delicate. [tag; harlan]

Uncomfortable.

That was the main feeling Farley was suffering from as she tried her hardest not to start chewing on her nails. She didn't know where she was. It was a common occurrence since she'd crossed the pond. London was massive. It was sprawling, its tentacles reaching for miles in all sorts of directions. It felt like it was the epicentre of the entire country, the very beating heart. It was different from what she was used to. The pace of life was faster, everything was noisy, cars and buses and trains and smut and smoke. The only comfort she found was the rain.

It hadn't let her down.

Farley was soaked through, her short dark hair plastered wetly to her forehead as she stepped inside, leaving small puddles wherever she went. Inside was warm and it made her shiver, goosebumps rising on the flesh that poked out of the sleeves on her dress. She sneezed, a pair of well heeled people shooting her dirty glares as they neatly side stepped her, muttering darkly as they walked off. She sniffed as she tried to wring out her hair, the material of her dress now heavy and cloying. She was early, thank goodness. Despite not wanting to be here, she was never late.

Drip-dripping, Farley located the nearest toilet and hastily set about making herself look more human. With a shake of her wand and a blast of hot hair, her clothes and hair were dried. She stooped, her pale fingers slipping off her heels as she turned them upside down, water dripping into the sink. "Great," she muttered. If that wasn't a metaphor for her day so far, then she had no idea what was.

Simon, her boss, had a family gathering to go to so Farley was confused as to why she was needed here. She assumed that he needed her to collect some work-related things from an office or something. It felt very…personal, being around her boss' family. She'd been working for him for three months and he seemed nice enough. The only issue that arose was the looks that other women around the Ministry gave her. Sympathetic smiles, cold eyes and dismissive glances. One had come over to her and told Farley that she was the sixth PA Simon had had in three years.

Using loo roll, Farley dabbed at her eyes, removing the black smudges that made her look like a panda with a hangover. She'd only come out with the essentials; lipstick, comb, apartment keys and some funny Muggle money in case she needed to catch a cab home. Her hair, now dried, was a little frizzy as she tried, in vain, to patch herself up.

Farley was indifferent about seeing members of her boss' family. She knew of them, of course. She was constantly sending owls of apology to his mother, lying for Simon and rebuffing her offers of Sunday lunch. She'd met his wife once and to say she was intimidated was an under statement. Farley was keen to avoid her if she could.

She'd written Simon's speech for him, a witty and jovial tone which she was sure would impress his friends. Farley was a little perturbed when he was careless with his words, saying that he "didn't have time for this" and that he wanted to leave as soon as he could. From inside of the bathroom, she could hear his deep, baritone laugh and a collection of others; she wondered if he'd told one of her jokes. Farley sighed as she dried her hands, picked up her clutch and stepped back into the hallway.

She was well used to people ignoring her, it was how she functioned. No one glanced at her as she kept close to the wall, following the sound of chatter. With a smile, she politely refused a drink from a tall man.

"Farley!" Simon boomed, making her jump and flinch as her name was called. "Sort these, will you?" He asked, unceremoniously dumping champagne soaked papers into her arms and watching her struggle to contain them. A woman was on his arm, close, blonde haired and definitely not his wife. She needed to get out of here. "Yes, sir," she replied gently, staggering forward as he clapped her on the back.

The chatter resumed as Farley turned to leave, feeling the woman's eyes boring holes into the back of her skull. The hall was cool whereas that room had been warm with bodies. Unsure of where she was going, she opened the nearest door and stepped inside. It smelled like tobacco and a wood fire. The darkness enveloped her comfortably  as the flickering fire lit up the furniture. It looked like a library. Unaware of what else might be in the room, she plonked herself down on a worn leather arm chair, the files on her lap and her head thrown back to look at the ceiling. "What a jerk."



[member=22510]Harlan Bellamy[/member]

With each forced step toward the Bellamy London estate, Harlan's mind was abuzz with the multitude of other things that he would rather be doing. In thinking it through, he couldn't imagine many things worse than being trapped with his entire family and guests of their choosing for an evening dedicated to honoring his brother. Hell, even an entire day of press would be better that that. Simon was being recognized for his pseudo-philanthropic efforts as a ministry official for muggleborns during the war, much to Harlan's amusement.

The Saturday was only made even less enjoyable because of the omnipresent misty rain that cut through the winter air like a knife, soaking Harlan's hair and coat on his journey from the spot he had apparated from to the door. The broad shouldered, youngest Bellamy son, despite his discomfort, relished in the freedom of the outdoors while he still had it. Once he passed through those doors, he would be stuck there for at least two hours.

Harlan made nice with his immediate family and showed good face for the guests who had been hand selected for cocktails before the event, likely for a political reason beyond Harlan's reason to care. He was only the Quidditch Player after all.

