5 January, 1895 — Diagon Alley

Ezra had spent all yesterday holed up in his bedroom, surrounded by books, trying to figure out what was the matter with him. What was newly the matter with him, that was. All of the usual things still applied, but this week had been nearly unmanageable from a social standpoint. He was offending people by being too blunt, or burning bridges when he gave an honest opinion instead of a polite deflection. The best defense he'd found was simply to avoid speaking at all. He'd pretended a hangover at work on Friday so that no one would try to ask him questions. This was, obviously, not sustainable. He thought he'd pinned it down to the woman with the pop-up stall — another damn curse? — but pinning the source down didn't help him in the slightest when she and her wares had vanished into thin air. He'd spent Saturday guessing what she might have done and trying out counter-curses on himself, then dropping in on one of his siblings to test whether it had worked. Ask me something invasive, he would say, and then after he had blurted out a too-honest answer he would flush and retreat to his bedroom again. He had exhausted his own collection of relevant books, so today was earmarked for finding others. He was heading to Flourish & Blott's first, then the library — the library probably had a larger assortment of useful books, but if he wanted to get into the higher levels he wouldn't be able to take them home with him unless he had a valid work reason, and he didn't. Given how uncomfortable it was to be out in public at the moment, anything he could buy was a safer bet than something he had to read at a table.

He'd timed it poorly; it was early afternoon when he was emerging from the shop with an armful of books with curse in the title, and the street was awash with people either in search of lunch or off on their weekend errands. He should have gotten here earlier to reduce his odds of seeing someone he would be obliged to converse with. Someone like —

Rosalie Hunniford. She was right there, an arm's reach away. He was absolutely not obliged to talk to her and no one would fault him for just pressing on without a second glance. Don't say something stupid. Talking to her, of all people, would be disastrous. And there was nothing to say, because they hadn't seen each other since — well, she hadn't seen him since August.

"I saw you," he said — why the hell was he talking — "At the mistletoe." — and why that? It was so much worse than saying he'd seen her at the Minister's Winter Ball. He flushed and considered the merits of disapparating on the spot.

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Rosalie Hunniford

  

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Rosalie had made three resolutions to herself upon entering the New Year - the foremost of which being to let her love for Ezra go. She had packed her stacks upon stacks of research into different curses (it was a blood curse, she was certain of that at least by now as nothing else made sense) into a trunk and directed the staff to bury it deep in the basement. Then, not trusting herself to not go looking for it on a particularly weak night, instructed them to hide it elsewhere and return it to her only if asked. She wasn't ashamed to go looking but she would be mortified to ask for a relic of her past, even if the staff had no idea what was packed within.

She nearly included her engagement ring in the trunk as well. It made sense to if she was committed to the idea of moving on. It wasn't as though the ring was serving her well in its hidden box in the bottom of her desk drawer. Rosalie never opened the box anymore, never even lifted it from its designated spot, but she was aware of it as one is aware of a cut or a scab. It was too easy to pick at it, too easy to reopen those wounds and allow the memories back in. However, every time she went to pack the box a deeply rooted sense of panic threatened to choke her. The ring was a step too far still, but some day - hopefully soon - she would be able to pack it as well.

For now, it would live in her desk.

The other resolutions were what set her towards the library on her day off. She'd stopped at the bakery for a small treat and a warm cup of tea first, which was perhaps a mistake because there in front of her holding a stack of books was the very man she was determined not to see.

It would have been easy for them both to keep walking. There was nothing left to say, no apologies left or promises to make. He knew her heart and still didn't want her back. And yet - "oh," she breathed in response, the sweet after taste of the apple tart turning sour in her mouth at his statement. Many had witnessed Noble and her kiss, but it'd been weeks since and nothing was ever going to happen again there. Still, her cheeks turned rosy with embarrassment and shame.

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stunning set by Lady <3

She looked exactly as mortified as he felt. What had possessed him to say anything at all? Well, he knew what — or he didn't, yet, but he knew it wasn't solely his fault. It probably wouldn't help matters to try and explain that, he thought... then he imagined how she might react if he tried to blame it on a curse. She'd think he was making fun of her, or being cruel. Now that he had a curse he could tell her about she would never have believed him. It might have been funny if it weren't so tragic. Ha!

For far too long he simply stared at her, paralyzed by the flush on her cheeks. Then he ducked his head. "I'm sorry."

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"Oh, no. I'm- I'm sorry." She stammered. There hadn't been any alternatives than kissing Noble at the ball, not unless they were at all willing to stand there trapped until the charm presumably wore off. Rosalie might have been willing to be trapped if he were anyone else, but Noble and she had shared far too much for her to stomach remaining silent while being that close to him.

Still, she recognized (she begrudgingly hoped was) the grief of watching her with someone else. If it had been him - if she had had to witness that - Rosalie wouldn't have been able to bear it. "I - it was the only way out." She managed.

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stunning set by Lady <3