CHAPTER NINE: REVELATIONS

Diagon Alley - London, England

June 30, 1815 (Friday early morning)

The drug-induced morpheus Hermione had enjoyed hadn't done much to abate her tears upon waking. Instead, they remained as endless as the abysmal maw that had opened up inside her heart, coursing down her cheeks in hot, tormenting trails the moment her mind turned to her Dragon, and the mess that their relationship had become in so short a time.

Is this what loving reduced one to – a mass of emotional emptiness in the end, alone and bitter? If so, perhaps it was best to never love again.

Turning her head, she found the spot empty where Ginny had lain next to her in sisterly solidarity all night, the indent from the young woman's head upon the pillow still warm under her hand; her friend must have recently left. Using her senses, Hermione did not hear anyone else in her apartment, and assumed she had been temporarily deserted. Perhaps Ginevra had needed to return to her own rooms for personal reasons? She secretly hoped her friend would come back soon, for she found herself in much need of companionable strength just then.

Wearily, she closed her eyes, wiping at the streaks upon her face, attempting to brush them away.

What entitlement was there for romantic love in her situation anyway? Hers was a business affair; she was to become a man's paid whore for one night and there was no room for feeling in such a transaction. For that reason, she would have to learn how to shut away her emotions. If she could not endure this Saturday's auction winner's attentions, surely she would go mad.

The thought of what was to come in only two days' time made her positively ill… One of her remaining suitors was going to have her; he would strip her clothes from her body, making her utterly vulnerable, touch every part of her as he wished, and when he was ready, he would hold her down and come into her, capturing her virginity for his own. Would it be Knot, Jer, Gold or Wolf? From the cut of their clothing, all four gentlemen appeared the wealthiest of her patrons, and the ones most likely to be able to afford a bid-off, if that should be the run of the auction. On the other hand, perhaps instead the richest of them would prove to be Vivi or Bootsey, Argonaut or Scots, as within the walls of La Cerise, she was fast learning that nothing was as it seemed, and any of them could prove to be serious contenders.

Regardless of the face, it was very likely there would be more than one sexual interlude throughout that afternoon and night with the winner, for her temporary Master would own her until the dawn on Sunday. She would have to bear being touched again and again, perhaps even roughly. And she would have absolutely no choice but to give that man everything, to respond to his handling in a positive, appreciative manner. It would all be an elaborate sham of course, as there would be no real desire on her part, for none of the remaining bidders would be the man she really pined for deep in her soul. Yet, despite that unhappy certainty, she would nevertheless attempt with her all her skill to counterfeit the moans and expressions she had studied on the faces of those she'd watched behind the mirrors during her education, and pray she could adequately pass off the charade as the bona fide deal.

The following morning would be unquestionably awkward, as she and her lover would separately dress and then part ways, quite possibly forever, and then she would collect her belongings and return to her family's home in Surrey… and would repeatedly tell her heart to pretend that none of it had ever happened thereafter. Except for Ginny, of course, with whom she would wish to maintain a relationship, and Pyg, her beloved familiar, whom she would never abandon, no matter his past connection to the man she loved.

Just the thought of him again summoned an unbearable agony in Hermione's chest.

She'd wanted her first time to belong to her Dragon; she'd prayed for that forbidden conclusion, despite all prohibition to such a hope. In spite of the events of Wednesday afternoon, she still yearned for such a thing to transpire. How could she still want him after what she'd seen him do? How could she still love him?

"He loves you, too."

Sitting up with a gasp, she pulled the bed covers over herself modestly and glanced around quickly. There wasn't another soul in sight. Her bedroom was still, aside from her presence to disturb the peace. Had she finally reached the heights of being distraught and cracked, then? Had the pressure become too much for her to handle, and now she was hearing voices?

"No, you're not mad."

With a 'pop,' a tiny ball of white fluff appeared on the bottom edge of her bed.

"Pyg?"

There was a strange shimmering of light, and in the place of her beloved familiar sat a young boy, approximately six or seven years of age. His hair was the same color as hers, but short and straight. His eyes were a wintery blue-grey. A light sprinkling of freckles dotted the bridge of his nose, exactly as hers had at that age.

"Hello," he smiled a little nervously. "This is better, don't you think?"

Astounded into speechlessness, Hermione could do no more than gape at the child, her brain fuzzing around the edges.

"I've been practicing," he boasted, looking down at himself. "Mostly when you weren't around." He wiggled his ten perfect fingers and kicked his legs straight. "The clothes took some human thinking, but I like them." He dropped his legs back down and looked at her as innocently as an angel, and as devilishly excitedly as she knew him to be at times. "I picked a face that looks like both of you." He grinned brightly. "What do you think, Mama?"

Too much… It was all too much…

Darkness crawled into the sides of Hermione's vision until they enveloped her totally, and she promptly fainted.

X~~~~~X

Vapors were pressed under her nostrils, jolting her awake with that same, startling panic that she'd woken up with this morning. Jerking away from the acrid stench, she instinctually attempted to move immediately. A gentle hand on her shoulder pressed back, forcing her into the mattress.

"Lie still, silly," Ginny admonished, her red hair and pale face coming into focus finally above her. "You fainted."

"Pyg?" she murmured in need, blinking back tears. "Where is Pyg?"

A small hand grasped hers, and at the touch, soothing magic flowed gently into her. Instantly, she was eased. "I'm here, Mama." His sweet child's adopted countenance came into view, and he was clearly afraid and concerned. "Do I scare you like this? I can… go back… if you want." He seemed decidedly disappointed with the option, but the offer had been made with all sincerity.

Gently, she stroked the tiny fingers that clutched hers with anxiety. He was warm, and his flesh felt as real as Ginevra's as she took her friend's hand as well. Was this really her little familiar in human form? How had he accomplished such a feat? "You are a true metamorph, aren't you?" she whispered to him, smiling with amazement.

He stepped closer and lifted her hand to his cheek, rubbing against it, seeking her affection. "Is it all right? I like it much better, but I don't want you to be frightened of me."

Hermione squinted as she pondered the anomalous situation seriously. "No, I am not frightened, Pyg. This is just an adjustment. I am used to seeing you as, well, a small ball of fluff." Her fingers lightly caressed his baby-soft skin. "And I admit that I am confused by how you could accomplish such an advanced feat of magic."

