I know the bridges I’ve burned along the way have left me with these walls and scars that won’t go away, but I just can’t take my eyes off you…

Idly staring at the clock on the far wall as it monotonously ticked, timing the hours Colm spent sitting behind the mahogany desk, he scribbled on a sheet of parchment, marking the latest trade agreement as unacceptable. Startled by the appearance of his secretary, he adjusted the sling across his shoulder -- the byproduct of a Quidditch accident -- and stared as her lithe form bent over his desk, the neckline of the shirt revealing the swell of her breasts and milky white skin. Flicking his eyes to her face, he crookedly smiled, and sent her home early, eager to leave the office himself.

Damn rain. Muttering to himself as he left the comfort of the marbled-hall ministry building he worked at for the damp cobblestone sidewalks of downtown London, he quickly crossed the street, stepping his leather Armani shoe into a rather large puddle in the process.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door to the nearest uppercut establishment Colm nodded to the bartender, barking out his order in a heavily accented voice. “Vodka, straight, no ice.” The clear colored liquor would numb the pain in his now throbbing shoulder and temper the sting of loneliness that he had felt upon returning to his empty flat night after night. A woman, he wanted a woman. Brunette, pale, slender… Svetlana, he wanted Svetlana. But she was no longer his.

Shaking water from his matted hair, he crossed the bar quickly, plopping himself down by the gnarled wooden surface. Fumbling with his pack of cigarettes, the box dampened by the rain, he quickly lit one, taking a long drag. Resting it in a glass ashtray atop the bar, he waited for his drink.