In the dark November night a man was walking. The collar of his coat was pulled up to shield his neck from the blazing cold wind that wanted to creep down, yet he did relinquish his face to the cool. It felt nice on his face, soothing it from the stinging cut above his brow. Although his cut had been patched together with a white band-aid, it still felt like it would split. He probably should’ve sown it, but he had felt that it had been enough to patch it. The man walked in a steady, firm phase, the sound of his feet echoing between walls. He was alone, for now, but somewhere in the night a musical pulse was thumping. The dim sound of laughter clung to the air. Somewhere, perhaps in the parallel street, was a bar, or two. The wind howled and slowed down, seemingly determined to find a loophole and chill the man down his slightly clammy neck. The young lad had just come from a long nights work. He was an unspeakable, which entailed work that ironically was forbidden to speak of. Even if he wanted to explain exactly what it was that he did, he wasn’t entirely sure he would be able to without the guide of pictures.

Devon Noskov had worked as an Unspeakable for six months now after having been an intern for four years. It was hard and often dangerous work that he was unable to discuss with anyone besides his co-workers. This particular feature about his work did not at all displease him, as he was not exactly the type of person to go yapping around about his work. In fact, the job was almost tailored for his type and personality. He thoroughly enjoyed his work, and was consumed by it. It was almost too easy to get lost in his work, letting it fill every waking hour of the day. One of the things he liked the most about the work, besides the secrecy that surrounded it, was how it appealed to his strengths. He was just starting to grasp the idea of what he was, of what his abilities allowed him to do, and although it haunted him most nights he was starting to get a grip on his control of the visions. He no longer needed to avoid touching people like the plague to avoid getting visions when he touched them. That, in particular, had been difficult before. He had used to get random visions every time he touched a person’s skin, never knowing if it was the past, present or the future, and even if it was the future, that too was always so unclear.

This particular night Devon had worked for on a time-related project into the wee hours of the night. The project had gotten a little out of hand and it had ended up getting physical, which had resulted in a deep gash on his eyebrow above his right eye. It was probably going to scar. Since his teenage youth the man had gotten quite a few of these scars here and there on his body, which often made people wonder exactly what it was that he did. He often looked haggard when he came home with these fresh cuts, and he was glad his mother didn’t have to see the freshness of his wounds. It would probably break her heart. One would probably wonder a little why the man had not sought medical attention, as the cut was deep enough to require stiches, or a good healing spell, truth of it was, he was avoiding a certain dark haired beauty that he never knew when would work at the medical facility. One would perhaps ask why he did not use his seer gift to predict whether or not she worked that night, but his gift did not work like that. He might have a little better control at not seeing, but he could still not control what it was that he would see, hence, the avoidance of the place all together. The man would probably avoid going to the hospital as long as he deemed the injury artificial or of no concern. After all, it was only a cut.

A freezing gust made Devon shiver and he pulled his shoulders up to shield from the cold. He was exhausted and could not wait to get home. He could’ve apparated, but he liked to cold to wash over him and his warm forehead before sleep. Besides, he did not sleep a lot, and the thumping in his mind was soothed by the wind. He was looking a little down as he hurried along and paid little attention to his surroundings. He turned a corner and started down it, his eyes catching a pair of long legs. His eyes travel up the legs until he found a face and was about to walk past the clearly drunk girl before he stopped dead in his tracks. He blinked, his usually stoic face clearly surprised. There, right in front of him, in the middle of nowhere, stood Sarreaha. Ironic how he had not seen that one coming.

Devon was not entirely sure how many times he had thought about Sarreaha for the past years. It had been such a long time since he had last seen her, yet in his inner mind he could picture her perfectly. She remained forever a part of him, a constant presence in the back of his mind, reminding him of everything that she was and why he could not have her. He had chosen a life of solitude, and it was a lonely one. However, he knew, or was convinced, that it was the right thing to do. Somewhere along the line, somewhere in the future, Devon knew that he should not expose anyone to what he was. He firmly believed that he was saving Sarreaha from a lifetime of misery and trouble, perhaps even saving her from death. Because that was the one thing that he had never told her, the reason he had left her. He had seen her tears, her heartbreak, and her death, and he knew not when, but he knew that as long as he stayed with her, she was in danger, somehow. It was the one thing he had never cleared up with her, his abilities. And the reminder came rushing back to him as he looked upon her. All the reasons why he kept away from her, all the reasons why they couldn’t be together, all the reasons he loved her.

FUCK!!!

