone else."

"Certainly," Cecilia said, "and most of them are perfectly nice people, usually with one outlandish adventure in their lives that they're eager to tell me about. It's good stuff, but not enough to warrant an entire book about their lives. Usually what I do for them is write up their one good story. I'm compiling a book of them; of those little stories. It's only fair; not everyone can be extraordinary their entire lives. In fact, very few people manage it. But our lives can have isolated extraordinary moments."

She pursed her lips sympathetically as he described his new position in the Ministry--if one could call it that. Patrick Hinder had contacted her several years ago, writing her a very long letter about why his life and work as Head of Ministry Security merited a book. She'd been vaguely intrigued, though not because of anything he'd said, and had looked into doing a book not about Hinder in particular, but about the whole of the Ministry's security force. Unfortunately, it had been during the peaceful years of Shacklebolt's Ministry, and Cecilia had discovered the guards to be a superfluous, if self-important, lot, and refused the proposal. Hinder had continued to pester her about it until Harry Potter's disappearance began the veritable humiliation of the Ministry's "security."

"I wish I knew how to help, but I wouldn't know the first thing about looking for a different job," Cecilia said somewhat bashfully. "I worked as a waitress after Hogwarts. That's where I met Barbara--the first woman I wrote a memoir for--and I haven't done anything else since. Although, I have been thinking about taking a break from writing lately," she mused thoughtfully, taking a pensive sip of her butterbeer. She looked back up at Art curiously. "What do you think you'd like to do?"

"Certainly," she replied. "And most of them are perfectly nice people, but usually only with one outlandish adventure in their lives that they're eager to tell me about. It's good stuff, but not enough to warrant an entire book about their lives. Usually what I do for them is write up their one good story. I'm compiling a book of them; of those little stories. It's only fair; not everyone can be extraordinary their entire lives. In fact, very few people manage it. But our lives can have isolated extraordinary moments."

Boy, wasn't that the cold, hard truth. There a few tales Artemius could tell, but he'd much rather not. The few times he did have nightmares, they were doozies -- careless nights under the full moon light that very nearly changed his life comepletely - more than once. It was a blessing he could complain about a crappy job. He knew folks who would be buying the whole pub a round of drinks for landing a security job. It made him a bit sick to consider that he was still doing this. He finished his glass of disgusting rum and cola.

"I wish I knew how to help, but I wouldn't know the first thing about looking for a different job," Cecilia replied. That she sincerely took his self-ridicule as a plea for help, and even wanted to do something to assist him was touching. It was rare one found an actually decent soul. "I worked as a waitress after Hogwarts. That's where I met Barbara--the first woman I wrote a memoir for," she explained. "I haven't done anything else since. Although, I have been thinking about taking a break from writing lately..." Her thought seemed to drift, and she sipped absently at her butterbeer. Past years of sketching and watching various artists over the years had given him an artist's eye -- in that moment, with the bottle just below her lips, and her big eyes full of some kind of deep ponderance... and yet a remnant of a smile still on her face. She was troubled, to be sure, but she looked exquisite while she did so. Artemius felt a smile on his own face. Damn, what he'd give for a discreet camera.

But, it only lasted for a moment, as it always did. Her bubbly smile was back in place as she turned back to him. "What do you think you'd like to do?"

Unsettled by the shift, as he often was, it took him a moment to register the question -- and then he had to think about it. He frowned. He cocked his head to the side. Then he looked back at her. "Do you know? I honestly have no idea." It was weird... so much of his life was spent at the Cottage... Fix the Shed, shopping for the family -- chocolates and sugar quills and groceries and coffee stuffs for the Wolf's Den -- schoolwork and bookkeeping and big family dinners every night. He'd done well in school, but always with the idea of using his education to further the Cottage. But now... with the Cottage gone, and his family for the most part disbanded -- besides his mother, still holding on right beside him -- things had definitely changed. Even the job was just something that he had thought needed to be done. But did he need it? I mean, he needed to pay rent, but the need was not that dire at the moment. What was he doing with his life?

