I tried to ring my father last night. I have no idea why I would need his permission for something like what I'm about to do. But I do. Not that I got it. Hell, I don't even know how I'm going to say the words, let alone have them come out at all romantic.

My hand wraps protectively around the item in my pocket. I should have got a nice box for it. I'm an idiot. As my fingers play with the ring, I realize how small it is. It stops halfway down my little finger as I slip it on and off. My mouth is dry so I slip into a pub to have a quick drink but I order a soda instead, hearing Susan in my head questioning my need for a drink before I propose to her.

I think of all the times I've tried to do this in the past and ended up chickening out. I've taken two rings back to the store, transfigured one into a bracelet for Susan when I got cold feet and threw one, ashamed of my cowardice, on my way home as I walked through a park. No word on that one. It was eaten by a corgi who was being walked by a professional dog walker and before I could try to explain what had happened, the dog walker and the corgi were in a limousine back to whatever castle they came from. Nice tip for the dog walker or the gardener if they erm, find it.

This ring is different. It seemed to call to me. You see, I didn't buy it, I found it. Before you get the wrong idea, I'm not cheap. I think the four rings mentioned above will attest to that fact. It's just that a regular ring doesn't belong on a person who is anything but ordinary. This ring has four diamonds and a sapphire in the middle to signify devotion and commitment. I had it appraised at Borgin and Burkes. I wouldn't want to find out it was cut glass or something and the corgi got a better one. The stupid thing is, Susan wouldn't care how big the diamonds were or how much it cost or any of the other trappings other girls seem to favour. I've dated those girls. I know. For them, they could have the ring the corgi got, even after he got it...

Wayne and I have been working in the tunnels under London. Not the ones that house the Muggle underground. The ones where the homeless, the rum runners, and the scared and lonely went during the prohibition years and the world war. Not to mention the rats. Big, big rats. Anyway, if you know where to look, there's still artifacts under there. Most of it rubbish, some of it treasure long forgotten. For those tunnels were not just used by Muggles.

Wayne and I have been selling off a cache of old rum that we uncovered during one of our expeditions. We learned of the rum through a good late friend of mine, Mr. Lexington, whose ghost used to reside in the junior boys' dorms at Eton. For a price, I rid the scared chaps of their resident ghost, who was none too pleased to leave anyway. If I would give him the name of his wife's second husband so he could go harass his heirs. So, I got paid a fee from the lads and from Mr. L as I now call him. Seems Mr. Lexington, as most teachers throughout history, was underpaid and got into the rum running racket. We've made a tidy sum from the cache he failed to deliver due to his untimely death at the hands of the man who would become the next Mr. Anna Lexington. Win win if you ask me.

Anyway, underneath one of the old, rotten wood cases, was a piece of material, dusty and threadbare. I kicked it away to place a strengthening charm on the old wood to lift the rum out and heard a metallic item skitter across the floor. Curious, I picked it up and brushed it on my sleeve and saw a slight shine. I knew right away it was the ring for Susan. It didn't feel cold to my touch like metal normally would in these damp, cold tunnels. I slipped it onto the middle knuckle of my smallest finger and felt warmth spread through my body. But something else, too. While I had been about to exclaim to Wayne about my lucky find, something held me back. I'm not a cheater, either. Well, not to friends. While I never told Wayne about the ring I did lie to him about how much I got for rum and gave him half of the appraisal value of the ring along with his cut of the profits.

I drink the soda quickly despite the fact that I'll just be dragging my feet tonight. I'm not romantic. At all. When I Flooed Susan to ask her out tonight, did I ask her out to dinner? A Muggle movie, which she seems to enjoy? Nope. I'm taking her to a Deathday Party! Curse her blind faith in me. Deaf too, must be. I know, I'm a git. I'd made a promise earlier in the week to attend the Deathday Party of Sir Le Duc from Uxbridge, dead for the past four hundred and fifty years. It's a small price considering the payment I got for 'exorcising' him from a restaurant called The Buttery, which used to be his family estate. Personally, I didn't see any harm in what he was doing there. Most of the women customers who complained were wearing really short dresses anyway, so what was a revealing wind gust every now and then really hurting anyone? Okay, he is a bit of a pervert. But I agreed that if he left, I'd be his 'ickle live 'un' at his party as he's never had a living guest. One problem. I haven't told Susan where we're going yet. I merely asked her out. Well, this will be as out as it gets. For good measure, I grab the flowers from the vase on the table on my way out while no one's looking. The flower shops are closed and I can't resurrect the dead flowers that lie beneath the snow like some people can. Neville does that all the time and I've never learned.