Sundays were never guaranteed free days, but in less tumultuous times he could at least look forward to the chance of having an off-day at work. The fog enveloping the entirety of Hogsmeade (especially Pennyworth and the Slums) meant that work was busy and there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that he'd be there until everyone else left.

And he was.

Fortunately, unlike some of his coworkers, he lived in London, which meant his home was just a wand wave away. He wasn't interested in going straight home today, though; he had business to attend to—personal business. Last night's events with Miss Lunch were still at the forefront of his thoughts. The taste of her lips, the smell of her hair, the feeling of her arms around his neck—and he'd gone and fucked all of it up with one little sentence.

And he cared; that much had been obvious when he returned home.

He cared about her, and he cared that he'd hurt her. She hadn't cried while he was there, but her silence, stoicism, and her body language had pointed to the feelings she'd been trying to hide from him. She must have cried, if only because she'd allowed him to take advantage of her without putting an end to it.

And she must have regretted all of it, and that's what felt the worst.

So naturally, the only thing to do was to let off his own steam in the only way he saw fit: the whorehouse. The one nearest his home was in muggle London rather than magical London, but that made little difference—a whore was a whore, and they all did the same thing at the end of the day. Being an auror meant always having a stash of muggle money on hand in the event that he needed to blend in with muggle society; thus he grabbed what he needed out of the pouch and went into the brothel, his breathing quickening with every step in anticipation.

The ladies there were by no means pretty, much to his dismay, and by no means were they comparable to Miss Lynch. Perhaps it was their painted faces or their messy hair, but they just seemed so... ugh.

Still, a whore was a whore.

He ended up with one that looked the least like Miss Lynch—big-boned, short, brown-eyed, and with coarse blonde curls—and forty minutes later found himself laying on his backside, staring up at the ceiling, with the girl (what was her name again?) curled up into herself on the opposite end of the bed. He'd fucked up, and he knew it—not with the whore, but with his very purpose of coming here, which had been to forget about last night and relax.

He'd moaned her name—February, not even Miss Lynch—in the throes of passion, but had only realized it once the whore had mentioned "what an odd name February is!" before rolling away from him.

Such an insufferable woman, she was; he couldn't even escape her at a whorehouse, even if it was just in his thoughts. It had seemed like the most extreme option when he'd impulsively decided to come here, but it seemed ridding himself of all memory of her was going to be more difficult than he thought.

Fuck.

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