A Confession

The next afternoon, Angelina was home, decorating for the holidays. Her impromptu anniversary celebration had knocked her off her schedule a bit, but if she could just get the soot marks off the ceiling and the splashes of jerk sauce out of the rug...

There was a knock at the door. It was Dennis. Funny, thought Angelina as she led him through the house, he's looking more like George every day. He's even parting his hair the same way. And is that a strawberry rinse? But—phew—he's still wearing the same cheap aftershave.

They sat in the lounge. Angelina didn't want to take Dennis into the kitchen, even though it was the cosiest place in the house, where friends and family could sit and jive and nibble apple cobbler or fungi or whatever else the couple had left over from breakfast. To get there, they would have had to go through the dining room, and that would have reminded Dennis painfully of the other night. He was still apologising to George every five minutes. Oh, they had to find him a good woman--maybe Alicia Spinnet, now that she was over Wood—no she'd eat him alive…

Angelina Accio-ed a fresh pot of coffee and the morning's leavings: fried plaintains and mango-guava-kiwi salad to spoon over George's signature breadfruit pudding. She poured and passed, but Dennis didn't touch a thing, just stared at his knees, his hands clasped around them. This was very unlike Dennis, who, despite his diminutive frame, sported a massive appetite.

"Whuzzup, old boy?" she asked lightly.

"Angelina, I've got to talk to somebody about this. But I can't bring myself to tell George. He told you about our visit to old Robber Raglan, didn't he?

"Yes. As he put it, butter wouldn't melt in the gentleman's mouth or any other orifice for that matter." He had also said some other things that were even less appropriate for mixed company.

"Well, he didn't tell you all of it--because he doesn't know all of it. Angie, I recognised Raglan--the git. He's in a picture I bought off Dung Fletcher. It shows him--ah--at a party--cuddling up to--someone other than his wife."

"And you want to use it to blackmail him."

"Right in one!" He seemed surprised that she could read his thoughts so easily. "And I almost did. As soon as I realised it-- there in his office--I started to make the pitch. I mean, it was right there on my lips..."

"So why didn't you follow through?" she asked, but she thought she knew the answer.

Dennis sighed. "He has a wife. I saw her picture on his desk. She looked so sweet, so innocent. I imagined what it would do to her if she found out about her rotter of a husband and that I might have to be the one to tell her and... I... just... couldn't." He blushed and hung his head.

She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

"What's that for?"

"Being a lovable softie, just like my husband, that's what."

He grinned and took a spoonful of the pudding, then cleared his throat. "You don't think she'd... want to know, do you?"

"Who? The wife?"

"Yeah--don't you think she'd want someone to tell her what her husband's up to?"

"It wouldn't do any good, Dennis."

"How's that?"

"There are really only two types of women: the type who already knows every move her husband makes and the type who doesn't want to know."

"Which type are you, Ange?"

"Can't you tell?"

Dennis grinned, then sighed and finished his pudding--and started on the plantains. "So where do we go from here?"

"Can we prove the ideas were Ron's?"

"We haven't had much luck with separating out the different writings. Augurey feathers are supposed to help remove ink, but it takes a lot of them to do even one page. We're going to have a lot of bald birds on our hands before this project is over."

"What about the other spell--the Prior Incantato--forcing Ron's quill to give up its secrets."

"Oh, that was just something we made up on the fly. Sounds neat, but it's probably bogus since eagle feathers aren't magical to begin with. George's going to look into it anyway. One thing we did do. Sent Dung Fletcher around to all the pawnshops and fences in the city. They're to let him know immediately if Ron should manage to sell the watch--so we can buy it back, of course. He's supposed to contact me if he hears anything."

"I'll bet that cost something."

"George said money was no object." Dennis spooned fruit salad onto more of the bread pudding.

"He--Ron--would never accept the watch back."

"I don't think so," said Dennis between mouthfuls, "but at least it'd be out of the hands of potential blackmailers. And someday--maybe in a year or ten--who knows--George might find a way of giving it back to him..." He trailed off into bleak silence, punctuated by muted burps.

"Oh, well, at least I managed to get Hermione some money," Angelina announced.

"How's that?"

"I spoke with Madam Bagman. I'm sure she's going to talk her husband into sending some of his department's contracts her way." Angelina stifled a sudden qualm. What if Miz E. didn't get around to it until after Christmas? If Hermione didn't have a way to pay for Ron's present, she might... she just might... get desperate.

"Well, that's comforting," said Dennis. "I still wish we could get 'Robber Raglan' to confess. I can only imagine what it'll be like when Hermione hands Ron his Christmas present and he has nothing in return."

"It'll be just like old times actually. You know--when they were at school."

"Yeh, George told me Ron always was a nose-wipe about that sort of thing. Um, Ange. Speaking of Ron. There is one other thing."

"What?"

"I--um--saw him last night. Wanted to check and see that he still had the watch, you know? So I asked for the time..."

"And so? He does still have it, right?"

"Yeh, I saw it... but..."

"But what?"

"I couldn't help it, Ange. I had to know."

Angelina sensed bad news of the foot-in-mouth variety coming. "Spit it out," she said.

"I asked him if... hewouldmindifHermionecutherhair."

Angie couldn't believe her ears. "And why, in the name of all that's magical, did you do that?"

"Well, we need to know, don't we? I mean, just how serious he is about it--the hair thing, I mean."

"And he said--"

"Um--he said--she wouldn't dare--"

"Oh, really. You're sure it wasn't more like 'SHE WOULDN'T DARE!!!!'"

"Well, yeah, I guess he did raise his voice a titch. Like he was maybe a little upset."

"Dennis, I could have told you that."

"Well, I did know... that he kind of has this thing... for her hair... but... how can a guy, any guy, be so nutsy? I mean... does love really do that to a person?"

Angelina just looked at him for a moment. She had to hook him up with someone. Maybe that Verity chick. She'd be perfect: warm, cuddly, a bit shy--with just enough sex-appeal to keep him interested and just enough smarts to keep him in his place. But back to damage control. "Maybe it's not so bad. You didn't tell him she was planning on selling her hair, did you?"

"No, no. I just said the styles seemed to be getting shorter and shorter and wondered if Hermione would be going with the trend."

Privately, Angelina thought that no one who knew Dennis could fail to note how out-of-character it was for him to be discussing current women's hair styles with another guy, his new pink locks notwithstanding. But she just nodded and smiled sweetly and poured them both some more coffee.

"Say, um, Angie, can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

He blushed to his blond roots, but forced it out. "Are there any more like you at home?"

"In Barbados? Sure. My mom. But she's already taken." Oh, yes. This young wizard was ready for a relationship and badly in need of one.