The boy – Pyg, she reminded herself firmly – looked around at the walls. "At Papa's house, I could only change my color, but when he brought me here for you, I felt… different, especially after you touched me the first time. The magic here made me… better." He shrugged, clearly unable to articulate the process of his exponential magical abilities. "I wanted to know what it would be like to walk like Papa, and…" He frowned in concentration. "I just… changed." He held his hand up and stared at the open palm, pressing it into hers, comparing the size difference. "It took a lot of practice to get it right, though. I had to pretend to like sitting outside for a long time by myself, so you wouldn't see. Some days, it was really hot in the sun! And I'd try it when you were asleep, too. You never noticed." Looking up at her, he smiled so angelically that it was hard not to become enamored of his beatific presence. "I wanted to be perfect before I showed you for the first time, Mama."

Hermione's heart melted. "Well, you certainly look very handsome," she smiled, but immediately her expression fell as she fully considered the implications of his words. "Did you state that coming here, to this House, altered your magic?" At Pyg's nod, she turned her face away, biting her lip, assessing the possibilities. "Could the spell upon La Cerise have somehow called to you, too?"

"You mean the one that enticed you here?" Ginevra asked, her tone slightly alarmed, and Hermione started as she had forgotten all about her friend's presence in light of Pyg's amazing revelation. Ginny's eyes grew as wide as saucers. "It occurs to me only now… do you suppose it is possible that the spell works for every woman here as well?" Her friend was blushing crimson, her light freckles highlighted across the bridge of her nose as a result. "I mean, it seems that men come to La Cerise seeking wives, not just courtesan companionship. And all of us have a story of need compelling us to seek out the training here. As far as I'm aware, no woman has ever left these walls without a marriage proposal or beau on her arm." She glanced down at the ring on her left hand. "I pray I will not be the first."

Hermione sat up fully, giving herself a moment to calm the dizziness, and gathered the blanket to her chest, letting her friend's hand go. "What do you mean?"

Ginevra sadly turned her head aside. "After Wednesday's events, I explained to my Italian that I wouldn't marry a man who counted such scoundrel company amongst his friends. Despite his encouraging letter yesterday, I haven't yet heard from him, and I can't help but wonder if he's… well, if he's reconsidering his offer." She looked at the ring again, her body posture and face reflecting a deep wounding. "I'd said some rather cruel things to him, and perhaps he feels it better not to involve himself with a woman of such temper."

Shaking her head firmly, Hermione let Pyg go and grabbed a hold of Ginny's left hand with both of hers. "He loves you! I have seen the proof with my own eyes. This absolutely cannot stand, Ginny! You must not make this mistake! You love him, and he you, and if what you suppose is true about the House's ancient spells, then you were meant for each other as well, both drawn here to find and love the other. Do not allow my suffering to dictate your future happiness. I forbid it, in fact!" Her voice had grown in strength as she spoke, bordering on commanding by the time she'd finished. "You will take back your rejection immediately! Do not allow anything to destroy this opportunity for you."

"Or you, Mama," Pyg smiled, resting his hands on the coverlet and leaning forward onto the balls of his feet. "Papa loves you just as much. It wasn't his fault what happened."

Hermione's whole soul froze, and her gaze locked with foolish, wild hope onto the words of her little familiar. "What do you mean?"

Her… familiar… hopped up onto the bed, sitting on his knees, keeping his shoes over the edge in a strangely polite manner. "I stayed behind. I was hiding in the corner, because that man with the Madame's face was still there, and I was afraid of him. I listened and watched what he and the white-haired lady did to Papa." He growled angrily. "They hurt him with their magic sticks after you left."

"Man with the Madame's face?" she asked, confused. "Do you mean there was a man pretending to be Madam Sinistra?"

Pyg nodded. "He bubbled and changed back to himself a little after you left."

"Polyjuice Potion!" Ginevra gasped.

Bubbling skin… that was definitely the effect when a Polyjuiced individual reverted back to their rightful form. "Pyg, did you recognize the man?"

He blinked. "He smelled like one of the men who came to see you sometimes, but he wasn't wearing a mask, so I don't know which one."

"A suitor?" she breathed in surprise. "One of the suitors conspired against me?"

He nodded again. "I think that's what you called them." Bunching his fists, he growled again. "I followed them yesterday to the man's home. They were talking about giving Papa drinks that made him act like a beast that day, and the white-haired lady laughed and said she wished she'd seen you cry. I was so angry, Mama!"

She reached up and gently ruffled her fingernails through his short, auburn-brown hair, not wanting to dwell on such maliciousness, needing to get to the bottom of this story. "Did they say what kind of drinks they gave Mr. Dragon, bébé?"

Pyg's anger melted away, to be replaced by a beaming smile. "Heh, bébé. I like that. It's what Madame called me, too, the night you and Papa kissed in the rose bushes. She said, 'Your Mama and Papa are in love, bébé. This will be my last match.' She is clever, isn't she?"

Hermione's eyes filled with tears again, only these were tears of poignant tenderness. "Yes, she is. You are my baby, Pyg. I love you."

Those beautiful grey eyes stared at her for a moment with unabashed hope and a powerful return love, began watering, and then he burst into tears and threw himself into her arms. "Mama!"

They held each other, crying in joy. Never had Hermione felt so complete as a woman than in that moment. Virgin she may be, but she was a mother to this little creature, regardless of his shape-shifted face or form. She loved Pyg, and would die to protect him, if necessary, as she would a son from her own womb.

Glancing up, she caught Ginny wiping away her own tears, smiling in understanding. "You were right: no spell can force love. When it's genuine, it shines."

Speaking of spells… Leaning back slightly, she looked into Pyg's cherubic face again, wiping his tears with a soothing, loving hand. "Tell me about these drinks that made Monsieur… your Papa… become like a beast."

"Well…" he hedged, sniffling, "I didn't see him drinking them. The man and woman only talked about them after. But I did taste an awful flavor on Papa's skin that day, when I followed the man to Papa's home. After he dropped Papa on his bed and left, and I could see Papa was sick and he was still asleep, so I licked his cheek to get him to wake up. He tasted… mif."

Ginevra unexpectedly barked a laugh, clearly trying to contain her shock behind a surprised hand over her lips. "Did you actually just say 'mif'? Where on earth did you learn such a horrid word as that?"

Pyg blinked in surprise. "The mean woman said it after kissing Papa goodbye on the mouth. She said he tasted mif and made a face like it was awful."

Hermione swallowed, the picture finally coming together. Her suitor had been set-up by Aster and another man, either a previous suitor or one still in the running. She now had her suspicions as to what the drinks – potions – were that her Dragon had consumed. "Did Papa's skin taste bitter, like rancid walnuts?"

Her gentle familiar blinked at the unfamiliar term. "What're those?"