And what did he want to do with it?

He looked back up at her, a bit interested by the fact that only her presence was bringing such an important question to light. "That is a very, very good question. And I think I needed that," he said. Still, Artemius Merlin Baxby was a prankster, and a mischeifmaker at heart. He could never be serious for too long. He grinned as his mind came up with lots of fun things to answer the question with -- if only just to fantasize. "I suppose I wouldn't mind being a dragon breeder or Cursebreaker," he answered with a smirk. "I am very good with Charms and large, ferocious beasties. Mind, not dragons in particular, but... beasties." He grinned up at her. "That would be fun, wouldn't it?"

"Do you know? I honestly have no idea."

Boy, did Cecilia ever sympathize with that! She rested her elbow on the bar and put her chin in her palm, looking up at him and nodding appreciatively. If she were perfectly honest, she didn't know what she wanted to do either. Sure, she enjoyed memoir-writing, but she couldn't say that it was her dream career or something she'd want to do forever. She felt like the job would consume her completely if she didn't find an alternative soon--she already couldn't tell which of her memories were hers half the time. What was next?

She stopped nodding and stared carefully at him. A distant sort of look at come into his eyes, and along with it the melancholy that had hung around him when he'd first come in and sat down. Now that it had settled on him again she could once again marvel at the incredible difference in his countenance when he was smiling and when he wasn't. It wasn't a very obvious difference; that is, his other features were not positioned that differently at all. His eyes, for example, still gazed forward the same way, though gazing at something perhaps farther off than her face. But just the slightest curve of his mouth was all that was needed for that light of amusement to return to his eyes! It was marvelous--causing her to marvel--that was the only word for it.

If Cecilia could have wished for anything, it would have been for the ability to read minds. She had once considered learning Legilmency, but had eventually decided against it because she knew that she wouldn't be able to help herself, and even if she took vows not to use it on anyone who wasn't willing she'd end up forgetting herself and accidentally using it. It was better to just avoid the temptation to begin with. Besides, she had to admit that there was something really enjoyable about watching Art's face as he sat thoughtfully before her, trying to piece together his thoughts without the slightest knowledge of what they might be. He had a marvelously enigmatic face; Cecilia was sure she could stare at it for hours trying to puzzle it out.

"I suppose I wouldn't mind being a dragon breeder or Cursebreaker. I am very good with Charms and large, ferocious beasties. Mind, not dragons in particular, but... beasties. That would be fun, wouldn't it?"

"Oh, sure! Fun and absolutely mental. You might go to cradle one and have fire breathed in your face, and then it would blaze up all your orifices and right into your brain," she said, laughing and grinning back at him. "I daresay curse-breaking would be safer than dragon-breeding, but imagine all those tedious hours working at unraveling a spell you probably won't have all the information on, likely developed with all sorts of booby traps and tricks involved! Why, I can't imagine you'd get anywhere, and then you'd be frustrated all the time. Think of how much you'd drink then, if all it takes is boredom to send you to the bar," she added in mock seriousness.

"No! No, there's nothing for it. Such a career is impossible," she cried dramatically. She grinned. "Any other professions tickle your fancy?"

"Oh, sure! Fun and absolutely mental." Artemius grinned. "You might go to cradle one and have fire breathed in your face, and then it would blaze up all your orifices and right into your brain," she said, laughing and grinning back at him. He smiled fondly. To be honest, the danger was half of why he said it -- he was used to that thrill of putting your life on the line. It gave even every day tasks a thrill of adventure. Why be discreet when you can outright breed one of the most dangerous creatures in the world.

"Yes, but that's the point entirely," he answered, beaming. "It's the danger that's inspiring to me. Not knowing if tomorrow will come or not. Makes you live in the now." He nodded. "That's how I want to live."

