Chapter 5: Be Pretty If You Can

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You can thank Astoria Poliakoff for Hermione Granger's evolving style! A recent study reports Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales (MalfoyRoyal) remains the most influential source on shopping patterns in both the United States and the United Kingdom. How a former Prince Draco paramour became the woman responsible for Hermione Granger's royal transformation [Article: 10 things to know about Hermione Granger's stylist, Astoria Poliakoff]

1:32 PM - 7 Jan 2019
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think it fairly obvious draco made the wrong choice there

1:47 PM - 7 Jan 2019
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I suppose most people would be surprised to learn that I do not consider myself preferable to Hermione. Granted, there are a number of reasons I might have made a better princess. A former version of myself might have even considered those reasons a compliment to my poise, which is perpetual, or to my composure, which is remarkable, or to my looks, which are undeniable. I might even be a better wife—in fact, I'm nearly confident I am. There are few things at which I do not excel. My brand of perfection belongs to a distant era; I am a classic as Narcissa once was, as Grace Kelly was, as Audrey Hepburn was. My features and qualities are timeless, by which I mean they are nostalgic and obsolete.

Which is why I do not begrudge Draco his choice.


3 January 2019
London, England

Astoria Greengrass Poliakoff was one thing primarily. Most of her other qualities were up for debate, depending on the audience in question, but objectively speaking, anyone could see that she was beautiful above all.

She'd been aware of it for most of her life. Not all of her life, like her older sister Daphne, who'd been one of those rosy-cheeked, lovely children with golden ringlets that turned to auburn as she aged. Astoria had grown into her own beauty slowly, maturing into it the same way she did everything else. By the time Astoria was thirteen, she understood that she didn't suffer from the same cosmetological challenges as her peers. She was naturally slender and toned, blessed with long legs and a rabid metabolism, plus a controlled appetite to match. She didn't have a sweet tooth; didn't care for savory snacks. She ate whatever she needed to in order to maintain a healthy, glossy shine to her dark hair and a dewy glow to her tan skin—which, while not quite olive-toned, was convincingly Mediterranean enough to ensure that she did not suffer much during pasty-white English winters. In terms of vices, Astoria had few of the usual ones. She drank sparingly, ate little, exercised to a respectable degree and rarely complained about the necessity of multi-step skincare.

What Astoria did crave, however, was attention.

Perhaps it was a consequence of having an older sister who was not only more beautiful and more charming and more generally admired by everyone (particularly by her group of close-knit friends, which Astoria lacked) but who was also uniquely rebellious. Even the possibility of gaining attention via misbehavior was off the table, as Astoria's mother and father seemed to spend the majority of their time wondering what on earth Daphne was going to do next. She never did anything meriting familial excommunication, but that, too, left Astoria in a precarious position. What was Astoria supposed to do to set herself apart from Daphne, who was somehow perfect and talented while also being the thorn in their parents' side?

The easiest way, for better or worse, was for Astoria to do what Daphne didn't and focus her attention almost entirely on men.

Dating Prince Draco had been an excellent start. Obviously Astoria had trained for that particular conquest well in advance, dallying over the course of her teenage years with heirs to this estate or that, but at the point she was introduced to Draco, she did not yet understand two things: 1) his attention would not last long (they never did) and 2) she would never again be the person she'd been before him. She was young at the time, only newly nineteen to his nearing twenty-one, and had yet to grasp the hazards of basing one's identity almost solely on the tastes and opinions of the opposite sex.

From the start it was an ill-fated match. For one thing, Astoria was too pedigreed to be of any interest to him, and for another, she'd miscalculated what sort of person he was. Just be yourself, Daphne had said—which was easy for Daphne to say, because she was the sort of person who had a self that other people admired. Astoria, being a girl of craving who understood only that the instances of herself she allowed others to see inevitably bored or suffocated them, had opted to ignore Daphne altogether. Instead, she dove obsessively into learning everything there was to know about the boy who would one day be king.

That was her first lesson about how unhelpful the media actually was when it came to the royal family, because while they effusively praised Prince Draco for his predilection towards diplomacy (true but unhelpful) or suggested that his hobbies included the usual male things (rugby, girls, football, getting rowdy with the lads, emotive alternative rock), Astoria was alarmed to discover that in reality, Draco was quick, quippish, and extraordinarily—almost off-puttingly—bookish. Most of his casual references were to obscure works of history, literature, or poetry, and though Astoria had attended the finest institutions in London, she'd always known her schooling was more about social networking than actual education. Right from the start she'd struggled to stay afloat in their courtship, trying and failing to make herself appealing to a boy who'd had equally beautiful girls vying for his favor throughout the entirety of his princely life.

So where had things gone wrong, exactly? Mistranslation. Draco mostly employed an incredibly niche dialect of quirks and idioms that only he and his friends were able to speak, and worse, while Astoria had plenty of experience with boys who only wanted one thing, Draco's 'one thing' was placating his father. The strained relationship between Prince Lucius and Prince Draco seemed to have been the only thing Rita Skeeter got right about him, but grasping the complexity of their relationship had taken too long for Astoria to properly leverage it. Within weeks of their introduction Draco had met his future wife, and one thing was for sure. She was not Astoria.

Being counted among Prince Draco's castoffs wasn't a totally useless thing, because it elevated Astoria to a new level of interest: notoriety. Before Draco, she'd been one of many indistinguishable ingenues (inheritance-wise she was a younger daughter and therefore more socialite than heiress), but after him she began to appeal to a new set of paramours. She began to attract the other notorites: the athletes, the Casanovas, the nouveau riche and celebrities of the moment. No more weak-chinned aristocrats and bankers' sons. Now her life was full of excitement, and so long as she played her cards well—which she did without fail; after Draco, she learned to hone her appeal, cultivating her persona without further misstep—she basked in the glamor of her own desirability, never less than half of the latest 'it' couple.

Attention. She had it. She savored it. And so long as she never got attached to any single conquest, she never stayed out of the spotlight for long.

Until she met Alex.

One thing nobody ever made clear about love was how quickly it could happen—or at least, that was the one thing nobody had bothered making clear to Astoria. She had mostly witnessed love in the form of her sister's pining for Theo or in Draco's ongoing turmoil with Hermione, and therefore did not realize it could take place on such an escalated time table. Granted, she'd had flings before, definitely. She'd known men who were so good in bed she'd had to drag herself out of it when the time inevitably came to return to the real world, to human society, and to general civilized decency, which it always eventually did.

