As she kissed him again a response sprang to mind, one that he almost voiced when they broke apart: love me, and I won't be cross. It wasn't a serious statement, of course, but he was becoming increasingly desperate to put off whatever mood-killing conversation she wanted to have, and at the moment hyperbolic romance seemed the surest way to do it. But he caught himself: if she was intending to tell him they were through (as he was beginning to suspect she would), then bandying about words like love me wouldn't do him any favors.

Was it the election? It made a certain kind of sense. Being involved with the Minister of Magic was different than having a tryst with an unassuming member of society. Things would be different now: he'd have less time to spend on leisure of any sort, and more scrutiny. Perhaps she'd reassessed the risk-to-reward ratio for this equation and decided it was no longer worth pursuing. He hadn't expected it, but he also couldn't claim to be blindsided by the idea. They'd never discussed the campaign in any depth, and he certainly hadn't asked her permission before he'd announced his candidacy. She hadn't signed up for this.

But he hadn't come to the ballet tonight expecting to be rejected. He'd been expecting to relieve stress, not compound it. He wasn't ready for this conversation. And now she was pouring whiskey. A conversation indeed it was.

"I'm not thirsty," he protested, still trying for a touch of humor. "Come on, Sophia, come to bed. We'll make time to talk after. I promise." He didn't have any serious hope that she would agree, after how she'd been acting so far, but he had to at least make one last attempt to pretend this wasn't happening... though whether he'd actually be able to get it off of his mind now was a whole other matter.

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