(Gilderoy Lockhart)
It was barely noon, and yet I had already checked my watch six times.
Ridiculous.
The little Muggle burger establishment was exactly as we had left it last time: brightly lit, faintly noisy, and carrying the unmistakable scent of frying oil and over-salted chips. A charmed ceiling fan whirred lazily overhead, stirring the warm air. A pair of teenage girls in the opposite booth whispered and giggled behind their menus, occasionally darting glances in my direction before dissolving into poorly concealed excitement.
I pretended not to notice.
Composure, after all, was a habit.
I had chosen the same corner table as before. Strategic. Private enough for conversation, visible enough to avoid impropriety. The large front windows allowed pale November sunlight to spill across the tiled floor in angled beams.
And across me.
I adjusted my posture slightly so as to look effortlessly casual.
I had ordered a soda and a small plate of chips, more to justify my presence than out of hunger. The ice clinked softly against the sides of the glass whenever I shifted it. The chips had long since cooled.
She said lunch, but lunch was ambiguous.
Was this too early? Did I seem too eager?
My fingers tapped once against the table before I stilled them.
What if she meant the cafeteria where we'd had breakfast?
What if she… What if she doesn't come?
The thought landed harder than I expected.
What if she decided she doesn't want to be with me?
What if this meeting was simply for closure?
What if she…
Slap~
The sound cracked softly in the small space between booths and a few heads turned to look at me.
I lowered my hand slowly from my cheek, which now stung faintly.
"Stop that," I muttered under my breath, leaning forward as though deeply invested in the carbonation of my drink. "You are Gilderoy Lockhart."
My reflection shimmered faintly in the window beside me, blue eyes sharp, hair immaculate, expression controlled.
"Since when," I continued quietly, "have you been so… unconfident?"
The word tasted foreign.
Unacceptable.
I straightened my shoulders.
"Everything is going to work just fine. You've got this."
Confidence was not merely a trait, it was a discipline. A performance refined into instinct. I had faced hostile monsters, political maneuvering, even the Veil of Death without so much as a tremor.
And yet one pink-haired Auror had me doubting the time and location of a lunch invitation.
Absurd.
The clock above the counter ticked with infuriating slowness.
Half past twelve.
Quarter to one.
One fifteen.
The ice in my drink had fully melted.
At one point, I considered ordering something else simply to occupy my hands, but decided against it. Overeagerness could be perceived. Hunger, however, could be explained.
By half past one, the initial murmur of lunchtime patrons had faded into the quieter lull between meals. The giggling teens had left. The staff moved more lazily behind the counter.
I told myself I remained seated out of certainty, not stubbornness.
And certainly not anxiety.
The door chimed.
I did not look up immediately, keeping my composure.
Another chime.
This time, I allowed my gaze to lift: slow, measured, deliberate, and absolutely unaffected.
It was nearly two in the afternoon.
And there she was.
Tonks stepped through the doorway, pausing just inside as her eyes adjusted to the interior lighting. Her hair today was a soft shade of magenta, cropped just below her ears, slightly tousled as if she had run her hands through it in distraction. She wore Muggle clothes again: dark trousers, a fitted jacket, and there was something sharper about her posture than the last time we had met.
Then she saw me.
The sunlight streaming through the window shifted just enough to catch in my hair, illuminating the gold strands in a warm halo. The reflection in the glass behind me only enhanced the effect.
For a brief moment, just a flicker, her expression stilled.
Then her face smoothed into something more guarded.
She walked toward the table with deliberate steps, boots tapping lightly against the tiled floor. Not rushed or hesitant, just controlled.
Interesting.
I rose smoothly to my feet as she approached, offering her a faint, knowing smile.
"Tonksie," I greeted warmly, as though I had not just spent two hours waging war against my own imagination.
But as she stopped across from me, eyes unreadable and shoulders squared, I realized something.
This was not going to be a simple lunch date.
And all the confidence I had been building seemed to crumble in an instant.
…
"Gilderoy."
Tonks greeted me in a clipped tone, her voice crisp and professional, more Auror than woman meeting a man for lunch.
This doesn't bode well.
I rose at once, smoothing my robes before stepping around the table to pull out her chair. The movement was fluid and practiced. Considerate without being obsequious.
She paused only a fraction before sitting.
"Thank you," she said politely, her expression carefully controlled.
I resumed my seat across from her, folding my hands briefly before gesturing toward the counter.
"Shall we order?" I asked lightly, raising a hand to catch the attention of a middle-aged waitress who had been pretending not to stare.
The woman hurried over, notepad in hand.
We both ordered burgers and cola. I added, with an easy smile, "And a basket of chips to share."
Tonks' eyes flicked to me at that, but she said nothing.
When the waitress retreated, silence settled between us. The hum of the establishment filled the gaps: oil crackling in the fryer, muted chatter from a distant table, the occasional car horn in the distance.
I leaned forward slightly, resting my forearms on the table in what I hoped was an open, conversational posture.
"So," I began smoothly, "how was work this morning? Too much paperwork?"
One of her brows arched.
"Aside from the usual mountain of parchment I have to deal with," she replied in a deadpan tone of voice, "there were an extra twelve forms for Azkaban I had to fill out."
I winced faintly. "Ah."
That would be my doing.
"Sorry," I said, and meant it. "Occupational side effects of being a hero, I'm afraid."
Her gaze sharpened briefly, as if measuring whether I was deflecting.
But I clearly wasn't.
She exhaled through her nose, some of the tension in her shoulders easing. "It's not your fault. It's just… perks of being one of the youngest Aurors. Half the senior Aurors throw their paperwork at me, and there's not much I can do about it." Her lips thinned slightly. "If I complain, I'd only make things worse for myself."
Ah.
Office politics.
I understood that game intimately.
Without hesitation, I reached across the table and took her hand gently in mine, my thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles. "I understand," I said, offering a sympathetic smile. "In a job like yours, relationships matter. The people beside you are the ones who keep you alive in the field."
Her hand was warm.
Calloused in ways that did not suit delicate fingers.
For a moment, she let me hold it.
Her gaze softened, just barely.
Then something flickered behind her eyes.
Abruptly, she shook her head, almost as if scolding herself. Her fingers tensed, and she withdrew her hand sharply, as though the contact had burned her.
The loss of warmth was immediate.
I remained there for a half-second longer than was socially acceptable, arm extended, before clearing my throat lightly and withdrawing it with practiced dignity.
Of course.
Naturally.
The waitress chose that precise moment to arrive, plates balanced expertly along her forearm.
"Two burgers, two colas, and chips," she announced brightly, sliding the baskets onto the table.
The scent of grilled meat and salt filled the air.
"Perfect timing," I murmured, offering her a charming smile that made her cheeks pinken slightly before she scurried away.
I picked up my cola and took a measured sip, allowing the carbonation to steady my thoughts.
Tonks lifted her burger with deliberate focus, as though it required her full concentration.
The silence returned, but it had changed.
It was no longer merely cautious.
It was conflicted.
Her knee bounced once beneath the table before she stilled it. A faint flush had crept up the side of her neck, contrasting with the vibrant shade of her hair.
She was fighting something.
The question was:
Was it me?
Or herself?
…