But then… Alex.

He was upsettingly handsome, the sort of man who could be called beautiful and nobody would bat an eye. He was also unavailable to her at the time, which was inconceivably alluring. She'd been there with someone else entirely—Victor Krum, who'd given her three weeks of tabloid coverage and a handful of fairly decent orgasms—when she caught his eye from across the room, and he'd angled himself from the woman on his arm just slightly, just for a moment. He was at Astoria's side within minutes, plucking a champagne flute from a passing tray and holding it out for her, bold and unapologetic.

"Come home with me," he said.

She'd heard that before. "Aren't you with someone?"

"Now that I've seen you? Don't be absurd." His accent was unplaceable, vaguely European. She slid a glance over him, fighting any symptoms of visible appreciation. It wasn't very difficult to imagine him naked, slivers of moonlight offsetting tan skin. There were few things she appreciated more than the cut of a man's hips against pristine sheets.

"Not very chivalrous of you," she commented.

"It's not serious with her. Not like this." They were speaking softly, barely above a murmur, both facing the party as if they were the keen outside observers. For the first time, Astoria felt the most interesting thing in the room was happening privately to her rather than publicly, where the party actually was. "Don't you think?" he asked her, lifting his glass to his lips.

"You don't even know who I am," she said.

"Nobody here knows who they are," he said. "At least you make it look interesting."

She slid him a glance, reminding herself to be chronically unimpressed. "You're less charming than you think you are," she said, taking a sip from her own glass.

"It doesn't matter what I think." He dropped a hand surreptitiously, the tips of his fingers brushing hers. "You'll tire of him quickly," he commented, following her gaze to where Victor was surrounded by a small herd of fashion models.

"And if I don't?"

He glanced at her with eyes so blue she wanted to lay down and die in them.

"Phone?" he prompted.

She knew this game, too, so she slid it from her purse, depositing it playfully into his palm. "Sliding into my DMs?"

"I never slide." He typed his phone number into her contacts alongside his name: Alexander Poliakoff. "I'm going home alone," he said, handing the phone back to her. "Take the night. Consider it. Ring me in the morning."

"In the morning?" she echoed, accepting the phone with surprise.

"Get used to it," he advised. "You'll be waking up with me every morning soon."

"You're very sure of yourself," she commented drily. (Literally. Her mouth was dry.)

"Call it a premonition." He leaned in, grazing her cheek with a kiss. "Until tomorrow."

He left. She watched him go. She googled him. She paced the party, having another glass of wine. Then another. Victor laughed at a pretty blonde's unclever joke and Astoria slipped into the bathroom, dialing the number in her phone.

"Already?" he asked.

"How did you know it was me?"

"This is my personal phone number. Very few people have it."

"Are you some sort of secret agent?"

"Worse. I'm very rich."

She fought a laugh.

"Shall I come get you?" he prompted.

She bit her lip. "What happens if you do?"

"You'll come to my hotel room and we'll order room service. I'll run you a bath and find a pair of slippers for your feet, which must be tired."

She glanced down at her Louboutins, saying nothing.

"You'll fall asleep listening to stories of my childhood," he said, "and I'll wake you with a fresh cup of coffee."

"Not exactly what I expected from a man who opens with 'come home with me,'" she commented.

"I'm in no hurry. The night is young," he said.

By then she was accustomed to late night hotel appearances. She performed the usual rituals: asking the front desk to call her mobile phone after an hour, messaging a friend to periodically check in on her location, taking every precaution in case the man who was too good to be true was, indeed, too good to be true. He wasn't. Ultimately she woke just as Alex had promised: in his bed, wearing the fluffy hotel bathrobe, greeted with a cup of fresh coffee. Having spent the evening learning he was some sort of capitalist god five years her senior who'd grown up near the Baltic and now lived, conveniently, in one of the finest neighborhoods in London, the rest of their morning was spent on more interesting pursuits.

Within a week they were publicly dating. Within a month he'd said I love you. She said it back for the first time in her life, believing it with her entire soul. After four months they were essentially living together, vacationing together, all but inseparable. By eight months she'd gotten her period a few days late, exhaling with relief, but he'd caught her hand outside the door of his custom master bath.

"Let's have it all," he said to her, wrapping his arms around her and murmuring it in her ear: "Marriage, babies, the works. Let's do it."

She pulled away to stare at him, disbelieving. "You can't be serious, Alex. It's only been—"

"Who gives a damn how long it's been? You're the one, I love you, everything else is nothing." He pulled her into his arms, kissing her soundly. "Say yes," he said.

Come home with me. Say yes. Call it a premonition.

"Yes," she said. "Yes. Yes. Yes."

True to form, she hadn't known yet that she'd forgotten to do something over the course of their year and some-odd courtship. She married him in a resplendent ceremony with a custom gown and nearly didn't notice anything amiss, though by their first wedding anniversary it gradually became clear to her the tiny detail she had thus far overlooked.

That by giving her husband every conceivable reason to fall in love with her, she'd forgotten to show him who she actually was.


"You're going to be gone for how long this time?" she asked him, watching him pack his suitcase for possibly the thousandth time. She had once accompanied him on all of his trips, business and otherwise, but they'd both grown tired of the hassle. At first it had been exciting and they'd held hands and murmured little longings to each other for the entire flight, but then, gradually, he'd started working on his laptop and she'd started taking sleeping pills and when they landed he had meetings and besides, she'd already been to Paris many times, and so on and so forth until the jet lag got less and less manageable.

The first time they'd reluctantly agreed that she should just stay home, he'd taken two flights in twenty-four hours just to come home to her, to sleep in their bed. Then, over time, the trips had gotten longer and longer, with Alex explaining that his time abroad required more time spent with clients. Part of his job was keeping them, maintaining the existing relationships, while the rest was a matter of establishing new sources of obscene wealth to manage. Both vocations called for late nights, occasional partying, frequent reminders of don't worry Astoria, I love you. The I love yous over FaceTime became I love yous over the phone—noise in the background, raucous voices, women giggling and men calling for more shots. Eventually the I love yous came through over text, if they came through at all. Understandably, there were only so many times he could remind her.

"A week," Alex said, looking up as they began their usual pre-flight song and dance. "You're sure you don't want to come?"

