-7-

In the next few days Darcy would have had so much fun had the wedding planning been for someone else. Oliver had actually taken to shutting himself up in his room or to taking long walks when he saw Mrs. Faversham coming, leaving Darcy to fend for herself. He also stopped attending their nightly chats after supper. The Slytherin had been fine with that since she probably would have throttled him for abandoning her. It would not do for the bride to kill the groom.

Darcy and Oliver had stopped talking to each other altogether and avoided being in each other's presence, taking their meals apart. It was now ten days until the wedding – with the bride and groom having seen neither hide nor hair of each other for the same length of time – and Mrs. Faversham announced that she would be having an engagement party so that the "two lovebirds" could be properly introduced to high society. So much for talking to as few people as possible, Darcy thought worriedly.

The night of the party, Darcy stalled for as long as possible. She had already decided to wear a royal purple silk evening gown though had "hesitated" as long as she dared in dressing and told Mary to take her time in doing her hair in an elaborate updo adorned with purple ostrich feathers. She felt more than a little foolish for faking all of this but gave herself a mental shake. She had lied convincingly to all of Hogwarts about her blood status for six years! This should be as easy as keeping a flobberworm alive!

Once ready, Darcy examined her reflection in her floor length mirror. She had to admit that the dress was absolutely gorgeous. Madame Rachelle really knew what she was doing. The dress was off the shoulders and low-cut enough to just hint at some tasteful cleavage. The corset really did do wonders for her bust and her waist and she was feeling a little more comfortable in one (though not much) than the day she had bought her first one. Adjusting relatively well to the corset wearing, Darcy asked Mary to lace her in tighter than usual so she could show off her fantastic hourglass figure. The skirt of the dress fell in elaborate folds that must have consisted of enough fabric to cover a Quidditch pitch. It was embellished with ruffles and dyed purple lace everywhere. The purple feathers in her hair were also pretty cool.

Darcy talked herself up. She could do this. She would do this! She took a deep breath and exited her room with Mary giving a barely audible sigh of longing, saying "You look beautiful, Ma'am!" Darcy gave a nervous smile in reply. She rapped sharply on Oliver's door.

"Don't be too long, princess! I'll be downstairs," she called through the thick wood of his door. She hadn't meant for that to sound quite as mean as it did but her nerves were already fraying.

Oliver grit his teeth and glared at the door. He really hadn't needed much time to get ready but had procrastinated for as long as humanly possible and eventually had to get dressed for this society engagement party. He would have rather attended Nearly Headless Nick's Death Day Party five times over as opposed to this. He sighed and headed down the stairs. He couldn't believe he had to don a kilt for this. He had worn the garment for special occasions in the past but really, this wasn't a special occasion. This was all a joke. At least he was able to find a Wood tartan (not his family's but it would do): primarily green and blue criss-crossed with red and bits of black, white and yellow thrown in for good measure.

Darcy was already waiting in the foyer and her breath caught as she watched Oliver descend the steps. Most of her rage disappeared despite her trying to maintain it. She hadn't seen him for ten days and after having spent weeks in his presence, she had found that she missed him. She found this all a bit funny: wasn't she supposed to be the one who descended the steps in all her glory as her man gasped in awe? Instead, she desperately tried not to gape at Oliver as he made his way towards her, looking every inch the dashing Scottish gentleman of the era. She briefly wondered if Victorian Scots wore what was traditionally not worn under their kilts...

When Oliver caught sight of Darcy he had to admit that he had missed her teasing and their conversations. He also had to admit that Darcy looked like a goddess. Of course, he'd never tell her that because he didn't want to run the risk of her head getting so inflated as to not fit through the door. She was vain enough as it was.

Oliver grinned sheepishly as he held out his arm for Darcy to take. She refused his arm and looked away. So she was still angry.

"Can I talk to you?" Oliver asked. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled Darcy into the parlour and away from Berkley's ears. Darcy just glared at him.

"You left me alone with that insufferable woman!" Darcy hissed with righteous anger, arms crossed. They both knew that the woman in question was Mrs. Faversham.

"I know! And I'm sorry," Oliver apologized then steeled himself for the blow to his pride that had to come next, "I was a coward. I knew I wouldn't be able to handle her."

Oliver saw Darcy relax a bit but maintained the glare. If the Gryffindor knew anything about Darcy, it was that her ego was her weakness.

