“Well that’s a borin’ story.” Thomas shrugged and shook the bottle once again, “Where’s the romance? Ain’t ‘e suppose’ t’ask your dad to look at you or somethin’?”  

Truth be told, Thomas didn’t really know how courtship worked. His only experience on that front was telling his father he had a girlfriend when he didn’t.

Why couldn’t his broom be a real person? He’d marry that in a heartbeat. She’d be a brunette (probably light brown) with dark brown eyes. And she’d probably be a little bit shorter than him. And she’d listen to all his stories about quidditch intently. Ah, that would be good.

Maybe there was a spell, he thought, that could turn his broom into a woman. Maybe he could invent it. Maybe that was his calling!

Tommy, inventor of Broomisco Womanisco, the miracle broom-to-woman spell! He’d become a millionaire.

He was pulled out of his reverie when she spoke after taking another glug of the drink, “With your mouth, Miss Landslide.” He said with a confused expression. He then sat up and moved over to his wardrobe, his hands rubbing his chest. He was getting quite chilly.

Pulling out a shirt, he pulled it on and turned back to Fortuna, “You think you can turn a broom into a person?” He enquired.

It was a good idea, he thought.

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