"Don't worry about me," Astoria assured him. "I know you have to work. I'll just get in the way."

"You never get in the way," he said perfunctorily, though they both knew she unquestionably did. He nearly always came back to her sitting alone in the hotel suite staring out the window, and then they were both subjected to the trauma of watching him force a smile, obviously burdened once again with the task of entertaining his wife who didn't understand how he made his money.

But she did understand; that was the problem. Having been a bauble for male amusement in the past, she understood more than he suspected. She understood that when she was with him, Alex Poliakoff was kept from the possibility of 'networking'—that is, the nights with the lads where the deals were actually done. Astoria, a pragmatic sort of person, understood the necessity of those nightly bacchanals; she also understood the unspoken fraternal codes, the things they didn't mention to their wives. Alex's world was tit for tat, sin for sin. There was a reason the only thing his industry contained less of than women were faithfully married men.

"I'm sure you'll be more comfortable at home, anyway," Alex reassured her, as he always did. And he was right, in a way, even if it wasn't particularly comfortable for Astoria to remain halfway across the world, reminding herself not to wonder whether another woman was lying between her husband's sheets.

She sat beside the suitcase on the bed, glancing up at him. "Just don't stay away long," she said softly.

He stopped what he was doing, shifting to sit beside her.

"You know I love you," he said again, stroking her silken hair and touching his thumb to her blemishless cheek, her perfect pores.

"I know," she said. "And I love you."

He kissed her forehead and resumed packing. She rose to her feet, finishing the complex process of putting on the exact right outfit for the day before seeking out her purse where she'd left it in her closet. She kept her birth control pills in the lining of her bags; not because she expected Alex to seek them out, exactly, but because she was starting to think his lack of questioning indicated that he appreciated her efforts at keeping the truth from him. They hadn't discussed the possibility of children in some time, though it was increasingly difficult not to think about, given the predominance of a similar decision in Hermione's life.

Hermione.

The last thing Astoria had ever expected to be was in service to the woman who'd replaced her. Astoria's explanation to Alex about her decision to take the job had been straightforward: she was so often at home and unproductive, Hermione needed someone she trusted, it felt like the most obvious solution. He agreed, of course. He wasn't British and didn't have any particular feelings on the crown, so his wife being employed by a member of the royal family was neither estimable nor offensive in his view.

Astoria's explanation to herself, on the other hand, was somewhat… more complex. As reasonable a decision as it seemed to be when she put it in practical terms, she had a feeling there was something labyrinthine and emotive behind it. She had longed, in some strange way, for the position she was currently in. Perhaps it was the intimacy, or at least the intimacy implied by virtue of being entrusted with something. Whether that something happened to be a royal wardrobe or simply a glimpse into another woman's private life, the details remained unclear.

"Are you going running this morning?" called Alex from the other room.

"No," Astoria said, blinking herself out of her wandering thoughts. "I'm going to stop by the royal offices this afternoon," she explained, returning to the bedroom. "I thought I'd opt for a run on the palace grounds." With the weather so cold she couldn't stay outside for long, though there was something rewarding about the sharpness of cold air in her stagnant lungs. At the moment, a hard run offered her a brief reprieve from more oppressive feelings.

"Are the Waleses back yet?" Alex asked.

"Not yet. Monday."

"Ah, royals get such decadent holidays." He zipped the suitcase shut and stepped towards her, pulling her towards him. "I don't suppose you wish you'd married a prince, do you?"

Given how Hermione seemed to barely tread water when it came to the unyielding stress of her position, no, Astoria was quite sure she wouldn't leap to trade places. Then again, Hermione Granger had been unilaterally adored by the same man for close to the last decade, so perhaps it wasn't entirely a loss.

"Of course not," Astoria said, adjusting Alex's collar. Being a wife was easy, at least from the outside. Alex's needs were constantly attended to. She knew which shirts he needed dry-cleaned before he traveled, which suits he preferred to wear, and which socks he considered lucky. She knew what he liked to eat when he was home, what he needed to hear when he was stressed, how to touch him so he always felt wanted. She sent him articles she knew interested him, made him playlists full of songs he liked for his long flights. She tucked love letters into his pockets, sent him pictures of her breasts with near-professional studio lighting, and reminded him often (but not too often!) how attractive he was, how handsome, how brilliant. Having heard him cough earlier that week, she'd also packed him some extra vitamin C supplements and throat lozenges, slipping a packable water bottle into his briefcase with a reminder to stay hydrated, all of it signed with the swirl of her signature A and an artful, calligraphic heart.

"Ah," he said, blinking. "I'll need an adaptor—"

"It's in the front of your suitcase," Astoria assured him.

"Thank you. Is it the—"

"Yes, I got rid of the dodgy one last time."

He looked down at her, smiling his beautiful smile.

"You're such a good wife," he said. "Have I mentioned that?"

Easy to be good at something that was her entire world.

"You're simple enough," she said, tilting her chin up.

"Well. Perhaps I ought to thank you properly, hm?"

She thrilled a little, pulse quickening when his hands slid down to her hips.

"You've got your work cut out for you," she assured him, like a woman who never wondered if she was still desirable. She gave him a teasing glance, like the person she used to be. Like a version of her who remained safely unconcerned with his estimation of her worth.

When Alex set his mind to devotion, he certainly did it well. He backed her against the wall of their bedroom, fingers sliding beneath the knickers she'd worn on purpose—the good pair he'd brought back for her for no reason, no reason except the pocket dial voicemail he'd left on her phone and the breathy female laughter that had filled it. He hooked his fingers around the lace and slid them down her legs, down the muscle she spent hours each week toning, the hips she zealously kept free of any excess sugar or carbs. He touched his thumb to her expensive Brazilian wax, soon to be lasered off because he preferred her smooth and bare, absent the primitive coarseness of a less perfect female form.

She pressed her Chanel lipstick to his neck, wanting to leave a mark; wanting to leave behind something more telling than the ring on his finger, which she knew from experience could easily be ignored. Stay away, this one's mine, she thought desperately to some nameless, faceless rival when Alex growled with arousal, his hands rough beneath the French lace of her bra.

If there was such a thing as fucking a man into fidelity, she tried it. He broke the zipper on her dress and she said nothing, letting him force one of her legs aloft until it rested on his shoulder. She had the dexterity of a ballerina, the theatrics of a porn star. She'd done everything right. She had the right birth, the right face, the right hair, the right skin, the right amount of distance between her thighs. She asked for nothing and she did everything right.