She tried to think of a substitute, when it occurred to her that she need not bother; she had a perfect way of demonstrating the taste. Silently Accio-ing her wand to her hand from across the room, it came to her palm with a quick slap. Waving it, she summoned her rosewood box of chocolates from its hidden location within her armoire, and it floated across the room into her lap.

Immediately, Pyg sat on the bed on his knees and started bouncing up and down. His hair turned bright crimson. "Oh, oh, oh!" he excitedly flounced about.

If there had been even the tiniest doubt that this was Pyg before her then that reservation was now put solidly to rest. With a chuckle, she opened the box and found one of the bon-bons that was coated with crushed walnuts and flaked some of the nut onto her hand. With a wave of her wand, she aged them, and then presented them to Pyg. "Smell and taste this, and tell me if it is similar to what you sampled upon Papa's skin."

Her palm got no further than half a hand away before he wrinkled his nose and moved his head back. "Ewww… mif." He nodded and put a hand over his nose. "Yes, that's it, Mama. It's the same smell. I don't want to eat it. I already know what it tastes like and it's ucky."

Banishing the pieces with a wave of her wand, Hermione nodded and presented him with a full piece for his own delight in reward for his help (he gobbled it down quickly, that strange trilling-purring noise coming from his chest). "Thank you, bébé."

She now had an almost complete picture of Wednesday's events.

"He was forced to consume a lust potion."

Ginny nodded in agreement. "I've only used the concoction once myself - so that I'd have the courage to face my first client here in the House after I arrived - but the aftertaste is unforgettably foul: that of moldy walnuts. I've been lucky not to have to rely upon such a foul brew since." She shivered. "It's no wonder he acted as an animal during rutting season. It must have been a very potent draught, or perhaps a heavy dose for him to behave as you described."

Hermione agreed. "Bébé, when they used 'sticks' on The Drag… Papa… what words did they say?" she asked, her mind leaping to fill in the logic gaps.

Pyg scratched his head. "The man said something about 'fine it.' It was some long word I don't remember. And then the lady waved her stick over Papa and wished him sweet dreams. He fell to the ground after that and didn't wake up for a long time. That's when the man took Papa home."

Hermione traded a look with Ginny. "They left his memories intact? Why do that, if the intent was to simply cause me hurt? Surely, they would know he could go to the Hit Wizards and report them for their illegal activities."

Her redheaded friend concurred with a serious nod. "But perhaps you weren't their only intended victim in this charade, Hermione. Maybe Aster and her mysterious lover wished to ruin Dra… The Dragon as well." She pursed her lips and exhaled in frustration. "I know you don't wish to know about him, and that what I'm about to say will be quite painful for you to hear, but I suspect it's an important piece of this nefarious plot. You should know that the Dragon is an influential man of noble lineage. It's quite possible that Aster intended a child to be born from their… unholy… union, perhaps in the hopes of using the connection for material and financial gain. I wouldn't put it past her to stoop so low."

All of the blood drained from Hermione's face and suddenly, she felt quite faint once more.

Pyg gripped her hand and healing magic flooded through her where they were connected. "Mama?"

His strength flowed through her, calming the panic attack that had threatened to overwhelm her. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she exhaled and relaxed. "Thank you, sweetness," she smiled with gratitude. "Mama will be fine now, because of you." She patted his hand in reassurance, and sighed.

The truth was, at last, before her.

"My Dragon was a dupe to Aster and her lover," she recognized aloud and relief bloomed in her chest, but there was no time for tears just now, as she followed the thought through to conclusion. "They schemed in advance to destroy us both. But why? I have given no offense to Aster, as far as I am aware."

Ginevra shook her head. "You captured the attention of The Dragon away from her. It is no secret that the witch was quite enamored of his wealth."

Hermione rubbed her fatigued eyes. "And her accomplice, a suitor – perhaps I cut the man from the list, and he was seeking revenge against me?"

"Perchance," Ginny granted. "Or maybe the man's personal quarrel was with Monsieur Dragon."

Swallowing back a sob, Hermione shook her head. "Even armed with such knowledge, the damage has been done. I cannot take back the rejection of his bidding status. He is lost to me!"

"We shall see about that," her female friend declared, standing to her feet beside the bed. "I will speak with the Madam immediately. Wait here for my return." With that, the redheaded firebrand exited the room, firm of purpose and step.

Pyg gripped her hand again, his face worried. "Mama, Papa was so sick. Can I go see him?"

Tenderly, she reached up and ran her fingers through his downy hair. "Do you truly love him, Pyg?"

He nodded without reservation. "Yes, Mama."

A stitch cut her heart. "Then go to him. But bébé, you need to understand that Papa might not want to see Mama ever again. If not, you will have to decide where your heart truly lies. Do you understand?"

Pyg gave her a charmingly dubious expression. "Mama, Papa will love you forever." With that, he was gone with a small, staccato 'pop,' the air swirling to fill in the empty space that he previously occupied.

Such faith… Why could she not share such a beautiful thing?

Lying back in bed once more, she closed her eyes and tried to hold onto something good, a memory that would allow her to get through the next two days. Behind her eyelids, it was dark, but the recollection of a low, masculine voice reached out from the void to weave around her heart once more…

"Je t'aime, ma Princesse. Pour tout l'éternité, je vous aimerai."

"No matter what Saturday brings, I will love you for all eternity as well, my silver-eyed Dragon," she whispered, her hand resting lightly over her breast, a prayer for providential aid escaping to Heaven.

X~~~~~X

Malfoy Manor - Wiltshire, England

June 30, 1815 (Friday early morning – minutes later)

Severus nearly toppled over in the chair in which he was leaning back as the odd child appeared with a suctioning 'pop' of air and sound in the middle of Draco's bedroom. The boy was of average height for a human of approximately six or seven years of age, and he was dressed in regally cut brown velvet trousers, a stylish white linen shirt, blue tights, polished black shoes, and a dove-gray velvet button-up jacket. His auburn-brown hair was cut short, as was the current fashion for boys, and his gray eyes matched his coat.

"Papa!" he cried, and hopped onto the bed, throwing himself at Draco's arm. "What's wrong with Papa?" he demanded of the medi-witch, who was currently administering another dose of tea as Mr. Zabini held his friend upright.

Everyone in the room literally stopped breathing at once – even Severus' godson, who was looking askance at the young boy. "Who… the bloody hell are you?" he croaked, his voice having gone raw from all of the vomiting.