She seemed to be more than humouring him -- she thought he was really serious. In a way, it amused him -- it was true, his brand of humour was something one trained themselves to understand -- so far only Aronel had ever been able to truly understand him -- but she could always try. He had a feeling he would enjoy the training, however long it took.

"I daresay curse-breaking would be safer than dragon-breeding," she continued, prattling on. "But imagine all those tedious hours working at unraveling a spell you probably won't have all the information on, likely developed with all sorts of booby traps and tricks involved! Why, I can't imagine you'd get anywhere, and then you'd be frustrated all the time. Think of how much you'd drink then, if all it takes is boredom to send you to the bar," she added.

Artemius smile faltered. What was that?

"... if all it takes is boredom to send you to the bar... "

Good god, was he really doing that? Was he drinking because he was bored? He looked down at the drink. Yes, the reason he picked that one was something he had planned out, but why drink at all? For the sake of doing it? For the sake of following the routine that was expected of him? Go to a boring, pointless job that might even, as in his case, be the exact opposite of what you want to do with your life, then drink and sleep, only to repeat the cycle all over again? For a moment, his breath caught. What was he doing? He had said it as a joke, but honestly -- if his father saw him now, he'd probably...

...cry.

Cecilia, meanwhile, had not yet noticed. "No! No, there's nothing for it. Such a career is impossible," she cried dramatically. She grinned at him. "Any other professions tickle your fancy?"

Artemius turned to the bar, hiding his face with a hand as he fought this wave of defeat. Come on, he told himself. Get a grip. Get a hold of yourself. You're Artemius Baxby. Liquid sunshine and humor flood through your veins -- you're a dying werewolf's fondest dream, and every prankster's worst nightmare, remember? Yet, that crushing feeling came down even harder. The fact that he hadn't yet had a chance to truly mourn his father's death yet popped into his mind, numbing him for another moment.

Would it be now? Was now the time? His mother was far from here -- she wouldn't have to see. He wasn't at work -- no chance being fired for being emotionally unstable. And he was at a bar -- it was almost suiting. He glanced furtively at the ceiling -- his room was just upstairs. He could discreetly excuse himself, and do his business if it was to be as he feared. He looked to Cecilia, the big smile on her face, and he gulped it up with his eyes. So innocent... even if not really, it had no idea what was going through his head, and he was thankful. He rested his chin in his hand in a mimickry of her posture. "I don't know," he repeated, this time in more whimsical, pensive tone. Who was this girl, and why did she have this... opening effect on him? She'd do well in the Cottage. "I suppose, if nothing else, I'd like to help people," he answered honest. "Like a Healer, only..." What was the phrase his father used to use? He smiled in fond rememberance. "Homelier." And not in the "you're ugly" homelier, but the "home is where your heart is" homelier.

Art turned away from her, his hand on his face. Now that she wasn't speaking, Cecilia noticed tension in his hands and his neck. What had she said? What was he thinking about, that was making him tremble just slightly that way? She quickly bit her bottom lip, determined not to pry. She thought that perhaps it would have been appropriate to ask if he was alright, except that he clearly wasn't; "what's wrong" was a silly thing to ask too, because if he wanted to tell her he would. What to do then? She decided on reaching out and putting a small hand on his arm.

He turned and looked at her again, a strange expression on his face; it was almost surprised, almost amused, like he had just had a little joke with himself or something. Still fighting the urge to inquire into this mysterious shift (or, more accurately, reprise) of attitude, she smiled reassuringly at him. She'd seen these sort of reflective silences before; they happened frequently with her clients, as they sat remembering the ups and downs of their lives. In that setting, it was appropriate for her to ask particular questions; in this case, she believed it was better to just ride it out. It was strange to do so, but also very gratifying, especially when he smiled at her again and mirrored her position.

"I suppose, if nothing else, I'd like to help people. Like a Healer, only...Homelier. And not in the "you're ugly" homelier, but the "home is where your heart is" homelier."