The young man stared at the brunette, for a moment at loss for words. Although he was a man of few words, he rarely found his mind devoid of thoughts and opinions. This was such a moment, where his mind raced, but all he could see, all he could comprehend was her face. He stared at her as she advanced, and her voice broke through his barrier of defences. He had forgotten how easily comforted he was by her presence, how easy it was to pretend that everything was good and safe. She didn’t even have to try and reach him to touch him, to touch his heart. It tugged and pulled at it, and it hurt to see her. Physically hurt.

The young woman was drunk out of her mind and Devon’s rationality kicked in. He was over the initial shock of her presence and voice and was beginning to deduct the situation. She was drunk, and she obviously had not recognised who he was, which on some level concerned him. His face held an emotionless mask, yet a worry cease was starting to form between his eyebrows. He was frowning slightly. She could not stand properly, her vision was blurred and her speech slurred. He was not sure she would last the hour the way her body was so out of balance, and magic was not an option for her. Devon hesitated for a moment before reaching out to steady her. His deep brown, olive eyes found hers and his face softened slightly. “Sarreaha, it’s me, Devon,” he said with his usual, dark, husky voice. Some things simply did not change, like his approach to her, the way his face looked, or the sound of his voice.

Nothing that Devon had ever foreseen could’ve prepared him for the walking bomb that was Sarreaha. It seemed that something had snapped within her as she finally realised who he was, and her first reaction was denial. He wasn’t entirely sure what he felt about that, but the rational side of his mind was still convinced that she might trip on her own legs and fall, or something. It was so unlike her to be like this, at least from his experience, then again, it was quite the long time since he had last laid eyes upon her, and for all he knew a lot could’ve happened since their Hogwarts years and now.

As Sarreaha began her verbal rant, most of it incoherent and slurred, Devon’s worry showed plainly on his face. From what she said he could make out parts and bits, and he was able to understand parts of it. From the way she was talking, it did not seem that she realised that she was saying it out loud, and a pang of guilt and sadness passed through the troubled young man. She was ranting about him being real, there and then, how she ought to slap him, or how she should bury herself in other things. He couldn’t make sense of it all, but there was no doubt in his mind that she had travelled back to their past, as he had done moments earlier. He felt a pang of hurt. Had he really abandoned her, when she needed him the most? Had she really been that hurt by his actions? He felt guilty, but he immediately had to reason with himself. He had to remain firm, strong. He had done it for their own good, for HER own good. Staying with him would only cause her more suffering, he had to accept her hurt now, knowing that he had prevented a bigger hurt. This was his perception of things. He was so sure, so utterly convinced that she would be hurt if he stayed with her, or worse, dead.

Devon had never been good with emotional confrontations, even as a young boy he had shied away from anything that might make him confront his inner turmoil, or come in contact with direct troubles. That trait had never faltered from him, and even now, he felt the urge to recoil and remain silent and observing. But this was Sarreaha, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered. He remembered her. It took every inch of willpower that he had to step towards her instead of away from her, and he reached out to her again, this time sure that she would fall. Perhaps it was some inner vision that told him to be on his guard, like he had seen it somewhere before, in a long forgotten dream.

“Sarreaha,” he tried again, softer this time. He wasn’t sure what to say or what to do, he just knew that sooner or later, she would have to calm down. “Please, take a deep breath,” he said, but somewhere he knew it would not help. She was lost in her own blur of thoughts.

She was a fury of hysteria and unidentified emotions and incoherent speech. It hardly took a seer to foresee the impending end of breakdown. The healer was spent, and whether form deduction or from foreseeing, Devon reached out just in time for him to catch Sarreaha’s limp body from falling to the ground. He had never been a man of action in the usual sense, but he was reliable in the sense that he always stepped up and seemed to be so sure whenever he did something. She held on tightly to Sarreaha, for the briefest moment completely baffled by the smell of her, her odour. It was so sweet, and feminine, and, familiar. He realised with a pang that he had missed her smell.

Devon took a firm hold at her waist, throwing one of her arms around his neck for support. He held her firmly, making sure he had gathered her belongings. He looked around, scanning the aria, looking for anyone who might see them. Unable to detect anyone he flicked his wand out and apparated with the two of them. They ended up outside his apartment door and he opened the door with his wand. Sarreaha was still unconscious as he staggered through the door, closing it behind him with his leg. It was sealed shut. Devon dropped her things on the floor; among them one of her shoes and took a firmer grip on her, to steady her unconscious body. He lifted her limp body and carried her with ease from the small living room space to his little bedroom. It was hardly big enough to contain his big bed. He had had to put shelves all around the ceiling be able to fit his books into the apartment, and the upper part of the wall was adorned by all the books and different jars with things in them. His bed was rarely made and he managed to lay Sarreaha down gently on the covers. He looked at her and wondered what to do with her. This was certainly not the way he had envisioned meeting her again. He sighed audibly, a trait he rarely ever did in the company of people, and removed her other shoe. He dared not strip her out of her dress, although he imagined it might be terribly uncomfortable. Instead he sat a small chair right next to the bed where he laid out a plain grey t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, in case she wanted to change. He put the covers over her and stood for a moment, hovering over her unconscious body. His face was hollowed with sadness as he gazed upon her beautiful face. She looked so untroubled as she slept. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then he turned and walked out of his bedroom.