"I know you're so much better at handling her than I could ever be. You really are amazing when it comes to lying." He stopped, realizing that this was probably not the right thing to say. "I'm sorry, that didn't come out properly –"

"Don't worry. It's true anyway," Darcy shrugged.

She felt her anger subside. She was pretty amazing. Darcy strode over to him and took his arm and said, "Apology accepted."

Fishing for a compliment, Darcy asked, "Well? How do I look?"

"You look lovely, Harris," Oliver muttered as he led her out the door. "Though a Blast-Ended Skrewt in a dress is still a Blast-Ended Skrewt," he smirked.

Darcy's look of indignation was entirely worth the discreet kick in the shins that he received from his fiancée. That little act of domestic violence reassured the pair that they were at least on speaking terms again.

The party was being held over at Mr. and Mrs. Faversham's townhouse just across the street. Oliver rang the doorbell and Mrs. Faversham ushered them into her parlour. It was much the same as the Harris'. The room was quite large but felt rather small and confining due to the other guests already mingling.

The walls were covered in floral print wallpaper that hurt the eyes if one looked at it for too long, there was a sofa, two comfortable looking armchairs with footstools, a coffee table draped with a lace tablecloth and the room was full of the pungent scent of fresh flowers in crystal vases. It made Darcy uncomfortable as it reminded her of a funeral parlour. Then again, they were celebrating the end of her single life, Darcy thought wryly.

As Darcy explained to Oliver on the way over, under normal circumstances this party would have been held by her mother and attended by her friends. As it was, she had no friends here and her mother had not even been born yet. It gave Darcy an odd feeling and she tightened her grasp on Oliver's arm; her one and only connection to 1999. Compounding the odd feeling was the sensation that the room was overly warm but she shook it off.

Mrs. Faversham directed Darcy and Oliver over to a young couple. There was a pretty young woman of about Darcy's age whose heart-shaped face and blue eyes were framed by blonde curls. Compounding the look of a porcelain doll was the pink frilly dress that the girl wore. The man with her seemed slightly older. He had reddish hair and hazel eyes that would often gaze at his female companion with an adoring expression. These two were clearly in love.

"This is Miss Rebecca Ashmore and the gentleman is Mr. John Woodhouse," Mrs. Faversham introduced. Oliver gave a slight bow as Darcy attempted a curtsey she had seen Mary perform. She succeeded only by holding onto Oliver's arm for balance. They exchanged pleasantries and then headed over to meet the half dozen of other couples. So far they had met three John's and two Jane's. Don't these Muggles have any imagination? thought Oliver. For the most part they all seemed pleasing if a bit straight-laced. They finally came to the last pair in the room. A handsome young woman with shining black hair and equally dark eyes and an elegant red dress was introduced as a Miss Elizabeth Kensington while the very handsome man with the same black hair and eyes beside her was introduced as her brother, Mr. William Kensington. The Hogwarts students each performed their respective gestures while the Kensington's did the same.

While they chatted about the unseasonably cold weather they were having and the lovely parlour they were now occupying, Darcy didn't miss the smouldering looks that Mr. Kensington was giving her nor the way that Miss Kensington was batting her lashes, waving her fan rapidly and flirtatiously, looking up at Oliver.

"It is indeed a pleasure to meet the Miss Darcy Harris and the Mr. Oliver Wood we have heard so much about from Mrs. Faversham. I see that Mrs. Faversham was not exaggerating when she told us of Miss Harris' exceeding beauty and charm," Mr. Kensington told Darcy as he took her hand and placed a kiss upon her knuckles.

"You are too kind, sir," Darcy smiled, flattered by the man's suave words. He really did embody the whole 'tall, dark and handsome' description.

The room was getting warmer again and the heat seemed to hit her in an invisible wave. She looked around to see if anyone else had felt it but everyone continued on with what they were doing.

"And you Mr. Wood," said Miss Kensington, "How did you and Miss Harris happen to meet?"

The question was innocent enough but it took Oliver completely by surprise. He and Darcy had never discussed this before. How could they have been so careless to not have thought up a story? Oh right, they hadn't been speaking. He vaguely remembered Darcy telling Mrs. Faversham that they had been set upon by thieves and arrived at night. Still thinking, he noticed three other couples had heard the question and had drifted over to hear his reply. He looked at Darcy who didn't seem to have heard the question as she had been pleased to be receiving the attentions of that ponce, William Kensington. So Oliver started to spin his yarn.