(She did everything right, so why wouldn't he—?)

She gasped, choking on the bitterness of pleasure and pain, and he kissed her the way he always did, like a man without secrets. The trouble with being so attracted to her husband was this—her desperation for his approval. She craved him like an addict, like a drug, accepting whatever he offered her if only to have anything at all.

"Wish I didn't have to leave," he said, still panting, hands braced on either side of the wall behind her head. "But I can't miss my flight."

She wiped the smear of lipstick from his jaw, feeling her chest tighten to be rid of its traces so easily.

"Go," she said, and kissed him goodbye again.

He loved her. She knew that. It wasn't that he deprived her of affection. It wasn't that he didn't want her, nor that he didn't care. It was that each day she found herself satisfied with less and less of him until she could feel herself rendering down to a sliver, ground to smaller and smaller pieces just to fit into his retreating hands.


She hadn't really expected anyone to be in the offices of Kensington Palace when she showed up, but upon finding the door unlocked, she decided it wouldn't be that surprising if Snape were there. Unlike Hermione, Astoria didn't find herself exceptionally opposed to Severus Snape. He kept to himself and didn't say much unless he had to. When he was addressed, which was sparingly, he gave his opinion without elaboration and rarely if ever smiled. It had served him well, all things told. In Astoria's opinion, Snape was the sort of man she probably would have been if she'd had the option of being one. If not for a lifetime of "smile, Astoria" and "be nice, Astoria," she'd gladly be surly and irritable herself.

To her surprise, though, it wasn't Snape at all.

"Um," Astoria said, setting down the small hanging fern she'd intended to put in Hermione's office and glancing around with a frown. "Well, hello," she said to the small child who was currently standing on top of one of the office's chairs. He was plucking a book from the shelf, or seemed to be, but upon closer inspection Astoria realized he was actually in the process of dropping the entire shelf's contents into a pile on the floor.

He couldn't have been older than three or four—so she assumed, given the naughtiness—but presumably children that age could speak. (Astoria had no idea how old Jamie was, but being much smaller and still a chatty little thing suggested some level of conversational aptitude.)

"Do you… belong to someone?" asked Astoria.

The boy frowned at Astoria, a first edition almanac held between two fingers. "Who are you?"

"I really don't think that's the more pressing question," said Astoria, as Percy Weasley—of all people!—came panting into the office with a set of keys and a tablet under one arm.

"Sorry, sorry, I've got them," he said to the boy, breathless with haste, and then fell to a halt at the sight of Astoria. "Oh," he said, cheeks coloring slightly. "Sorry, did we disturb you?"

"No, you didn't disturb me, I was just…" Astoria trailed off, glancing between Percy and the boy who remained atop the office chair. The latter was more of a strawberry blond, cheekily scowling and narrow-eyed, but Percy's glasses and stuffy formality aside, the resemblance was undeniable.

"Wait," she said, and again, Percy's cheeks flushed. "Is this… are you…?"

"This is my son, yes," Percy said uncomfortably, rushing to pick up the pile of books from the floor. "Please," he said to the boy, "please get down from there."

"Nope. Shan't," said the boy, pointedly dropping another book.

"Very strong-minded for his age," said Astoria. "He's not in school yet, is he?"

"I'm seven," said the boy.

"Oh." Jesus. "Never mind." She turned to Percy, who was painstakingly gathering the pile of books in his arms. "How on earth do you have a seven-year-old son that none of us have ever heard of?"

"My parents are divorced," replied the boy flatly, dropping another book onto the floor. "My father hates me."

"That's not true," Percy said, looking pained. "I told you, Will—"

"Don't call me that," said Will, who evidently did not like to be called that.

"Fine, William, please—"

"Don't tell me you actually prefer William," Astoria said doubtfully, and the boy looked at her, torn between continuing to torment his father and answering the question.

"Mum calls me Will," he said.

"And?" prompted Astoria.

"And it's different," he declared in a huff, knocking a globe from the shelf that landed in his scrambling father's hands.

"I'm so sorry," said Percy quickly, hoisting Will off the chair with a strength Astoria did not know he possessed. "His mother and I have a somewhat… unequal custody arrangement."

"Let me down," demanded Will, thrashing in his father's arms. "You're the one who hates me!"

"That's—" Percy set a wriggling Will onto his feet and sighed, glasses knocked askew from the motion of a tyrannical elbow. "That's not true," he murmured helplessly, as Will promptly sank like a stone to the floor and refused to budge. "William," he sighed, crouching down next to him. "Please. You know I've asked to see more of you—"

"Don't touch me!"

"I'm not touching you," said Percy calmly. "I'm just trying to explain th-"

"I don't care." The defiant child's voice went whiny, like a toddler deprived a nap. "I don't care what you think. I hate you!" he burst with outrage, lower lip trembling as he turned away.

Percy reeled back at that, either hurt or stunned, and Astoria, who had not signed up for any of this, flicked a glance toward the door, wondering whether she ought to leave them to it. Before she could, though, Percy had recollected his wits, rising sharply to his feet and beginning to mechanically replace the mislaid books on the shelf.

"Again, I'm terribly sorry, I know this is all very unprofessional," he said in an undertone to Astoria, who had forgotten for a moment that this uniquely traumatic moment between father and son was occurring within the office where work was typically conducted. "His mother usually keeps him for the holidays. And, well, most days." He slid a glance to where Will had curled up on the floor, his back turned to them, and for a moment, Astoria couldn't decide which boy she felt the stronger urge to comfort.

"Don't you have a brother named William?" she asked Percy instead.

"Hm? Yes, Bill, my eldest brother. A lovely thing my wife did, naming our son after the one person in my life I could never possibly live up to." He gave her a thin smile, returning the shelf to its usual pristine condition.

Astoria found she was completely incapable of imagining Percy as a father. Granted, she was watching him do it at that very moment, but even then it seemed so far outside the scope of reality that she was having trouble processing it. He'd never struck her as the type of person whose home was filled with children's games and toys; in fact he seemed almost faultlessly Adult, as if he'd simply manifested with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and an argyle jumper. But then she remembered he didn't seem to have a relationship with his son at all, so perhaps that would explain it.