The man made the sofa, finding a spare pillow. He stripped down to his boxers and a wife beater, before making his way to the bathroom. He splashed some cold water into his face and looked up to stare at himself in the mirror. He wished he could trigger and control his own abilities to see where this night was headed, but he knew it did not work that way. Angered, confused, sad and tired the man stripped down and took a quick shower, letting the soothing water run all over his body. He stood silent, pondering, thinking, deducting, contemplating. He got out and dried himself off, getting dressed. His hair was still damp when he laid down on the couch. He knew sleep would not find him right away, as was the norm, however, he had had an incredible eventful evening, and he had already been exhausted from work. The cut above his eye was pulsating and he felt soothed by the pain. It made him focus on something else. Slowly, perhaps an hour after having laid down, Devon finally made his way into his uneasy dream land, where hundred, thousands of visions waited to be seen by him, and him alone.

When sleep finally found him he was exhausted out of his mind, and he blissfully swam through his dreams without being truly touched by any of them. Images swam blurry before his eyes, but they never manifested into clear images, and through this sort of illusion Devon managed to get a few hours of optimal sleep. Much needed sleep. He found that he was better at finding sleep when his conscious mind had been drained like the previous night. It was easier to fall asleep when his body was sore from training, exhausted from labour. Without worry or visions, Devon slept soundlessly, regaining his mental and physical strength. It was around daytime, when in fact his mind was well rested, for once, that a vision manifested. He could see her so clearly, as if he was standing like a ghost next to her, observing her, invisibly. Sarreaha was leaving. She was sneaking out and he reached out, in his dream, to stop her, and she did, she hesitated and looked back at him, the sleeping him. She walked over to him and healed his wound. And this was when Devon woke up.

Although he awoke he did not immediately open his eyes. He could feel the prickling sensation where the wound closed up. He laid, awake, his eyes closed as he felt the prickling sensation cease. He hadn’t dared to not interrupt her mid-healing. “Thank you,” he said; softly, quietly, as not to scare her too much, after all, she had thought him sleeping. He opened his eyes. In the dim morning like they looked a deep, dark green, not the dark black colour from the previous night. Devon looked at Sarreaha, she had probably wanted to sneak out without waking him, but he was a light sleeper, and, then he had that ability, to seemingly detect things that weren’t there. Devon kept his eyes on Sarreaha as he pushed himself up to a sitting position. He reached up and removed the band-aid from his brow. It had healed nicely, but this was far from the worst of scratches he had gotten. Although he was young and that a few years was not really a long time, Devon had changed a lot in appearance since the last time he had set eyes on Sarreaha. He was, marred somehow. His eyes always seemed to be bruised by shadows under his eyes, whether prominent or not, forever present. His body had also changed a lot, it was a lot more muscular and he had come into his manly figure quite nicely, but that was not the biggest change to his physiology. It had to be the scars. Small and big, scratches and gashes up his arms, and one big one on his back. At the moment a few small scars glistened in the sunlight on his arms, and yesterday’s beatings came as light purple bruises on his arms and chest. Devon took it all without complaint though. Somehow, it made him feel alive. He knew it was silly, but as long as it wasn’t fatale he needed the extra pain just to make sure he wasn’t going insane.

“How are you feeling?” Devon asked apprehensively. It was an awkward situation, and images of the previous night lingered in his mind. He tried to push the guilt aside, as it did neither of them any good. He wondered slightly if she was going to be able to hold down her stomach, after having taken in such huge amounts of alcohol. He glanced quickly towards the bathroom and then back to her. It was not uncommon to wake up with a headache and the urge to vomit after such a night.

Devon took a small moment in their awkward reunion to study the small woman kneeling before him. Her oval face was as he remembered it to be with her high check bones and full lips. Her face wore a slightly exasperated expression, and he realised that he still found it easy to read her expressions, although he had rarely been able to figure out the source of any of her emotions. Devon had always been the counterpart of her bubbly personality, a stoic and at times emotionless man, his feelings and opinions more often than not locked behind his cool exterior. Devon’s dark eyes glanced at the rest of her. He noticed how becoming her womanly curves on her, and he noted that she was even more enticing now than she had ever been before. It bothered him a little how easy it was for her to invade his mind, even though she probably wasn’t aware of it, which all the same made it even more frustrating. She had no idea of the power she held over him, even years after their last encounter.