"I understand," Cecilia said with a small giggle. "That's really wonderful, Art. I think the idea of a home and a family has really lost some of its significance. I mean, all the memoirs I've written have been the lives of older people, and they always talk about the warmth and solidarity of their families, the comfort of their childhood homes." She sighed wistfully.

"People are too independent these days. They're afraid to rely on each other." She smiled and shook her head. "But I had a really close family growing up; my grandparents, parents and three younger siblings all living in a little townhouse together. We really had to work together, or we would have driven each other insane!" she added with a laugh.

"I understand," Cecilia replied with a small giggle. The tinkling sound did his heart good. "That's really wonderful, Art. I think the idea of a home and a family has really lost some of its significance. I mean, all the memoirs I've written have been the lives of older people, and they always talk about the warmth and solidarity of their families, the comfort of their childhood homes." She sighed wistfully.

Artemius couldn't help his smile getting bigger, an decided it was save to remove his hand, and so removed it to behind his chin. He took a deep breath -- calming himself with that big smile. Golly it was gorgeous. And truly brilliant. He could take in that grin all night -- it was doing him a world of good.

"People are too independent these days," she continued. "They're afraid to rely on each other." She smiled and shook her head. "But I had a really close family growing up; my grandparents, parents and three younger siblings all living in a little townhouse together. We really had to work together, or we would have driven each other insane!" she added with a laugh.

Artemius gave a small chuckle. "I know exactly what you mean," he replied, his grin returning, as he rolled his eyes good-naturedly. Good, the spell was over. He was saved. "Although I'm technically an only child, my mom had a..." He paused, thinking of a way to say it without the lycanthropy. "...kind of Cottage that always had people in, some staying for only a short time, some staying for years. Although my mother only gave birth to me, I have had more family members than I daresay I'll ever recall." The fact that the place used to be a Bed-n-Breakfast was half the inspiration. He wondered if that wouldn't be too inaccurate to say? Nah. She'd want to come by. His smile twisted wryly. Then he'd have to say it was gone, and then he'd be back in his melancholy.

He looked down at his drink -- it was empty. Still, her comment bothered him... He wasn't sure why it had such an effect on him, but it did. He waved over the bartender.

"Do you have Muggle tea here?" he asked.

The bartender chuckled. "It'll be a tick to make, but sure."

Artemius smiled. "Can I get a pot of Earl Grey, please? All the fixin's, if you don't mind." He glanced over at Cecilia, then back. "Make it two cups."

He turned back to her with a soft smile. "Maybe the caffeine will help us stay up," he explained. He hoped she'd hear the invitation for her not to leave quite yet... Just talking with this smiling angel was a kind of therapy no Healer or doctor could prescribe.

"I know exactly what you mean."

Cecilia laughed and nodded as he talked about his apparently extended family. The look in his eyes was sort of distant again, but it was a different kind of distance. There was a warmth in the reminiscence that hadn't been there before. Cecilia decided that she liked it. It was like she was getting a small glimpse into the very heart of him; seeing, for a second, what was really important to him. It was a rare opportunity for a curious person like herself, and she reveled in it.

"It sounds like a bed and breakfast!" she said, smiling. "I'm sure I'd love to own a bed and breakfast. I love home-making and keeping people comfortable and all of that." She paused and looked back at Art with a somewhat awed look on her face.

How wonderful! For weeks, she'd spent hours looking through things from her childhood and school years, trying to figure out what she'd wanted out of life back then. She knew she'd had some kind of plan after she graduated, some plan other than the Ministry; that was why she'd turned down all those job offers and started working at the ice cream parlor. But she'd gotten so wrapped up in memoir-writing that she'd forgotten about all of those plans she was sure she'd had and she couldn't seem to get them back. And now? All kinds of wonderful possibilities were floating into her mind.

"You know something, Art? I'm so glad you walked in here tonight," she said, beaming at him. "I've been so confused lately about what I want to do with my life; I was getting so lost in other people's lives."