On the floor, Will seemed to have fallen asleep. He was like a puppy that way, energy extinguished from his outburst. Now that he was silent, Astoria could see he was most likely quite small for his age, and the features he shared with his father were so delicate they were nearly angelic on him at the moment.

"The whole thing was rather disastrous with Audrey," Percy explained, murmuring it to Astoria as he observed the tiny coil of fury that was his sleeping child. "Eventually it came down to her disliking how much time I spent at the office. Which was my own fault, I'll admit," he provided as a caveat, grimacing askance at Astoria, "though the marriage was unlikely to stick regardless—and now I'm afraid Will and I have been on something of an irreversible decline. The less time I get to spend with him," Percy sighed, "the further he turns against me."

"I'm sure he's just crying out for attention," Astoria offered diplomatically.

Percy was quiet for a moment, appearing to silently disagree.

"I adored my father," he eventually said in a low voice. "We all did. We had our squabbles of course, all families do, and I was certainly never his favorite. But even in anger, none of us would have ever said that we hated—"

He broke off, clearing his throat.

"In any case, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention this to anyone," he managed after a moment, plucking his son's coat from a nearby chair and laying it over Will like a blanket before scooping him up in his arms. In sleep, the boy was so docile he was nearly picturesque, and Astoria could see the pain on Percy's face, the caution with which he held his only child. "I'd planned to stay longer at my parents', but then my ex-wife called, and…"

"It's really not a problem," Astoria assured him. After all, it wasn't her books Will had been tossing onto the floor. "How long will you have him before he goes back to his mother?"

Percy hesitated, adjusting to lean Will's head more comfortably against his shoulder.

"Audrey's mother is ill," he said. "I'm not entirely sure how long she'll be away."

"Is Will in school, or…?"

Percy shook his head. "They're not due back until next week. I'll have to find someone to watch him during the day, but—"

"You can always bring him here," Astoria said, unsure what had brought her to say it. She knew only that she'd spent most of her life trying to please adult men and highly doubted younger versions of them were much more difficult. "I'd be happy to keep an eye on him. It's not as if I have much to do when Hermione's on holiday."

"I couldn't ask you to do that," Percy said. Will shifted in his arms, but didn't wake. Percy, who seemed aware his son might soon resume his tantrum, opted to aim himself out the door. "Thank you for offering, but—"

"Bring him tomorrow," Astoria wanted to suggest. "Really. If you can't find anyone else, I'll watch him. We can wander the palace," she might have said, deciding on the first thing that might be interesting to a seven-year-old boy. "Truly, I don't think Hermione or Draco will mind, and I know a little something about broken things."

But that was not what happened.

"Okay," was all Astoria said when Percy turned to leave, because she was not especially good with children. Neither she nor Daphne had spent much time around them, and when they were children, they'd both been exceedingly aware they'd have to hurry up and become adults.

In many ways, though, Astoria knew what Will was feeling because she was feeling it herself. She knew something of what it was to want more of someone, to want all of them without exception, and to be deprived of that for adult reasons; for reasons that were logical and finite, and yet that might never really make any sense. Sometimes Astoria, too, wanted to destroy her husband's things and scream that she hated him only to fall asleep on the floor until he carried her gently to bed.

But seeing as she and Percy were merely colleagues who knew almost nothing about each other, she watched him go and returned to the task of watering Hermione's new fern.


"Happy New Year," came Padma's cheerful voice when she answered. "I hope this isn't work-related."

"Only marginally," Astoria assured her. "I've actually rung to tell you something I've been expressly forbidden to bring up." She couldn't get it off her mind, and naturally there was only one person to speak to about it.

"Oh, well in that case, go ahead," said Padma. "Is it Snape? Is he secretly bald?"

"Snape? Please. Whatever that is he's got slicked away from his face, it's definitely all his," Astoria said with a roll of her eyes as Padma chuckled on the other end. "It's about Percy, actually. Did you know he had a son?"

"Oh, is that all? Alas," sighed Padma dramatically. "I did already know that. William, isn't it? Will?"

"Yes. Have you met him?"

"Of course not, Percy almost never has him. Wait," Padma registered belatedly, sounding as if she'd sprung upright. "Do you mean to tell me that you actually met Percy's son?"

"Yes, this afternoon." Having guessed correctly that what she'd witnessed in the office was something valuable indeed, Astoria was immensely pleased with herself.

"What's he like? I've only seen pictures."

"You've actually seen pictures?"

"Mm, he's surprisingly chatty when he's got some alcohol in his system."

It took a moment to realize Padma was referring to their adult colleague, not his aforementioned offspring. "Wait a minute. Percy drinks?"

"Oh, absolutely yes. He makes a spectacular margarita, actually."

"He does? Why don't I know this?"

"Well, Percy and I have bonded somewhat as the two sad singles in the office," said Padma. "Aside from Snape," she amended as an afterthought, "though I think he's essentially the male equivalent of a spinster."

"Huh." Astoria leaned back in her chair, considering it. "Why isn't there a male equivalent?"

"I think it might be a bachelor?"

"But that's very nearly complimentary."

"Well, life isn't fair," Padma acknowledged sagely. "And anyway, you're always invited to join us, you know. We just assume you have better things to do than get pissed at the office."

"He makes margaritas in the office?"

"Only the once, and anyway that's beside the point. What's he like?"

"Percy? The same as he always is, only more… frazzled."

"Not Percy, you goon. William."

"Oh, a small nightmare," said Astoria. "He climbed onto a chair and started dropping books on the floor. Swatting them down," she clarified, "like a recalcitrant cat."

"Oh, Christ." Padma laughed. "Brilliant. What a wonderful child to not have to personally parent."

"My thoughts precisely." Astoria sat down at her desk, glancing absently over her diary. "Do you know much about the ex-wife? I didn't even know he was married."

"He keeps it to himself. Understandably," Padma added. "It wasn't very long ago that divorce was frowned upon within the royal offices, as I'm sure you're aware. I think he suspected Snape wouldn't have agreed to his appointment if he'd known."

"Do you actually think there's anything about any of us that Snape doesn't know?"

"Probably not." Another laugh. "Still, it's best we get to keep our secrets."

Astoria paused, her thoughts catching on the particularity of Padma's phrasing. "Does that mean you have a secret son I should know about, too?"