The boy blinked, clearly taken aback. "Papa, it's me, your Pyg." With an odd shimmering of light – performed without wand, Severus noted – the boy morphed into a ball of white fluff and rolled about on the coverlet for a bit, changing his fur a myriad of colors before he shape-shifted back into the body of a child. "See? It's a trick I learned when Mama wasn't looking."

"Holy mother of Merlin!" the medi-witch proclaimed, jumping up, her hand shaking so powerfully that she sloshed most of the contents of the china cup into her lap and onto the bed covers. "It's a magical Puffskein!"

Smiling, the boy stuck his thumb to his chest and puffed up a bit. "Mama says I'm a true metamorph."

It was so quiet you could allegorically hear a pin drop onto the plush carpet.

"Mama?" Draco hesitantly asked. "My Princess?" Severus' godson seemed to hold his breath in anticipation of the little creature's answer, his eyes glowing with hope. "Did she send you?"

The boy – Pyg, he'd said his name was – nodded enthusiastically. "She said I could come to you. You call her 'my lovely' though, don't you, Papa? I like that name for her better. She is very lovely without that black covering on her face."

"Draco, who is this?" Severus finally found his composure. To see a child – no, a creature; a Puffskein no less – perform magic so effortlessly had been a bit disconcerting to say the least.

Weakly, his charge looked over at him. "A gift. For my Princess." He shook his head, clearly fighting off another slip into unconsciousness. "P…Pyg…"

Sliding back into the darkness, his head lolled. Severus moved quickly. "Sit him up higher," he commanded, and Zabini shifted, using his arm strength to force Draco into a position where he could not lean backwards. "Witch, we need that potion down his throat, now."

The medi-witch quickly moved to refill the half-emptied cup from the teapot on the table nearby.

The boy grabbed for the blond's hand. "Papa? Don't sleep again," he bid, and Severus felt the shimmer of magic tremble through the air, centered on where those little fingers gripped their Master's much bigger palm.

To everyone's surprise, Draco took a deep breath, his eyes fluttering and opening. Within seconds, he was pushing himself away from Zabini, sitting up on his own. Color returned to his too-pale cheeks, and the wizard's eyes cleared of pain and delirium. He looked down at the creature holding onto him for dear life. "You did that," he spoke with awe. "I feel healthier. How?"

This Pyg looked at his own hands, wriggling them, confusion clearly marring the angelic features. "I'm… not sure. I just… wanted you better, Papa. It just… happened. Like with Mama, earlier."

Draco's entire body tensed and he gripped the small shoulders of the child. "The Princess is sick?"

Expressive, cinereous-gray eyes tightened with sorrow. "Mama's so sad, Papa. She saw you that day. We both did. She's been crying. It's made her sick." His face became resolute in a moment. "But I told her the truth. I told her about the white-haired lady and the man who hurt you. She's not angry anymore, just sad. She says you are 'lost' to her because she… ah… what were the words? She said, 'I cannot take back the rejection of his bidding status.' She thinks you won't want to see her anymore now."

Draco drew in a hissing breath. "She rejected me?"

Severus put his hand on his godson's shoulder. "Rest easy. I have assured the House Madam has not acted on the request, and from Aurora's latest note, it seems your grandfather has further commanded her to ignore The Princess' rejection in any case. Your status is secure for tomorrow's auction."

"My grandfather?" Draco seemed quite confused by this turn of events. "Why would he care to interfere on my behalf?"

Ah, yes, so much had happened over the last few days, there had been no time to play catch-up with his ward. Severus spent the next half-hour explaining the situation in detail to him, including his singular discussion with his former Potions Master, Abraxas' visit yesterday to the Manor House and the deal struck between the two, and the elder Malfoy's appointment with Aurora Sinistra regarding the identity of Aster. In the middle of it, Zabini got up and stretched his legs out, having been cramped in his seated position behind his friend for several hours without respite. The nurse sat quietly in a vacant chair, tea on reserve, just in case it was needed again.

"I knew my family had acquired all of its brides for centuries from La Cerise, but you're saying that we are in possession of the House's title as well?" he asked incredulously. "Why was I never told?"

Severus sniffed and waved a hand dismissively. "As the ownership of La Cerise's property title is the senior Malfoy male's inheritance, it stands as Abraxas' right to manage or dispense with his property as he sees fit. Legally, the man is under no obligation to disclose the nature of his private assets to you, boy. Should he not sell the House before his death, however, it will then become your responsibility as part of your grandfather's Last Will." He gave him a wry smirk. "Consider yourself now properly forewarned."

Draco was quiet, considering everything he had learned. Eventually, he turned to the shape-shifter at his side. "Pyg, can you attempt to heal me fully?" He looked over at Severus rather sharply. "I have a Formal Ball to attend tonight, and there is much to do between now and then to prepare for it."

Pyg gave an 'ooh' of excitement and hopped on his knees up and down animatedly. "You're going to kiss Mama again, aren't you?" the little thing happily anticipated.

Ruffling the boy's hair (it had become decidedly easy to consider the little Puffskein as human, Severus strangely noted), Draco smiled for the first time in days. "Yes, Pyg. I'm going to kiss your Mama again and again tonight… if she'll let me."

White teeth grinned assuredly back at him. "Oh, don't worry, Papa. She will. Trust me!"

X~~~~~X

Ministry of Magic & Theodore Nott's Townhouse - London, England

June 30, 1815 (Friday afternoon)

Astoria Genevieve Greengrass Nott walked out of the General Registration Office on the arm of her new husband, the white gold, diamond and aster-shaped amethyst wedding band a beautiful decoration for her hand. It was quite a stunning piece, and she wondered where the man had managed to find such a perfect ring on such short notice.

As soon as they Floo'd back to his townhouse, Theodore was on her, taking her against the wall in the entry hall, uncaring of the discomfort of the position, or of his house elf possibly spying. He spilled into her with a powerful surge in a very short amount of time, capturing her lips possessively. "You're mine, finally. MINE."

Withdrawing from her, holding his trousers in one hand, he pulled her up the stairs and back into his bedroom, where he proceeded to ride her hard for the next hour, all the while reiterating that she was now his wife, and bore his name. Strangely, for her part, Astoria found herself agreeing, surrendering to his conquest of her body and - dare she even think it? - her heart.