The young man, sat motionless, waiting for her reply. He was leaning back on his elbows so that his torso was slightly raised and his face was up towards hers. She looked so, so, at loss for what to do, much like he felt, except that none of the panic he felt even shimmered to the surface of his face. He looked calm and collected, probably annoyingly so. As her question escaped her lips he propped himself up to a sitting position. He swung his feet to the ground, unaffected by the fact that all he wore was his boxer briefs and his wife beater shirt. He reached down to find his trousers, where his wand was securely tucked from the night before. The blanket covered half his leg and hung limply on the couch. Devon swung his wand lightly, wordlessly mending her broken heel. He had always been talented at magic. It had mostly been his lack of sleep that had made him fail classes, but after he had started to manage his seer ability, he had retaken his NEWT exams and passed them all. He remembered that Sarreaha had always said that he was skilled, and she had probably never quite understood why he had failed his exams back at Hogwarts. But how could she know, how could she understand, when Devon had never let that part of him known to her. He had never told her about why he sometimes flinched when he touched her, or why he sometimes had drifted off in his mind. He hadn’t told anyone, until his mentor had sought him out.

Devon looked back at Sarreaha after having fixed her shoe. He remembered how she had struggled with her own magical abilities, how annoyed she had been, but how stubborn and determined she had been to make it happen. He was glad to see that she had found her way, that being a healer was something she had accomplished. Where as Sarreaha was confused about her feelings towards Devon, he was certain in how he felt. But then again, he had left her, not the other way around.

The young man tried to offer a slightly awkward smile. He rarely handed them out, but he had never seemed to be able to stop himself from smiling around Sarreaha. She always seemed to bring out the best in him, at least that was what he had been told, by his sister, who by the way had thought him a fool for dumping Sarreaha, and Devon could not blame her. “Is there anything I can get you?” he asked, slightly unsure. “Something to eat, a clean towel for the shower, a cab home, another shoe to mend?” he asked with an awkward laugh. Although he offered it all to her, he found himself secretly wishing that she would not leave.

Devon had not in a million years imagined this to be their pair’s reunion after so many years of not seeing each other. Although it pained them both, it could be seen as almost comical for an outsider. It was so random, all these events. It was comical how incredibly random it all was, from him meeting her and brining her home with him, to her requesting a mended shoe. Although Devon had become accustomed to just simply knowing things, having a constant feeling of déjà vu, it was surprisingly reassuring to know that he too could be surprised, that he too could experience the oddities in life.

The awkwardness between them persisted and prolonged. It seemed as if it was a constant living thing that breathed between them, electrical and pulsating. Like the tension between them had taken a life of its own, drawing energy from their pulsating hearts. Devon had an uneasy feeling that she ought to be taken care of, during this particular day and as she stood up, he immediately did so too. The quilt fell to the floor and he stood ready to catch her should he fall, or revolt. He was not the least bit shy about his appearance. He had used to be shy, shyer, as a young youth, but it seemed he had outgrown that particular trait of his personality. He looked at her, letting a small part of his worry show on his face. It was softer, his features. He didn’t have to keep his guard up the same way he did in public. He was stoic, yes, but there was softness in his eyes. Where he usually looked emotionless, perhaps even intimidating, he now just looked, normal? Concerned? He fought with the desire to reach out and caress the skin of her shoulder, or tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. He realised how surprised he was by his own thoughts, how seemingly little had changed between them, on his part.

Devon wasn’t entirely sure what more he could do. He had offered her his hospitality, showing no hostility towards her or their shared past at all. In fact, he had in his own manner of speaking offered her to stay. He wasn’t sure if he should push it any further. He had asked, and she had declined. He was not the sort of person to be begging for more, nor was he the sort of person to try and persuade someone to do something they didn’t want to do. “Okay,” he said instead, as a respond to her decline. Even with heels on he was several inches taller than her, and he had to crane his neck a little to get a good look at her. It dawned on him that she was avoiding looking directly at him. A bang of hurt hit him, but he pushed it away. It was peanuts.

“Well, I-“ he paused awkwardly, not sure if he should show her to the door or what more he could say. He was not exactly the talkative kind of guy. In fact, it was only to Sarreaha that he had been able to small-talk. Small-talking in general was a feat he did not master. “I hope you’re doing well,” he said uneasily. He wasn’t talking about now in particular, but more in general, that her life was doing well. However, it wasn’t certain that Sarreaha got the true meaning of his words. Sometimes he spent too much time in his own mind to make his sentences coherent to those who listened.