Eternity How Long

[Porphyria Dempsey]

Christmas Eve, getting later by the minute; open to a (preferably hurlable) man!

Porphyria had intended to be home hours ago. She'd nearly even tried apparating, only it felt a lot like her feet would have to be left behind in the process, and splinched was certainly not how she wanted to spend her Christmas.

Not that this was, either.

It had long since grown dark around them, from their fixed spot beneath a tree off one of the side paths in the park. One of the floating balls of light bobbed past them from time to time, but by this late hour on Christmas Eve the place was deserted, the only other signs of movement the branches shifting above, sending clumps of snow down onto their heads.

If the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes had been out, they'd clearly missed them and gone home by now. Porphyria had tried plenty of tactics already, but apparently no one was out to see the sparks she'd shot up, and all her earlier shouting had been drowned out by the carol-singers from distant streets and cosy drawing rooms. And then she'd dropped her wand, and all the crouching and scrabbling she could manage hadn't let her reach it.

And now it was dark, and it was cold, and her feet were numb in her boots and still resolutely stuck to the patch of ground, the mistletoe looming above her and... this gentleman.

Well, bugger everything, he'd started talking again! Porphyria had been doing her best to ignore him and preoccupy herself with anything but for the past couple of hours, but she shot him a tired glare through the darkness. "Ughhh," she groaned, trying to tune him out with all she had, her patience fraying too fast to be particularly civil. "I'd prefer it if you kept your mouth closed."

  

[Enoch Rosier]

Of all the disagreeable, ungrateful wenches he had ever met...!

The evening had been going so well. He had successfully outperformed the fool he was partnered with throughout the month and it had culminated in him being the lone auror present when a particularly aggressive smuggler was caught in the act; his father was languishing in bed with the flu so he would not have to endure his company for the festive season - and there was always the slight chance he might die, which would be a bonus indeed; and to top it off Clara was back at The Painted Lady and he had an appointment with her this very night. An appointment, he was beginning to realise, he might have to reschedule and if she was not free later tonight he would have no young female company apart from his sisters until tomorrow night, which would be unbearable.

Apart from his companion of the last few hours but the only thing feminine she resembled was Medusa.

"You might find Madam," Enoch said tartly, lip turning up in disgust and glancing up at the mistletoe pointedly. "That you have quite the need of my mouth if we are ever to get out of this predicament."

  

[Porphyria Dempsey]

If Porphyria were perhaps a more rational being, she might have been inclined to weigh up the true cost of remaining here, in the company of a man with whom she was quite sure she did not want to be any better acquainted, or of committing a momentary sacrifice which would, presumably, allow her to be liberated from this situation and free to carry on her life.

Naturally, she wasn't a rational being. (Whether such a phenomenon as a rational poet existed at all was a fair question.) What she was, rather, was stubbornly principled, and her principles dictated that she would not be forced to obey the whims of the tyrannical little plant above them, nor be swayed into any act of generosity for this stuck-up bastard. Festive goodwill, bah!

The more she was reminded about the mistletoe and its horrifying significance, the more she disliked the man before her. His tone. His face. His general existence.

"Frankly, I would rather freeze to death," Porphyria returned, suddenly and falsely chipper, and offering a smile to match. She folded her arms (mostly to bely the fact that she had started shivering), and continued to lean as far back as she possibly could from her companion, as a warning that he should indeed keep his mouth away; she could, at least, occupy herself by thinking of plenty of things she would rather do than kiss him, and if that did not involve her own tragic death or disfigurement, she supposed it could potentially involve homicide. "I hope you have nowhere important to be."