Gervaise had always been a charmer—had gotten in trouble for it on a few occasions—but Tala Moreno, exotic muggleborn and herbologist extraordinaire, had been the first woman to charm him, the first woman with whom he had genuinely seen a future. Even as things came up—the fog, illnesses, the busy time of year for each of them respectively—Gervaise had never seen them as more than a mild impediment to the inevitable: she would be the new Mrs. Ollivander, the first woman to bear the title since his own mother’s tragic passing.

He had not known that with each delay she had been falling further and further into the arms of another.

Her letter had hit him squarely in the gut, knocking the breath from him, and now here he was, drowning his sorrows like the men he had long teased, unsure what else to do to mend his broken pride—to say nothing of his broken heart.  

The wandmaker had, at least, had the sense not to let himself loose in the more popular Leaky Cauldron, nor some of the less savory establishments he had frequented in his gambling days, much though his fingers itched to feel the dice in his hands right now. No, the Augurey Beak was a happy middle ground (if not happily decorated), a benign pool in which to drown himself.

He hoped the lad he’d sent to owl his message had actually done so; his note in return to her shocking confession had been short, terse even, but it was all Gervaise could allow himself. More words meant more emotion, and he would not do her the satisfaction of knowing how badly he had been wounded by her betrayal.

The clock struck seven. How long had he been here?

Gervaise ordered another whiskey.