"No, no. You know this office's brand is strained paternal relationships," Padma said cheerfully. "No secret children here, I'm afraid."

"So what's your secret, then?" Astoria closed her diary, forgetting it entirely.

"I'm certainly not going to tell you over the phone. And anyway, weren't you asking about Percy's ex-wife? They loathe each other, apparently. She got pregnant when the marriage was already failing and they tried to stay together for the kid, which only made it worse—"

"Tell me your secret," Astoria said firmly. "I demand to know it."

She could hear Padma's smirk through the phone. "What makes you think I only have one?"

"Well, tell me one, then."

"Are you really so bored, Astoria? We ought to find you more work to do."

"I was going to go for a run in a bit," Astoria said, glancing out the window to the dreariness of grey winter sky. "But given the excitement, I thought I'd bother you instead."

"You're never a bother." On the other end, she heard Padma pouring herself something. "In fact I wish you bothered me more."

"You say that now," Astoria said admonishingly. "You're lucky my mother raised me properly or you'd come to regret that soon enough."

"Would I?" Padma sounded amused.

"With remarkable haste."

"Well, I find that very doubtful."

"I'm here pestering you about secrets and gossip aren't I? So really my upbringing is suspect."

"Frankly, I'm relieved to hear it." Padma chuckled. "How about this? Get a drink with me sometime. We can misbehave somewhere delightfully pedestrian."

"It's a possibility," Astoria acknowledged, suppressing a rush of pleasure at the invitation. People did not often follow through with their plans and there was no use wasting the energy. "But at least give me something before I die of intrigue. Or boredom."

"Hm, well, Percy suspects his ex-wife is getting remarried soon," Padma said. "There's been talk of a potential stepfather who doesn't care much for Will."

Unsurprising, given what Astoria knew of the boy's personality. "Exactly how often does Percy get to see him?"

"As far as I know his presence is unprecedented. Their arrangement is something terribly retaliatory," Padma explained. "Bitter custody battle and what have you. If you ask me, she's the one filling the poor boy's head with vitriol."

"Poor thing," Astoria sighed. "Though I suppose none of us can ever know what precisely goes wrong in a marriage."

There was a somewhat lengthy pause.

"I suppose not," Padma said. "Though," she added with a slight change in tone, "I am terribly curious about Will, I'll admit."

"I think there's a sweetness there," Astoria said, thinking of the boy's delicate features, his silly little moment of pause when she'd spoken directly to him. "Maybe."

"People often have hidden depths," Padma agreed. "And I certainly wouldn't put it past you to see them."

"What does that mean?" Astoria asked, surprised and somewhat wary.

Padma laughed again. "Only that I think you have a few secrets of your own."


The return of Hermione and Draco from Sandringham was a relief, as it meant Astoria was once again overcome with the problems of someone else. Specifically, the logistical necessities and wardrobe problems of someone else, for which there was a pleasant, reliable balance of creativity, detail, and mindless habit. Hermione herself looked quite rested from her holiday, though she called Astoria into her office privately within moments of walking in.

"What do you know about Remus Lupin?" she asked, and Astoria frowned.

"Who?"

"Yes, it's the strangest thing, isn't it?" Hermione said, in the sort of half-present way she sometimes conducted herself. Occasionally she seemed particularly cerebral, as if she were conducting only half the conversation out loud. "Draco says there's nothing to know, but I find that exceedingly unlikely. Didn't Percy say the most interesting thing about Penelope Clearwater was her lack of internet history?"

"Lupin," Astoria repeated, trying to recall the name despite her inability to place it. "Is that… another relative?" She had only recently become acquainted with Kensington's other residences, Hortense and Thibaut, who had the strangest habit of startling when she spoke as if they hadn't noticed she was there. Hortense specifically had begun referring to her as the Invisible Girl, which Astoria wasn't sure she appreciated. Though, at least she wasn't being bombarded with anything worse.

"Oh, sorry, no. Yes. Well, I'm not sure." Hermione frowned. "He used to be on the Grimmauld staff, according to Harry. He was Sirius' lawyer, as far as I can gather."

None of the research Astoria had done about Sirius turned up any scandal involving a lawyer. Or any details of anything, really. Unless the lawyer had been the one to muzzle the Dursleys before they could get to Harry… but that was hardly worth speculating about. What lawyer worth his salt would have ever allowed them into a young boy's life to begin with, particularly given the extent of his inheritance?

"Well, that sounds reasonably dull," commented Astoria.

"Or is it suspiciously dull, possibly?" countered Hermione, who did love to overthink things. "It's odd, but I have the strangest feeling there's more to the story."

"Are you sure you're not simply searching around for something to fixate on?" Astoria asked her, just as Draco knocked on the door and strode inside.

"Astoria," he said, greeting her with a smile as he slid around Hermione's desk to kiss the top of her still-pondering head. "How was your holiday?"

"Lovely," said Astoria. "And yours?"

"Entirely too brief." He gave her another smile before directing his attention to his wife. "You're not still playing detective with Harry, are you?" he prompted, appearing to read her mind with fond exasperation. "I told you there's nothing to be concerned about. There's no such thing as an exclusive source that can detonate the monarchy, no matter what Skeeter claims—"

"Skeeter?" echoed Astoria.

"Yes," Draco sighed when Hermione grimaced. "Snape will likely discuss it with the rest of the team," he added, just as Astoria's tablet dinged with an event notification for later that evening. "Ah, see?" he said knowingly, giving Hermione a nudge. "And as for you, my wily minx, we're meant to leave in an hour."

"Oh, alright," said Hermione distractedly, though she smiled when Draco's arms came around her. "Did you think I wouldn't be able to walk myself ten feet out the door without your help? Astoria's right here," she said with a roll of her eyes, "in the event my understanding of linear time collapses."

"It's just another of my flaws, I'm afraid. I've become entirely too accustomed to seeing you every hour of my day." Draco paused to glance over Hermione's face like he was checking on a favorite painting, reassuring himself that everything was as he remembered it. Then he kissed her, straightening to smile again at Astoria. "This color really suits her," he said approvingly, referencing the coatdress Astoria had chosen for the occasion, and then he strode to the door, disappearing into the corridor as Hermione's gaze followed him out.

"Well," Hermione said, snapping herself out of her temporary distraction. "Sorry," she added to Astoria, not entirely able to rid herself of a smile in the wake of Draco's visit. "What were we discussing?"