No! She had forsworn the idea of ever falling in love with a man. They were only to be used for pleasuring - as much as they used her. It was a lesson she'd learned well at the tender age of nine, when she'd first began sprouting breasts and her father had… No, she would not go to that place of horrible memory again. Suffice it to say, all men were beasts, as she and her sister, Daphne, had agreed as children in their shared misery. The opposite sex was built for rutting without care; it was a fool's dream to believe in something as ridiculously quixotic as a soul mate with such animals. The impetuous declaration she'd made that she could come to love him the other day – pah! The idea itself had been brought on, no doubt, by the allure of the foolishly romantic act of being whisked away to this man's home in secret, and being pleasured continually since. Sex had a way of confusing a woman's heart.

Yes, surely, that must be the reason…

"My Toria," Theo breathed in her ear in a sultry, low tone as he slowed his rhythm. "My beautiful, luscious wife. I knew you would be my match the moment I laid eyes on you years ago."

Everything within Astoria went cold as his words sunk through the haze of lust. "But… we formally met only last year, at my debut." Theodore hummed in agreement in her ear, even as he took the lobe between his teeth and suckled gently. "Why did you not sue for me then, if you felt such a connection?" she pressed, ignoring the crawling pleasure between her legs.

Reaching between them, her new husband twiddled her pink button expertly. "Come for me," he bid, using his skill in bed to divert her quite successfully. It only took a series of smaller thrusts and some stimulation to her pearl to bring Astoria over. With fervent driving into her quim, Theo followed her into bliss a moment or two later.

He did something uncharacteristic then; instead of pulling out of her immediately, he lay within her for several long heartbeats, holding her to his chest, his face pressed into her throat. Astoria remained impassive in his embrace, counting the seconds of this awkward moment.

The air practically hummed with his tension as he finally withdrew and lay back, staring up at the ceiling. "Are you hungry?"

It was an odd question, she thought. Clearly, her wizard was avoiding the topic, which only amplified her curiosity all the more. "Shall we finally partake of an actual meal in the dining room together then?" she ribbed, for since her arrival Thursday morning, they had only enjoyed tea and snacks, and those from this very room, upon the Moroccan settee or lying back in the sun-shaded window seat that overlooked the small garden in the back of his townhouse.

His head turned at the same moment his smirk lazily swept up his roguish cheek. "I might be inclined to do so… if you are offering to play the role of the dessert topper on the table after."

This 'softer' side of her sham husband was completely unfamiliar; she was prepared for his violent sadism, for his malicious tongue, and for his dominating nature, but this teasing, gentler side was completely foreign and it prevented her from finding balance suddenly. "What game is this, Theo?" she inquired suspiciously, waspishly. "Do you think to play my affections as easily as you seem to play my body?" She sat up, shakily made her feet and reached for her clothing, needing to put space between them.

Her satin and whale-bone laced bodice was barely in hand when he gripped her wrist tight and pulled her away from her endeavor and back into his arms. Tumbling rather clumsily onto the bed together, Theo wrapped himself about her nude form and rolled so that she was under him once more. "Do you share affections for me then?" he asked, his face as unfathomable as if he still wore that damnable harlequin mask from the House, his awakening cock slipping between her thighs once more.

To her horror, Astoria's body began to unexpectedly quake. She focused on his lips, refusing to glance further up into his handsome face. "No," she scoffed, the effort half-hearted to her own ears. What was wrong with her?

Undaunted by so blunt and negative a response from her, her husband ran his lips along her cheek. "Liar," he whispered and smirked arrogantly, pressing kisses to her skin. "You are the Queen of Deceit, my pretty flower. It is one of the traits I so admired back in our school days together - most especially that night you vowed you had fallen for my charms. 'You have taken my heart,' you said. Even then, I knew it a lie – and I was captivated by you all the more for it." His mouth did enticing things to her flesh; he attempted to seduce her once more, even as she went still again, her mind sticking on his last words.

"The unclaimed dormitory room, my fifth year. The wizard who came to me in the dark," she whispered in growing trepidation, her heart tripling in speed of a sudden. "I remember you now."

Theodore chuckled, even as he lathed her throat. "A brief tussling taste of your Heaven upon that bared mattress, my sweet Slytherin Princess, but oh, how it has haunted me." His hands caressed her breast with tender care. "I watched you persistently in the afters, hoping for your recognition of that union, but it never came. Instead, I listened to the rumors and saw with my own eyes how easily you wielded the power of seductive lies over young men's hearts. Yet, I restrained my jealousy, knowing it could not last - that you would tire of such games soon enough." His tongue bathed her lips, following their curve, thrusting between the slit to open her to his kiss. "I patiently waited for you to mature, my Toria, to leave your home, presuming only one place you could run to; as the daughter of a pureblood who was virgin no longer, you had no choice if you wished for a good marriage but to re-earn your lost reputation, so I bided my time until you could arrive at La Cerise." He kissed her ardently, even as his fingertips caressed her breast.

Astoria was flabbergasted. "You've wanted me all these years?" she gasped, feeling her heart clench painfully. That one night... she had not been able to forget it either. It had been nearly pitch black, and she had never seen the face of her seducer, but the feel of his skilled hands and his branding lips and his deep, male groan of satisfaction as he'd expelled his seed into her had been unforgettable. She'd spent the remainder of her days at school looking for the young man who had seduced her so thoroughly that one time, but none she'd touched ever after was him. No other had his feel. That is, until Draco Malfoy had held her hand and introduced himself as Monsieur Dragon. Now she understood why the strange attraction – no, compulsion - she had felt to be near the blond wizard, to own him in every way had existed at all: because he and Theodore were brothers, and as such, their magical auras were very similar. "Then why not pursue me before now?"

His cerulean eyes stormed with sudden anger, and the pinch he bestowed upon her nipple grew painful. His thighs roughly parted hers with violent intent. "Because your interest strayed to him almost immediately, did it not? And once more, my little half-brother took what belonged to me without thought to care for the consequence. He warmed your bed, entered your body repeatedly for months, while I had to endure seeing my woman in my hated half-brother's arms. It is always a Malfoy who threatens and ruins me at every turn, even though I am firstborn heir. He and that meddling Madam, that is to say. It was she who prevented my pursuit of you after the night of your formal bow at the House, once she realized my relation was fascinated by you. Conspiracy of fate has kept me from all that is rightly mine for too long!" His eyes narrowed with fury as he entered her vault hard with a powerful thrust of his hips. "But no more, Astoria. My cur of a sibling has finally released you, and you are mine now in both name and in body, as you were always meant to be." His forehead touched hers and his blue eyes burned with the devil's fire. "Even if you carry his child, so that we may both enjoy our revenge and I may, at last, use the babe to obtain access to some of my rightful inheritance, I will never give you to him again. NEVER."

