Ester was funny, and Art snorted at her despite himself. He was not convinced he had ever been called buttercup before. There was something charming about her, with her tutting and her nicknames and her idle grin — if he let himself become too at ease here he could find himself staying forever.

Would that really be so terrible?

He knew it would, but it was still almost preferable to pretend that he didn't.

"I'm pretty good at staying on a broomstick," Art said, grinning crookedly at her, "Of multiple sorts. If you ever want tips." He'd lost track of the metaphor halfway through, and he was fairly certain he had not intended to imply what he'd just implied — but what did it matter? These rooms felt like they were so removed from the bubble of his own life that there could be no consequences for what he said, like when he apparated from his house with Desdemona on Easter he had also sucked himself out of reality. So — whatever.

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