It didn't take long for the blond wizard to seek solace in one of his favorite nooks of the vastly oversized home in the middle of the city, the library. Most days, the multi-story location was left empty, his parents living separately with their significant others in the privacy of their respective homes across England. It wasn't until nights like this when the two of them came together to put on the married front again. Harlan was used to the charade by now, but it didn't make it any less infuriating to be even the smallest part of.

Harlan scanned the antique shelving units filled with books from floor to ceiling. They were familiar. Even in smell, he could remember the time he spent in the very spot he stood as a child when the family would stay in the city for months at a time. He breathed in the scent of paper, cigars, and leather, his eyes closing for a moment to slow down the memory. The captain raised a large had to the nearest novel and plucked it from the shelf.

Great Expectations. How appropriate.

Novel in one hand and wand in the other, Harlan summoned a bottle and glass from the hidden bar, a spherical cube of ice expanding in the glass as it flew toward toward him. He flipped through the worn pages of the Dickens classic, only vaguely aware of the amber Scotch that filled the bottom just as he had charmed. Perhaps his night wouldn't be so bad after all.

Just as he leaned comfortably against the wall of books with his drink at his lips, the door flung open revealing an unfamiliar face. He remained still, watching as the brunette woman made herself quite comfortable in his Grandfather's leather armchair, visibly not pleased with something. Harlan couldn't help but crack a hint of a smile; at least he wasn't alone. He took a step forward with enough time to catch the strangers' exasperated words.

"I would say he can't be that bad..." Harlan looked up from the open book before closing it with his thumb as a placeholder, unaware exactly who she was speaking about. "But I know the family," He shrugged through his hushed statement, handing over his drink. It looked like she needed it just as bad as him. "By the way, my Grandfather doesn't let anyone... sit in that that chair," Harlan nodded toward the worn seat she currently occupied with a less than jovial smile. For Harlan, though, it was a step in the right direction toward being nice.

Silence enveloped her. The party chatter was now nothing more than a dull buzz as goose bumps rose on the exposed flesh of her shoulders. Somewhere, a clock was ticking. The gentle tick-tock relaxed her as the warm air seeped into her nearly frozen bones. This dress had been a pretty bad idea. Moving to New York had done wonders for her sense of style but she couldn't help but feel that she was slightly overdressed for this evening.

Embers and wood crackled merrily and it suddenly felt like Christmas, not February. Farley inhaled deeply as she closed her eyes. She could no longer blame her tiredness on the time difference and she recently discovered that trying so hard was draining her. The chair was squishy and comfortable, the leather seemingly supporting her body perfectly as she forced herself to relax.

Then, it shattered.

Farley let out a scream at the sound of a disembodied voice. Her dark eyes were wide as she turned, frantically, peering into the shadows. The papers had fallen off her lap and landed untidily across the floor. Her heart was racing and it didn't slow down, even when the firelight made himself known.

"You scared me," she told him, her voice unsteady. Farley hesitated as the glass was extended to her. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she didn't really drink but she reached out a shaking hand to take the whiskey. With care, she turned the glass a little to drink from the other side of it. However childish it sounded, to her it felt like sharing a kiss with a stranger. The liquid was warm and bitter, burning down her throat and leaving a fiery trail behind. "It's nice," she croaked as her eyes teared up.

I know the family.

In the darkness, Farley winced. Already, she was concerned and immediately, she backtracked. "Sorry for gatecrashing," the petite brunette added, trying to make out his features in the feeble light. "I don't know anyone," Farley told him honestly. "I'm sort of here for work but I'm not really sure why," she frowned. It did seem a little inappropriate that her boss would invite her to a personal event and then proceed to ignore her for most of the evening.

Her still-damp dress began to stick to the leather armchair and she shifted uncomfortably, the whiskey glass now mostly drained. She noticed the book he was holding and she offered a smile. Despite living over the other side of the ocean, the author's work was not unknown to her. "A favourite?" She asked.

The comment about it behind his grandfather's chair made her blush. Instantly, she was up and off it, leaving the glass behind. Hastily, she picked up Simon's papers and clumsily made an effort to rearrange them. With them close to her chest, she anxiously looked around. The man had simply made her feel unwelcome in the warm room. Farley had taken an unsure step towards another chair before she stopped; was that his grandmother's chair, too?

Eventually, she just sat down on the floor, close to the fire. The flickering light cast her face into high relief, the dancing shadows mottling her pale skin. Dutifully, Farley began to organise the papers. She set them out like a game of solitaire; flipping and shuffling until they resembled an order. "Your grandfather?" She asked suddenly, looking at him through the gloom. Oh. So he was a Bellamy of sorts? "Why are you hiding?" She blurted out. "You'll be missing the speech I wrote." Whoops. "I, er --" Farley stammered, her cheeks flame red. "I mean, that Simon wrote. Quite evocative," she mumbled, her eyes downcast.