"Well, Miss Harris was attending school in...uh...in," Blast it! He couldn't remember the country where Harris' fake finishing school was. Darcy seemed to have caught on and supplied him with "In Brussels, my dear." My dear? Oliver repeated to himself. Hearing terms of endearment coming from Harris sounded so out of place.

"Erm, yes. She was at school in Brussels and we met..." he trailed off. Why was he mucking this up? He tried to remain calm and think fast. Darcy had opened her mouth to help him out when an idea came to him. "We first met as children while we both attended separate schools in Brussels. As you know, Brussels have the finest schools in Europe," he paused as the others acquiesced emphatically. He couldn't believe it had worked for him as well as it had worked for Darcy. What was it she had said? Always, always look like you know what you're doing and act like you're in charge. That way nobody will question you for fear of looking stupid. She was right. Darcy looked amused and just as interested in what he was about to say as the others. He continued on. "After several years, she had disappeared from my memory and the acquaintance was ended. Then one day I had been riding into the nearest town when my horse threw me and I sprained my ankle. A breathtaking woman with red hair and sparkling green eyes," he paused to look at Darcy by his side while the others chuckled, "had been walking to town as well when she found me, unable to walk or mount my horse. She was able to help me bind my ankle and walked me to the village."

"All under the watchful eye of my school chaperone, of course," Darcy added, just to be sure that there was no thoughts of misbehaviour or reproach on her part. Oliver nodded as if recalling it.

"She set me as far as the healer who fixed me up. From then, we were reintroduced, our acquaintance was reformed and a friendship quickly bloomed. And all because this lovely lass had kindly stopped to help a poor, wounded lad like myself."

"That is ever so romantic," Rebecca Ashmore sighed, clinging to Mr. Woodhouse's arm all the more. Just then supper was announced. As Oliver escorted Darcy into the dining room, Darcy whispered with amusement, "So much for an arranged marriage Wood. Now they all think we're a love match. Also, they're called 'doctors', not 'healers'," Darcy corrected him. A short silence followed.

"That was a very sweet story," Darcy broke the silence, "Where on Earth did you come up with that?"

"That was exactly how my parents met only my Da' fell off his broom and my Mum healed his sprain right then and there," Oliver smiled. Darcy secretly thought that the tale was indeed awfully romantic and wondered what Mr. Wood senior and Mrs. Wood were like.

The dining room was opulently decorated and was clearly meant to impress guests by highlighting the Faversham's wealth and societal status. There was crystal everywhere with floral patterned fine china and highly polished silverware. Supper had been an adventure. It was a terribly confusing affair: half of the menu was illegible being written in French. It surprised the both of them as they never anticipated a menu at someone's house.

"Who has a menu at home? Honestly," Oliver whispered to Darcy, making her giggle.

Ordering was more interesting than the idle chatter being held with their fellow guests. Half the time neither Oliver nor Darcy knew what they were ordering. Also, with being laced into a corset, it was all Darcy could do to manage to eat all six courses. In the end, she and Oliver ended up ordering at random. The appetizer they had was called Crème facile au Roquefort which luckily turned out to be a traditional Scottish dish that Oliver called Auld Alliance. It was quite a tasty dish with the Roquefort cheese doused in whiskey. For the main course Darcy recognized the word Atlantique which she supposed meant seafood of some sort from the Atlantic so she went with that and hoped for the best. It was indeed a salmon fillet served with a dill sauce. Oliver, on the other hand, hadn't been so lucky. He had ordered Langue de veau that turned out to be tongue. When Oliver recognized the meat on his plate, he blanched.

"But you eat haggis, don't you? This can't possibly be much worse," Darcy whispered. Oliver looked unconvinced. "Look, I'll try it if you do. If it turns out to be horrible, you can share my plate." Oliver agreed, surprised by how considerate Darcy was being.

They each took a bite. Oliver and Darcy both agreed that once you got past the fact that you were eating a tongue, it had a mild taste, soft texture and tasted like beef. Oliver ended up eating the whole dish and let out a satisfied sigh when he was done. Dessert was a mercifully plain Queen Victoria cake. By the end, Darcy felt like she was about to bust the laces of her corset. It was then that she felt some sharp but brief abdominal cramps. She breathed a stifled gasp but Oliver had heard her.