With a sinking feeling of guilt and loss, Astoria let her new husband claim her once more, her mind an ocean's tsunami of confusion and hurt. He was brutal, dominating, and yet, under the desperate plundering, she felt his true feelings for her simmering. They existed in his nervous kiss, in the way he moaned her name against her ear, in the gripping of her left hand over her head as he entwined their fingers, their wedding bands touching as he released into her once again.

Closing her eyes, she tried to hold onto her resolve. She would not fall in love. She could not! She and Daphne had promised each other… "Men are beasts," she recited the poem in whispered despair, even as hot tears ran down her cheeks. "And women, their treacherous jungle."

"And you are the most deceitful of them all, my pretty flower," Theodore chuckled darkly, kissing her as he came into her one more time, seemingly relentless in his passion for her. "And yet, this animal will pluck you all the same."

X~~~~~X

Diagon Alley - London, England

June 30, 1815 (Friday afternoon – late afternoon-early evening)

Ginny had briefly returned earlier with news of her conversation with the Madame, before heading off to Angel's room to help the woman pack (apparently, there was scandal there that involved Ginevra's brother, Fred, but as to the extent, her friend was under a binding promise by Aurora not to divulge details):

"She's confided that she's not yet acted upon your request! No letter of retraction of Monsieur Dragon's bidding has been sent. He's free to own you tomorrow!"

The news should have been a welcome relief. However, to Hermione's mystification, the words intended to bring comfort instead fluttered equally with anxiety in her breast. After what she had seen her silver-eyed suitor do with that woman… Her stomach clenched, threatening to up her light luncheon all over the carpet. Her desire for her Dragon was all-consuming, and yet her repulsion at the memory of him thrusting away inside another woman - regardless of his victimization while under the influence of a lust compulsion - left her shaking and ill. She could never think of him in quite the same way now; their innocence had been stolen from them that afternoon.

"I had thought to find you 'alf-dressed already, ma soeur," a familiar, gentle voice floated from the doorway. "You always love za dance, oui?"

Hermione leapt to her feet in a burst of excitement. "Fleur!" she gasped in joy. In her doorway, her former House sister stood with an overnight, leather valise in hand. Placing it inside the entry and shutting the door behind her, she stepped forward into Hermione's enthusiastic embrace. "Oh, Fleur, I am so happy to see you!"

She launched into her questions of her friend's health in French, but Fleur held up her hand in a request to halt. "No Français. I am to learn zee Engleesh better for my job," her friend explained. "As I can no go back to Paris because of zat man and heez revolution, I must make London my 'ome now."

"My earnest apologies," Hermione demurely granted. "Of course, we will speak as you wish. Come in, please, and sit for a while." She guided Fleur to the settee, and they perched themselves for respite. She called up Dobby for tea, and the house elf was gone and back in less than three minutes with a fresh pot of herbal and two china sets. Hermione served her guest and then their visit officially began. "How have you been, my sister? I have missed you dearly these past two years, since I last called upon you."

The two women then spent the next two hours playing catch-up. Fleur, she discovered, had been contacted by the Madam yesterday afternoon with the request to attend Hermione, to help bring some comfort to her during her time of sorrow. She would have to remember to thank her mistress for so kind a gesture later.

They then spoke of Fleur's establishment in a townhouse near Diagon Alley with her younger sister and mother (her father having been shot and killed in Napoleon's war when he'd accidentally apparated directly into the center of an encampment of the Grande Armée years before), and her work at Gringotts for the demanding goblins – as well as her notice of one man in particular, who sometimes appeared in the office with his reports of his work in the field as a Curse Breaker on retainer (he had not, she believed, noticed her of yet, however, much to her chagrin, for Fleur was one-quarter Veela, and was not used to being ignored by the opposite sex).

Matters turned to Hermione's situation, and she divulged all of her secrets, trusting Fleur implicitly. By the time she had finished her tale – including admitting to having trepidation about seeing her Dragon tonight at the Soiree (if he appeared at all that was to say) – Fleur was beaming.

"Your fear is… how you say?... understandable. But, you love 'im, no? Think of that when you are in heez arms dancing tonight – for he will surely come. All else will fall away," she assured her, clasping her hands tightly between them. "You are zee Belle de Nuit." Fleur stood suddenly. "Show me your dress and jewels for zee night, and we will prepare you together."

Hermione summoned Dobby to retrieve the tea set, and to send for Ginevra, whom she intended upon introducing to her House sister. "Ginny has promised to help as well. I believe you will adore each other upon sight."

It was as she predicted. Their shared love of Hermione brought together the two friends, and soon, the three women were clucking about, getting ready for the night's activities. A string quartet for chamber music and a pianist (performing on a Broadwood and Sons!) had been hired to provide the night's entertainment, and the kitchen elves were in a frenzy preparing hot (rather than the generally accepted cold) 'amuse-bouche' enticements for the midnight supper, according to Ginny (who heard it from Dobby).

As for the guest list… Women of the House who were already in exclusive contract with a client were allowed to attend the night's events – which included Le Renard Rouge, as her beau had made it clear he would not be dissuaded in any manner from his intentions where she was concerned, and would be in the crowd tonight to claim her upon his arm. Fleur, as Hermione's guest, would also attend, as would Harry, who would play her escort. The Madam also included her friends and past clients of the La Cerise, (along with their wives), to show off her charge to the most influential in society. Everyone who was anyone would be there tonight.

None of this, however, could dampen Hermione's growing enthusiasm for the evening's event. With her two best female friends at her side, she felt on top of the world just then, her earlier melancholia banished forthwith.

Lounging in simple muslin dressing gowns, the three women partook of a simple dinner fare made of cold cuts, cheese, and fruit. When their dinner was done, they stripped off their garments and hopped into the bath together, playfully throwing foamy soap globules about like silly children, before rinsing off and dipping into the relaxing hot tub, where they gossiped some more until they pruned. Both her friends regaled her during this opportunity with stories of what activities in the bedroom would encompass from their own repertoire of experiences.

As the bell struck the eight o'clock chime, the women began in earnest to prepare. After stepping out, toweling down and drying their hair with charms, each chose a scented lotion to moisturize their skin (Hermione preferred a light floral that had the most subtle hint of rose). They cleaned their teeth thoroughly until they gleamed, cleaned their ears, and at Fleur's urging, with a wave of wands, they each depilated their own bodies in the newest fashion trend to come out of Milan (that is to say, they removed all of the hair from their legs, under their arms, and even between their thighs – much to Hermione's embarrassment).

That done it was time to dress.