She had to pause there and put a hand over her mouth as selfish desires for her own comfort and happiness welled up. She was normally pretty good at convincing herself that it was better to focus on other people, that it was her duty, and in doing so temporarily put off dealing with the fact that she herself was unfulfilled. Her interests were completely dependent on other people. Her favorite pastimes were learning about people and taking care of them. But a bed and breakfast! It would be just like her childhood, running the home and taking care of everyone who lived there; and she would be able to talk about them and hear about all that they would tell her.

"I mean, don't get me wrong; I love learning about other people," Cecilia said, dropping her hand and smiling again at Art. "But I haven't had anything to call my own either, in all these years since school. Oh, a bed and breakfast is the perfect solution! Thank you so much, Art, for giving me the idea!" she said, reaching over and squeezing his arm gratefully again.

"Maybe the caffeine will help us stay up."

"Wonderful. I couldn't possibly sleep now, not when there's so much to plan! I want to get started right away. Tomorrow! Money isn't a question at all, it's amazing how many people buy biographies," she said, reaching for the notebook she always carried in her bag and pulling it out. She opened it and flipped to a blank page, pulling a pen out of her pocket and uncapping it with her teeth. She started to write things about how many rooms she'd like to have and where she'd like to buy the furniture.

"I'd really like to find a place in the country, maybe in a nice pretty wood somewhere; where was your mother's cottage?" she asked, grabbing the pen cap from her mouth with her free hand. "And I can't possibly run it alone, so I'll need to find someone to go into business with me--" she stopped and turned to Art with a wide grin. "Well, what about you! And your mother could come too, it would certainly be wonderful to have someone experienced around to help. Oh, say you'll at least think about it, Art," she said, smiling warmly at him.

Artemius couldn't help the grin on his face. It was humouring -- like a doting grandfather on his young descendant. Before he knew it, she was jabbering again -- apparently she'd had a dream to own a bed'n'breakfast. The way she prattled on was rather amusing, but the joy that shone in her eyes was fantastic, and there was that infectious smile. He beamed along with her, as she exercised her excited dialogue.

"There's so much to plan! I want to get started right away. Tomorrow! Money isn't a question at all, it's amazing how many people buy biographies," she said, reaching for the notebook she always carried in her bag and pulling it out. She opened it and flipped to a blank page, pulling a pen out of her pocket and uncapping it with her teeth. She started to write things about how many rooms she'd like to have and where she'd like to buy the furniture.

"I'd really like to find a place in the country, maybe in a nice pretty wood somewhere; where was your mother's cottage?" she asked, grabbing the pen cap from her mouth with her free hand. "And I can't possibly run it alone, so I'll need to find someone to go into business with me--" she stopped and turned to Art with a wide grin. "Well, what about you! And your mother could come too, it would certainly be wonderful to have someone experienced around to help. Oh, say you'll at least think about it, Art," she said, smiling warmly at him.

He wondered how long it would take her to realise he was laughing -- a hearty, full belly laugh that was filling him up, inside and out. Here he was worrying about his own Cottage, and she wanted one herself. He just poured some tea as she begged him for assistance.

"I will just say this -- my mother's cottage was more than a bed and breakfast," he said, sliding her a cuppa. "Most of our "guests" stayed for a lot longer than one night. But, I suppose what we had was similar -- in fact, the house we used was once a B&B before my mother got a hold of it. Mind, we never paid it off, but it was gorgeous in its time."

"Baxby Cottage was a three storied, fourteen roomed house -- although, most of those were small rooms -- plus attic space for two. That's where Aronel and I used to sleep for a long time, until she started going out with Johnny." He remembered fondly summer nights spend under the covers with a torch as they played countless games of Wizard's chess or cards or God-knew-what-else.

"It was on the shore of Wales -- a village called Tywyn -- and it was perched on the cliff. From the front yard you could see the ocean, and a steep set of stairs led from the back yard -- if you can call it that, being mostly sand and rock -- to the dock below, where my dad always had his little sloop at. Her name was Katy Marie, and she was a fine vessel -- he taught me to sail in that boat, and fish and go deep sea diving and all kinds of things. My mother was always scared to death of it..." He broke off in a laugh.

