in which a doomed relationship ends and another begins
[Note: The following is based very loosely on events described here]
It ought to be noted that Auriga Sinistra has never, in her life, dealt well with rejection. She cried, at age 7, for being picked last for four-a-side Quidditch at her sister's twelfth birthday party. (It was not particularly unjust, for she was only seven and could barely stay on a broom, let alone navigate one well enough to play a game.) She cried, at age 16, for not being accepted into NEWT-level Transfiguration, because she had only received an Acceptable on her OWL. Yet compared to the reason she was crying, now, she might have laughed at the paltriness of her previous descents into hysterics. If, you know, she wasn't busy sobbing into her sleeve.
She had thought that everything had been going reasonably well. She was gainfully employed-finishing up her third month of writing a weekly advice column for the Daily Prophet-in good health, and in a serious relationship with a kind and good-looking Ministry employee. Except for that last part, apparently, which had ended about twenty-five minutes ago, when a stately-looking barn owl tapped on her window. She had recognized it as his and had been ever-so-pleased to let it in, thinking that it perhaps carried an invitation for an impromptu weeknight dinner date or a request for her company when they had both finished work.
Instead, it said:
Auriga,
It has come to my attention, and the attention of my forebears, that the continuation of our relationship would bear neither of us any great personal benefit. As such, it has been suggested that we discontinue seeing each other immediately.
I am sorry.
Sincerely,
Y
She hadn't seen it coming, at all. They were happy together. Or, well, she thought so. They spent loads of time together-but not too much; she didn't think she had been too clingy. It was often he who would write in the middle of the week, saying he could not be away from her for another moment, and could he come out to Hogsmeade to see her that night? He had even defended her honor against the horrible implications that his stuck-up friends often made. And, if he had once told off Narcissa Black (well, Malfoy, now, but she was still the same person) for her, she supposed it had to be love.
For Merlin's sake, she cooked for him! With her own hands! (And a little bit of wandwork.) And now he's dumping her! She just can't understand where it all went wrong.
She starts to write back, but can't get past writing his name and the word why. She writes it over and over again until she can't make out words for the tears that have pooled on the roll of parchment.
Eventually, she tears the thing up. “No great personal benefit?” Her voice is shrill as she tosses the fragments into the fireplace. He had said he was sorry. But he could not be nearly as sorry as she is, for ever having gotten close to him.
She should have let Felicity have him-Fee was much better looking than she, and had never really forgiven her for “stealing” him. (Which she hadn't done, by the way. He had offered to walk her home. She was drunk and incapable of observing any hints that her friends might have been dropping against the notion. You can't really call that a conscious decision to undermine another person's intentions. Not that it mattered, now.) Probably, she ought to have gone home with Avery. He was just as nice-looking, and she doubted he would have wasted five months of her life just so he could sleep with her. Yes, Avery would have got the job done quite nicely, and been on his merry way.
She falls asleep, muttering nonsensical curses on Lysander Yaxley, and his stupid 'forebears,' and his future offspring, and his next girlfriend...
When she goes into the office the next morning, she looks and feels so wretched that even Rita Skeeter doesn't seem to have the heart to torque her. Paul-from-photography says, “All right, Sinistra?” and she gives him a look that indicates that she is the farthest from all right that any human female could ever imagine being. He looks genuinely frightened, as a result.
She guzzles four cups of thick-as-mud coffee before opening her first letter. At the crinkle of parchment, her eyes begin to water and it takes her ten whole minutes to calm herself down enough to actually read it.
Dear Jane, (her pseudonym, as it was her middle name and also the plainest thing she could think of when she had taken the position-a job for which Yaxley had mercifully arranged, to rescue her from the tyranny of Madam Puddifoot. But she's trying not to think about that man, and being foiled at every turn.)
Dear Jane,
It is no secret that I am not the best wizard on the block. I mean, I do all right, but I'm no Dumbledore, you know? However, my wife insists upon being an abusive harpy and maligning my wandwork every chance she gets. What should I do to prove myself to her? Or, at least, get her to shut up about it?
Sincerely,
A Woebegone Warlock
The letter itself is not extraordinary. In fact, it bears a striking similarity to the dozens of letters she receives daily from disgruntled housewives, dysfunctional teenagers, and dissatisfied spouses. But today, the notion of an inexpert spellweaver and his nagging shrew of a wife just seem to Auriga to be so painfully trite that she cannot possibly take them seriously. She has just been dumped by what may have been the love of her life, and here's this bozo asking how best to shut up his wife. Get a divorce. It's not as though any kind of meaningful relationship will last you, anyway.
In a bitter fit of mirth, she decides to respond to the letter, thinking that maybe penning a good, snarky answer will ease her feelings of resentment, if only a little.
Dear Woebegone,
Your wife is clearly a mean-spirited, unappreciative yak, and I don't think there is anything you can do to change that. If you truly feel your spells are lacking, perhaps you ought to enroll in Kwikspell, and learn to turn your wife into an actual yak, for all the good she is doing you now. You might get a nice yak's-hide cloak out of that deal, at least.
Enjoy Your Pleasant Payback,
Jane
The letter runs in Sunday's Prophet, much to the dismay of Woebegone's wife. Monday morning, Auriga is fired. As she cleans out her desk, a hand claps her shoulder. “Tough luck, Sinistra,” says the voice of Paul-from-photography. She shrugs him off, not wanting to make eye contact-she is painfully aware that she appears only a fraction less wretched than she had the previous week, and any sympathy is bound to send her back into hysterics.
Paul-from-photography doesn't go away. “For what it's worth, I thought the yak thing was brilliant. I mean, idiots are always writing in, asking advice about their positively inane problems. Someone had to tell them to grow up and think for themselves, am I right?” He chuckles. “And, you know, good for you for making it funny.”
“Mmm.” He's right, she guesses, but she still can't bring herself to laugh about getting fired. She kind of wishes he would go away and leave her to her misery.
“Say,” he says, and she resists the urge to ask him why he's still talking, “what would you say to a congratulatory drink?”
“Congratulatory? I didn't think you got congratulated for getting sacked.”
He laughs. “You usually don't. But I think you deserve one, risking your job to tell people what vapid morons they all are. You've got stones, Sinistra.”
He keeps talking, and Auriga gets the impression that he likes to hear the sound of his own voice. Nevertheless, she agrees to let him take her out. What's the worst that can happen?