closed: teach me the thing
The idea had been lurking.
Well, 'lurking'. It had been a lingering sort of thought, a sideline persuasion that, in the midst of everything else that had surfaced, had gone in and out of focus for months, ever since he had found himself with a stomach full of butterflies, spilling his guts to Marlow and her offering to extend her specifically-skilled companionship to Sabrina.
A good number of things had shifted around him since that one moment at the music benefit event when his life had gone from relatively bland and uncomplicated to rather dramatically left-of-normal (and apparently getting progressively farther away from it by the day). But however unconventional things about his and Sabrina's relationship might be (she still had to occasionally be reminded to put on shoes before leaving his flat, and he had taken to gaging the date in days-until-the-full-moon rather than days-since-the-beginning-of-the-month), the basics of relationships were still valid.
More than anything, he just wanted to be there for her, with her, no matter what, in every capacity. But there was one very specific way in which he really just couldn't. And considering the increasingly relevant levels of tension buzzing around the wizarding world where werewolves were concerned and the growing chatter of fear-stricken extremists with less than peaceful agendas, the thought had started to bother him that much more.
So, when he had stumbled upon some Muggle-exposure incident report involving an incorrectly-registered Animagus a week ago ('cat' was apparently not a specific enough description of one's mountain lion form), that lurking idea had only solidified, growing and nagging at the back of his mind.
Which was partly why Dean found himself knocking on Marlow's (new and unfamiliar) door that afternoon after having slyly escaped from work a few hours early, a bottle of celebratory housewarming champagne (adorned with a cheekily scribbled 'To: Stranger / From: Remember me?' label) in hand.
Well, 'lurking'. It had been a lingering sort of thought, a sideline persuasion that, in the midst of everything else that had surfaced, had gone in and out of focus for months, ever since he had found himself with a stomach full of butterflies, spilling his guts to Marlow and her offering to extend her specifically-skilled companionship to Sabrina.
A good number of things had shifted around him since that one moment at the music benefit event when his life had gone from relatively bland and uncomplicated to rather dramatically left-of-normal (and apparently getting progressively farther away from it by the day). But however unconventional things about his and Sabrina's relationship might be (she still had to occasionally be reminded to put on shoes before leaving his flat, and he had taken to gaging the date in days-until-the-full-moon rather than days-since-the-beginning-of-the-month), the basics of relationships were still valid.
More than anything, he just wanted to be there for her, with her, no matter what, in every capacity. But there was one very specific way in which he really just couldn't. And considering the increasingly relevant levels of tension buzzing around the wizarding world where werewolves were concerned and the growing chatter of fear-stricken extremists with less than peaceful agendas, the thought had started to bother him that much more.
So, when he had stumbled upon some Muggle-exposure incident report involving an incorrectly-registered Animagus a week ago ('cat' was apparently not a specific enough description of one's mountain lion form), that lurking idea had only solidified, growing and nagging at the back of his mind.
Which was partly why Dean found himself knocking on Marlow's (new and unfamiliar) door that afternoon after having slyly escaped from work a few hours early, a bottle of celebratory housewarming champagne (adorned with a cheekily scribbled 'To: Stranger / From: Remember me?' label) in hand.