Rolling her stockings up, Hermione was cinched into her Italian-styled bustle by Ginevra, latching the garters properly, and then fitted into her light rose-colored, French Chiffon gown. With the plunging neckline, she felt rather naughty, honestly, but La Cerise was a house where one played forever at masquerade, and so thankfully her identity would remain secret except to those she deemed worthy to know the truth. With such anonymity came a certain amount of bravado, she discovered to her mischievous delight, and so gave the matter no more thought.

Fleur applied her make-up next, going dramatic with pink, magenta, gold and bronze metallic paints for her eyes (which could be seen strikingly through the slits in her mask). Her lips were lined and colored a matching pink to complete the picture. Her long tresses were then pinned up on the sides, and left to drape in a cascading waterfall of elegantly tamed curls with some strategic waves of a wand.

"Vraiment magnifique!" Fleur regressed into her native tongue again without thought as she took Hermione in from head-to-toe, squealing in delight at the final result of her hour-long endeavor. "Now for zee jewels." A pair of rather beautiful, gold drop earrings – a flower pattern punctuated with diamonds at the bottom – were hooked through her lobes. Upon her wrist, a gold bracelet with diamonds and opals rested. She requested that Fleur tie the green satin ribbon around her wrist as well, allowing it to rest under the bracelet in tribute. Forgoing a necklace, feeling it would appear much too gauche and detract from the overall effect - "Simpler is better!" she'd argued – Ginny slipped cream-colored, heeled shoes onto her feet to complete the picture.

Casting a cooling charm upon herself to assure she did not sweat this evening, Hermione finally set her wand aside and carefully tied her mask about her face, adjusting it so the drama of the eye shadowing showed as much as possible. Now, she was ready.

Absently watching her friends finish their own preparations, she sat upon the settee and looked out the open French doors nearby, wondering whether Pyg would return this day or the next. Her little familiar had spent the entire afternoon, presumably, with his 'Papa.'

Upon the ten chime, Aurora arrived to direct her downstairs and into the ballroom. Hermione felt decidedly uncomfortable around the woman after yesterday's accusations, so the first thing she accomplished was to apologize to her patron most sincerely. "Come, there is no need for further chagrin, my dear," Aurora soothed, gently embracing her in friendship. "Aster's wicked ruse harmed each of us – none more so than you and Monsieur Dragon. But the truth has willed out, and your suitor is still just that… and tonight is a new beginning for us all." She looked rather pointedly at Ginevra out of the corner of her eye. "Let us put this tragedy behind us, and enjoy tonight's revelry. And tomorrow…" She smiled with her heart in her eyes. "Tomorrow, young love will finally bloom."

Despite the temperature charm, Hermione could feel her cheek heat. "There is no guarantee-"

"Hush," the Abbess demanded gently, bending to retrieve the edge of the hem of Hermione's dress and looping the bustle at the appropriate bottom button at the sway of her back to keep the dress from trailing along the floor. "There is no doubt in my mind as to the outcome." Standing once more to her proper height, she took her charge's hand. "So should it be for you, my dear."

Yes, there should be no doubt, she forcibly reminded herself as she and her friends and the House Mother made their way towards the Grand Staircase.

The Ball was already in full swing by the time they touched the bottom step, guests having arrived early it seemed to catch a glimpse of the Auction Virgin and her suitors. Lively music and conversation filtered out through the large double doors on the other end of the hall, and Hermione glimpsed the throng of masked couples milling about, looking for one black and silver mask in particular…

"My dazzling, wily fox," a familiar voice smoothly approached from the left. The Italian stepped up from his waiting bench in the lobby to swoop down upon Ginevra with possessive intent. Kissing the back of her hand as if she were the magnificent Queen of Sheba reincarnate, he politely tucked her arm into his without further ado, staking his undeniable claim then and there for all to see. "Would you care for a glass of champagne, love - to celebrate our betrothal?" he asked, sweeping her away with romantic flair.

Hermione and Fleur watched the couple fade into the crowd, mouths parted with surprise and a bit of envy.

"That one, 'e eeze quite suave," Fleur noted, smiling, adjusting her mask – a pretty black and gold piece adorned with sequins and feathers and black and silver beads.

Aurora huffed in amusement as she led her charge into a hidden alcove off to the side, obviously waiting for the signal from her man at the door – The Keeper – that all of the suitors had arrived. "Vous n'avez aucune idée."

("You have no idea.")

Hermione chuckled, knowing just how persuasive Signore Italian could be, remembering the letter he sent his fiancée just yesterday.

The three women waited in amicable silence, and Hermione watched as Wolf, Jer and Gold arrived, each man entering the ballroom with their dance card schedule, as pre-assigned by Madame in advance in correspondence sent earlier this week to each of the final bidders.

When he appeared at the entrance, Fleur was sent to retrieve an awkwardly-fidgeting Harry, who fiddled with his cravat and tugged the hem of his coat down repeatedly. He looked like a country Lordling come in to the city from the field for the first time; like a young lion stepping into a nest of serpents without a clear strategy for avoiding being bitten… or getting out alive, even.

As Fleur led him over to their hidden nook, her best friend smiled at her and shook his head, his gaze sweeping her from head-to-toe. "'Mione, you're stunning," he breathed in awe, bending over her hand and politely kissing her knuckles, accidentally bumping the edge of his black and gold mask in his uneasiness with the situation and surroundings.

"Thank you, Harry," she casually addressed her oldest friend, trying to set him at ease. She was still just Hermione, regardless of the trappings and airs, and she never wanted either of them to forget that fact, for fear it would change their friendship. "You look rather dapper as well. Even your hair appears to be behaving tonight," she teased, noting his usually rakish, dark mess was combed stylishly.

Harry's cheeks bloomed. "Yes, well, Luna helped me to get ready."

Ah, that explained it. Luna Lovegood was amazingly talented with her wand. Despite the witch's eccentricities, the woman made Harry genuinely happy, and she seemed to love him with equal fervor. Theirs was a good match that should be encouraged to a marital conclusion. That determination alone would help give her the extra fortitude she needed to make it through tonight and tomorrow, she resolved.

"Miss Delacoeur, if you would kindly allow Mr. Potter to escort you for the evening, as would be appropriate for a couple's soiree, my ward and I could, at last, make our grand entrance," Aurora stated with a polite wave of her hand towards the double doors.

Harry held his arm out to Fleur – who stood nearly eye-to-eye with him in her heels. "Right," he stated with a nod. "We'll see you inside then, 'Mione, Madame," he bowed to them both at the waist and led Fleur off into the fray.