That "damned dinghy", as she'd called it, had saved a dozen hides; fortunately the moon was still waning that Week, and they'd waited out the chaos with several fishing rods and patience. It was cramped and unpleasant, but the couple days it took for Baxby Cottage to burn to the ground seemed to last forever.

"It's gorgeous country, Wales," he added. He blew at the tea. So hot. He cleared his throat to get the melancholy out. "Plenty of gorgeous forest, there, too. And orchards of various things, and berry trees. We always had fresh berries for the pies Molly made about once a week." Artemius beamed. "Seven pies, she made, once. It was wolfed down in about fifteen minutes -- Arrie and I checked." He laughed again. They'd boasted the number for two and a half weeks, much to everyone else's shame, but to their amusement.

"Never a dull moment, though, with my crazy parents running the show. You never knew what weird contraption or cultural experience my father would bring home from his latest trip. Once he brought back a miniature catdragon that some demented wizard living out in Fiji had conjured up. It didn't live very long, but it was sure an interesting thing to have while it lasted." Blake Baxby always had the strangest clients... But then, they had to be to be someone he honestly thought would be crazy enough to support a werewolf's den, essentially.

"But you have to know -- a bed and breakfast is a lot of hard work. You have to have company that's respectful -- if you don't, they'll tear up the whole place and just give you more work." The young ones came to mind. Seven and under... God, it still made him sick to his stomach. But they were so full of spunk...

He started laughing! She liked his laugh very much--it sounded warm and genuine--but she was extremely curious as to why he was laughing. It didn't sound like he was laughing at her; it would have been strange indeed of him to laugh at her wanting a bed and breakfast when his mother had practically owned one. Was he laughing in a supportive way, or did he think she was just blathering? She was perfectly serious, and she hoped he knew that, because if he didn't think she meant business there was no way he would consider her offer.

She listened as he described his mother's cottage. She wondered who Aronel was, but didn't interrupt Art's reverie to ask, and he moved on from the subject easily. It seemed clear to Cecilia, as she sat and watched him, waiting for her tea to cool, that he missed his former existence very much. The look on his face was making her wistful for it! She smiled to herself and shook her head. She was so susceptible to other people's feelings sometimes. As she listened to him, she decided that it was this sort of reminiscence that she would devote chapters to.

"It sounds wonderful; the cottage," she mused thoughtfully. "I'd be perfectly accepting of long-term guests. The longer they stay, the more I'll be able to get to know them. And I'm aware of all the regular work, I've no problem with that and I'm sure I can handle it. I was running a household with two elderly dementia sufferers, two workaholic parents, a set of twins and a toddler when I was eight." She smiled up at him.

"As far as dealing with household disagreements, that's why I need a nice, strong man around," she said. "I doubt anyone could be intimidated by little old me."

"It sounds wonderful; the cottage..."

Artemius nodded. He missed the place -- he'd lived his whole life there -- apart from Hogwarts, that was.

"And I'd be perfectly accepting of long-term guests. The longer they stay, the more I'll be able to get to know them. And I'm aware of all the regular work, I've no problem with that and I'm sure I can handle it. I was running a household with two elderly dementia sufferers, two workaholic parents, a set of twins and a toddler when I was eight."

Her smile was supportive, and so brilliant... but the comment was unexpected. Dementia sufferers? Hell, she might as well join the Cottage. She had the experience.

"As far as dealing with household disagreements, that's why I need a nice, strong man around. I doubt anyone could be intimidated by little old me."

At that last, Artemius felt a blush and turned away to cough. Come on, him? I mean, he wasn't a wimp, for sure, and he was a rather high 6'2", but... that was a bit much for a guy's ego. He coughed again. "Don't-don't say that," he answered, laughing. He could feel his face turn red and a grin so big it almost hurt as he tried to look away.