"Are you okay?" he leaned over and whispered. Darcy was touched to see that he looked concerned. The pain had subsided so she brushed it off.

"I'm fine," she assured him, giving a convincing smile.

Then the men invited Oliver to sit with them as they smoked cigars, drank some of Mr. Faversham's finest brandy and congratulated themselves on being masters of the universe. Oliver accepted out of politeness and though he declined the offered cigar, he did indulge in some of the alcohol finding it similar to Bartleby's Bizarre Brandy that his parents had once bought from Hogsmead. Unfortunately, it came without the pleasant side effects of levitation and the ability to shoot harmless, multicoloured sparks from ones fingertips. The women retired back to the parlour for tea and coffee.

Darcy settled on the couch, wishing she could have some brandy too, and Rebecca Ashmore timidly came to sit next to her. Darcy smiled at her, hopefully making her feel more at ease. After sipping her tea the Slytherin realized that Miss Ashmore would not be the first one to talk so she searched her brain for a suitable topic. She could think of nothing she wanted to talk about except... Jack the Ripper. He was always on her mind so she thought to hell with a suitable topic and cut right to the chase.

"So, Miss Ashmore, what do you think of Jack the Ripper?"

A hush fell over the entire parlour as every set of eyes in the room turned to look at her. Darcy schooled her expression into one of innocent curiosity.

"I hardly think this an appropriate topic for conversation Miss Harris," an affronted Mrs. Faversham said.

"Oh, but I think it fascinating!" said Elizabeth Kensington excitedly, moving to sit on Darcy's other side on the couch. "He has already killed two women!" Miss Kensington went on to say. Darcy seemed to have found an unlikely ally.

"Do you think the letters sent to Scotland Yard are really from the murderer?" asked a frightened Miss Ashmore.

The poor girl looks close to tears, thought Darcy with a hint of disdain. All of a sudden, the room swam as her vision began to blur a bit. She vaguely noticed Miss Ashmore touch her arm and ask if she was feeling ill.

"I'm – I'm well... It will pass," Darcy tried to ignore the same stabbing pain around her middle and try as she might, she couldn't suppress the hiss that escaped her lips as she grabbed her side in pain.

"Miss Harris is not well!" Miss Ashmore cried more dramatically than Darcy thought her condition warranted. Her breath was getting shorter.

"Could someone get Oliver?" was all Darcy managed to say before her vision went completely black and her head lolled back onto the couch.

A soft knock was heard on the smoking room door and a maid peeked her head in looking for Oliver. Not knowing why he was being summoned to the parlour, he followed the maid. All the women present seemed to be huddled around a limp figure on the couch. A small path was cleared for him. His stomach clenched in a distinctly unpleasant sensation as he saw an unconscious Darcy on the couch.

"What's happened?" he asked worriedly, rushing over.

"She was taking her tea and carrying on the conversation when she simply fainted!" Miss Ashmore informed him. Oliver thought that the girl might just pass out herself.

"I knew this was not a proper discussion topic!" Mrs. Faversham told anyone who would listen.

A maid bustled in carrying a small glass bottle. The cork was removed and the bottle of smelling salts was waved under Darcy's nose. With a jolt, Darcy opened her eyes and looked around, confused.

"What happened?" Darcy looked to Oliver for an explanation.

"You fainted," Oliver said, instinctively sitting next to her and put a soothing hand on her back.

"Oh," was all Darcy said as she opened her fan and waved it a few times half-heartedly. What bad manners on my part, Darcy thought wryly.

"I think we should head home," Oliver suggested. He really was worried about Darcy. He knew something had been wrong earlier when she had gasped. He just hoped to Merlin that it wasn't anything serious or life-threatening.

"Of course! I'll send for the doctor!" Mrs. Faversham cried. Darcy suppressed a roll of her eyes. The old lady was such a drama queen.

"That's really not necessary. The Harris family has their own doctor," Darcy blatantly lied to Mrs. Faversham weakly. "I thank you for your hospitality and it has been a pleasure meeting – meeting y-" Darcy never finished her sentence as her eyelids fluttered closed again and lost consciousness a second time.

Oliver was really worried now. He muttered an apology and thanked Mrs. Faversham again and without a second thought, he picked Darcy up in his arms and carried her across the street to their townhouse.

A/N: God, I hate Mrs. Faversham. And yes, John Woodhouse, in name only, was taken from Jane Austen's Emma.