"Oh, nothing important," Astoria assured her, glancing up when Padma knocked on the office door.

"We're all set for this afternoon," Padma announced to Hermione. "Astoria's accompanying you and Draco, as you clearly already know, and—oh," she added, turning to Astoria, "and I know this is an absurd thing to say, but do be careful you don't, ah. Look too lingeringly at His Highness."

"I beg your pardon?" Astoria asked, startled.

"It's nothing," Padma said with a wave of a hand, dismissing Astoria's moment of bemusement. "Just a bit of nonsense, but I figured it better said than unsaid."

"Oh god," Hermione exhaled. "Don't tell me they think Draco's cheating on me with a member of my own staff?"

"The presumption of happiness bores people," Padma reminded her. "If you'd like to engineer a moment of sentimental hand-holding, that might be wise. Alternatively, it is raining," she commented thoughtfully. "I'll have Percy make sure Draco holds the umbrella."

"Oh, for fork's sake," muttered Hermione blisteringly. "It's total nonsense," she added to Astoria, apparently feeling the need to reassure her. "I should have expected it, really. With this book coming out they're all looking for evidence of something."

But Astoria was feeling a bit of guilt, actually. Since her marriage she'd grown accustomed to considering herself something on the periphery, uninteresting and therefore out of sight. The socialites whose portraits filled the society pages were younger than Astoria now—younger each day, or so it seemed—which made her feel positively vestigial by comparison. She had a feeling she had been looking longingly at Draco, forgetting it might have been captured on film. In fairness, though, it had less to do with the man himself than it did with… other things about him.

Like, for example, his love for his wife.

"I'll keep my adoring stares to Hermione from now on," Astoria said drily, and Padma slid her a smile, this one a quiet indication of you're funny—we'll talk later.

The rest of the morning progressed as normal. Percy slid into the private car without looking at Astoria, delivering his usual updates on the office's tweets for the week and getting Draco and Hermione to sign off on about a dozen press releases before promptly stepping into another car and returning to the office upon arrival at the mental health facility where the Prince and Princess of Wales would be making their appearance. He made no mention of his son at all, though Astoria had always doubted he was going to. Percy's obvious unwillingness to meet her eye suggested the two of them would be encumbered with some amount of awkwardness for quite a long time.

It was dark by the time she returned to the office, nearly half an hour after her promised meeting time with Snape. She was unsurprised to find that he was still waiting for her, the single lamp at his desk illuminated while he worked.

"Sorry," she said, knocking at his open door frame. In the dim light of his study he looked older than his fifty-some years, dark gaze rising to hers without expression. "We ran a little behind, and then I wanted to review some things for tomorrow—"

"Understood. Sit," he said, gesturing her into the chair opposite his desk. Astoria sat carefully, glancing up at the various objects on his walls. The office was extremely sparse, save for its books, and only the ceremonial acknowledgements of his service to the crown served as any decoration. (Though there were, indeed, many.)

"I imagine you'll have heard by now that Rita Skeeter and Gilderoy Lockhart are both releasing books about the royal family later this year," Snape said, and Astoria nodded. "I do not need to impress upon you the difficulty this will pose for coming months."

"Business as usual?" Astoria guessed.

"Depends," Snape said, leaning back in his chair. "We will strategize and adapt as things move forward, as always. But on a somewhat… unique note," he said in his drawling monotone, "if there's anything I need to know about you, it is better I know it now."

"Me?" She frowned. "I thought the book was about the family."

"It is and it isn't." He slid his reading glasses from his face, toying with them. "It is, in larger terms, about The Firm," he clarified. "The family and everyone who keeps the family in business, if you will."

"Do they suspect you of some sort of Cromwellian ambition?" asked Astoria, wanting to laugh at the thought of it. Snape, however, shrugged.

"Influencing the crown is certainly not what it once was," he acknowledged, which was relatively close to a joke. "But it is true that there are some things better left out of the public narrative when it comes to the royal family. Perception, as you know, is everything."

She wondered what exactly made this particular crisis different from the others. As far as she could tell, this sort of PR nightmare was practically recurring, but Snape's insistence on meeting with her alone suggested otherwise.

"May I… speak freely a moment?" Astoria asked him. To Snape's silence, which she interpreted as acquiescence, she remarked, "The downfall of the monarchy seems a fairly distant concern." He said nothing, and she continued, "People have been calling for its eradication for nearly a century, if not more. Nobody's actually going to dismantle it, so I'm just curious what our end goal is."

Snape pursed his lips, just slightly.

"When you have served as long as I have," he said, "you come to understand that you are tasked with protecting something precious from the harm that others wish it out of spite, or envy. It is a nurturing of sorts."

"So that requires… pristinity?"

"In a sense." He toyed with his reading glasses again before straightening. "In any case, is there anything I should know?"

"What do you already know?" Astoria asked, which she felt was an innocent enough question. Unfortunately Snape felt it worth an oppressive answer.

"Weasley's divorce was considered at the time of his appointment to the office," he said. "As was Miss Patil's sexual orientation."

Astoria blinked. "What?"

"Your past was also considered." Snape gave her a withering look. "I advised against your appointment to this role, but as you can see, I was overruled. Altogether the office is probably more sympathetic for its diversity, but in terms of getting in front of any scandal—"

"Diversity?" Astoria echoed, astonished. A divorced man was so commonplace it was laughable to even call it that. As for Padma, she was… hm. Padma had spoken of boyfriends in the past—even Daphne had mentioned one—so was she possibly bisexual?

And as for Astoria herself—

"You, at least, seem to have put your past behind you," Snape remarked, and though it was difficult to tell (his tone hadn't changed), she suspected it was a compliment. "You're in a respectable marriage, you come from a good family, and your sister is without question well-admired. I will be the first to admit I was wrong to suspect you'd be a problem."

"Assuming I don't do something horrific like leave my husband for a woman, you mean," Astoria said. Again it was meant to be a joke, though she could taste the bitterness as she said it.

Snape seemed to lose patience with the direction of conversation. "As a final point," he continued, "it has come to my attention that you've been looking into Remus Lupin."

"How on earth could you know that?" Astoria asked, before abruptly remembering she had googled the name that morning when Hermione brought it up. To that she had to fight a shudder, suffering the unwelcome sensation of being watched.