They waited ten more minutes, until the half-chime.

"Shall we, my dear?" Aurora held out her gloved hand.

Swallowing her apprehension and taking a deep breath, Hermione placed her fingers over the matron's.

"Yes, I think it is time."

La Cerise's Madam nodded. "Indeed, my dear - time to embrace your destiny."

They moved towards the doors, and were announced by The Keeper rapping a long staff against the floor loudly, to call attention to the entirety of the room. The music stopped, and every eye turned as his voice rang out the introduction he had been groomed in advance to confer: "Ladies and Gentlemen, Witches and Wizards, it is La Cerise's paramount honor to present to you the Lady of the House, Madame Aurora Sinistra, and her charge, La Princesse."

A room full of bows and curtsies greeted them, and both women returned the gesture, per decorum. Upon the straightening of her spine, Hermione made a rapid sweep of the room, searching… hoping… searching…

And there he was, over by one of the cathedral windows standing alone, champagne glass in hand, tipped at her in an admiring salute. Even across the distance, his silvery orbs captured her attention; they called to her, their naked longing burning and marking her indelibly. His hesitant smile told her silently how much he had missed her, and that he still loved her, and that he was nervous as to her reaction to him after all that had transpired this week…

My Dragon…

In that moment, everyone else around her ceased to be and there was only him.

"My destiny," she whispered to him, surrendering to love unreservedly, no longer haunted by concerns that this feeling she bore for her enigmatic suitor might someday leave her lonely and bitter, or that the House had ensorcelled her emotions, or that tomorrow someone else may win her body, or even by the knowledge of what the possible consequences were from his undesired tryst with Aster. All she knew was that she wanted this wizard in whatever manner she could have, and she would put her faith in the Fates that all would come to pass as she hoped.

At her side, Aurora chuckled. "I will guarantee that you will have time tonight to covertly dally with him," the woman murmured under her breath in French, leading her towards the first of the introductions to be made for the evening – an elderly man dressed with the blue sash of the peerage, and his lovely steel-haired wife, who wore the brooch of a Marquess. "Allow me to launch you properly into society first, my sweet, little cherry. We only have this one chance to do it right, after all."

"Yes, Madame," she humbly replied, dropping her gaze in obedience and forcibly restraining her urges. She let herself be led about the room in a series of presentations then that were guaranteed to induct her properly into high society. The brief succession of conversations with the myriad of individuals were genteel, sometimes pleasantly amusing, and as she had been trained, always left her guests wanting more, praising her manners and wit in absentia.

In this way, more than an hour and a half passed. All the while, Hermione was constantly aware of his eyes upon her, their blatant hunger causing pulses between her thighs. Her heart fluttered in anticipation for their dance, which would be third in line tonight – at least another hour away… Could she make it that long without touching him again? Just to hear his voice…

Buck up! Think of England, she reminded herself forcibly of her duty, and with that mental encouragement performed most excellently thereafter.

TO BE CONTINUED…

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Morpheus = In Greek mythology, Morpheus is the god of dreams. In Victorian and Regency Era slang, to say that one was in the grips a 'morpheus' is to infer they were in a deep sleep.

Bébé = French for "baby."

Mif = Victorian and Regency Era slang for "yucky flavored."

Napoleon's rule of the French Empire ended on June 18, 1815 with his defeat at Waterloo. By the time of this chapter in the fanfic, his defeat would have been known and announced in Muggle papers. I am assuming the wizarding world also knows of it, as half-bloods and muggle-borns were around then, too. Despite this, it would take years for the mess to settle down and for people to want to move back to France.

Belle de Nuit = French for "Beauty of the Night."

Non = French for "no."

Often near the end of a social event, such as a ball or musicale, a fourth meal would be served to guests. This meal, supper, was usually served around midnight, and was typically made up of cold meats and cheeses, bread and rolls, perhaps some small savory pastry creations, with a large selection of sweetmeats. Wine, especially champagne, ale, tea and coffee would usually accompany a fashionable supper. In this fic, however, I have chosen to have Aurora go all out on hot finger-foods and expensive pastries to show-off the wealth of La Cerise, and to denote to the party goers how very special she finds The Princess (as her patron, the elaborate set-up reflects the Madam's feelings of Hermione's true worth, which will help launch the young Miss Granger into the world properly, if she chooses to join the haute ton [high society] after leaving La Cerise's walls).

Broadwood and Sons pianos = One of the most prestigious piano companies in the world, named after its founder John Broadwood. The instruments have been played by musicians including Mozart, Haydn, Chopin, Beethoven and Liszt. The company holds the Royal Warrant as manufacturer of pianos to Queen Elizabeth II.

Amuse-bouche = French for "fun mouth," meaning one-bite appetizers.

At the end of the Regency Era, it became the fashion for a very brief while (approximately ten or so years) for a woman to shave herself bare from the neck down. The fashion's origin was believed to be Milan, Italy, as a result of an outbreak of pubic lice (what we slang refer to as 'the crabs') in bordellos (although this reason is hotly debated in modern times, with opposition stating that it was more an underground rebellious behavior, with no medically-linked cause). Whatever the reason, the trend reached the upper society in Britain. Older generations did not embrace the idea, obviously, but someone of Hermione's age most likely would have. Hence I have included the idea in this fic. FYI: this trend reversed itself with the Victorian Era's straight-laced conservative values, as the shaving of one's privates (even under the arms) during that period of time was considered a personal hygiene value that only whores engaged in (specifically to keep pubic lice outbreaks down).

Balls, soirees, dances all began at 10pm during the Regency Era and would continue sometimes until the following day's dawning (most ended around 3am, however). This was to allow for a formal dinner between 6pm-8pm, followed by an hour or two after for attending an opera/stage performance/musical recital/poetry recital/lecture or seminar. Following such entertainment, one attended a soiree or ball until the wee hours of the morning. This occurred only during the haute ton's Season (April-August yearly).

Vraiment magnifique = French for "very magnificent!"

Ten chime = 10:00 p.m.

In absentia = Latin for "in the absence of" (technically a legal term today referring to a defendant's rights, but can also simply refer to what goes on behind a person's back when they are absent from the conversation; this latter meaning is how I intended for the term to be used in this fic).

'Think of England' = A common phrase Victorian/Regency Era women were told to do when they were asked to do something unpleasant (usually having sex with someone, but not always). Nationalistic pride was not a joking thing during the time of the British Empire's expansion, and many times women were bullied with this phrase into performing acts they would otherwise feel distasteful. Here, Hermione uses it in such a mocking manner.