Snape didn't bother acknowledging the question. "Here is what you need to know about Remus Lupin," he said flatly, "and none of it is to leave this room."

Astoria frowned, but said nothing.

"Remus Lupin attended Eton College alongside the Duke of Grimmauld's predecessor, Sirius Black, who later became the guardian and benefactor to—"

"Prince Harry," Astoria registered aloud.

Snape gave a single nod in confirmation. "When Lupin and Black were at Eton, there was… an incident. A student was killed. All three were questioned—"

None of that was remotely what Astoria had expected to hear. "Three?"

"Yes. Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, and James Potter."

"Oh." Astoria frowned. "And the student…?"

"His death was ultimately ruled an accident." Snape paused. "Though some did have… lingering suspicions."

She was surprised none of that had come up in her google search. Belatedly, she realized: of course it hadn't. Someone must have made sure of that.

"Despite an admirable performance at university, Lupin's reputation was irreversibly tarnished," Snape said. "The other two were nobility, so they retreated for the most part to their titles and wealth. Ultimately Lupin went into service for the Blacks while the former Duke of Grimmauld still lived."

"Okay," Astoria said slowly. "And…?"

"I, meanwhile, joined the office of the Prince of Wales shortly after university," said Snape, which was somewhat jarring for Astoria. She'd forgotten that the narrator in this particular scandal might have also been a character in its occurrence. "Even before Black's death, it was Prince Lucius' highest priority to eradicate any involvement of the Grimmauld title or the Potter name in the student's death. Harry had already become inextricably close to Prince Draco," Snape explained, "and given the closeness between the boys, any poor reflection on one house would of course necessitate a shadow over the House of Malfoy."

"Why are you telling me this?" Astoria asked him, dazed.

"Because Remus Lupin and I are the last people alive with any knowledge of what happened that night," he said, and before Astoria could focus on the tiny detail of his own possible involvement, he had already moved on. "I will not pretend to understand the Princess of Wales outside of the fact that she is reluctant to follow my instructions. Harry is no different." Snape's mouth tightened. "I can do nothing about the Duke of Grimmauld. He has his own advisors. However, I trust you will find a way to keep Their Royal Highnesses from speaking to the Dursleys or to Lupin himself."

"Me?" Astoria echoed. "Why?"

"Because you are practical," Snape said conclusively. "You, Lady Astoria, are a pragmatist. The Princess is easily misguided, and she has great need of someone on her staff to remind her the purpose she serves."

"I'm practical," Astoria repeated dully. She internalized it with a mix of repulsion and horror, realizing how she must appear to anyone who looked at her closely. She was a beautiful girl who had leveraged her looks and her breeding to secure an advantageous marriage. She had been cunning enough to bury the dalliances of her past in her influential new surname. In that one sensible act, her womanhood was now and forever defined by the role she'd fulfilled the moment she slid Alexander Poliakoff's three carat Cartier diamond onto her finger.

Every choice Astoria Greengrass had ever made was safe, measured, a predictable rung on a ladder of conventional feminine success. Scandals aside—and she had done well to cast them aside, hadn't she? The wild girl who'd longed for recognition had disappeared into the role of a respectable wife who sat at home, waiting—she was now the portrait of a proper noblewoman.

So that was it, then. She was beautiful and practical and invisible. At best knowingly ambitious, at worst docile and conformable. Which was why Astoria was the perfect foil to a woman who was headstrong and defiantly in search of truth, even at great cost to herself.

Astoria made her way out of the office in something of a lingering haze, complying with Snape's request and promising to do everything she could to keep Hermione from running away with her imagination. Privately, she agreed with him; there was no use entertaining whatever stories were left from a man whose alienation from society had been all but etched in stone before he even turned seventeen. A great deal of trouble had rendered the past dead and buried, and as far as Astoria was concerned, Hermione did herself no good resurrecting them. What truth would possibly be worth the trouble it brought?

Practical. That was Astoria's specialty, and practically speaking, Hermione had other things to worry about. Children. Her reputation. Diplomatic dressing. The survival of the royal family. Her ascension to the throne as Draco's consort and what that would mean for herself, for her children, for her legacy. In Astoria's opinion, Hermione was exactly the type to distract herself from the difficult things, so it was easy to acknowledge that yes, it was her job to keep Hermione insulated in some way. To keep her focused.

Astoria's phone buzzed twice as she was gathering her things to go home for the evening. The first was a message from Alex: Just landed at Heathrow. See you soon xx

The second was from Padma: Drinks this evening? Unless you're busy, of course, being happily married and generally functional… which truthfully I'd know nothing about

Astoria considered it, projecting the outcome of her evening. Doubtless Alex would be exhausted from his travels. He'd bring her something, a new piece of jewelry most likely. The diamond necklace she wore was from a particularly long trip, about the length of this one. They'd have dinner and he'd hurry her upstairs; they'd fall into bed together and she'd try not to compulsively check his clothes for perfume, for strands of hair, for lipstick. She'd fight the paranoia—had he always kissed her like that? Was that something new he was doing with his tongue, with his fingers, and if it was then how had he learned it? Did he taste different? Was she imagining it? Was she, the person that she was, the person that she used to be—had that been in her imagination? He'd fall asleep and she'd creep into the bathroom. She'd eye her pedicured toes against pristine Italian marble floors and think, Why isn't this enough anymore?

(She'd think, impractically, Had this ever been enough?)

"Hey," Padma said, glancing up with a smile when she walked in. "I'm glad you could come."

"So, question," Astoria replied without preamble, setting down her purse. "Do you think Snape's ever killed anyone?"

"Oh my god, absolutely yes," Padma said with obvious delight, sliding a gin and tonic across the table to Astoria. "Don't you?"

She smiled, and Astoria wondered if maybe Padma thought she was funny; if Padma thought her humor was dry or wry or clever; if Padma considered her a friend. She wondered if Padma considered her practical or beautiful. She wondered if Padma considered her happy.

"Okay good, just checking," Astoria said, taking a sip of her drink, which was blasphemously strong. "This is profoundly disgusting," she said, immediately taking another sip, and Padma let out a startling laugh, or a startled one.

Which, it turned out, would be the first such laugh of a long and pleasant evening, and one that Astoria hoped was not the last.


A not-insignificant part of me knows when I fall into bed beside my sleeping husband that I love him exceedingly, immensely, prodigiously. I feel for him so deeply that I've built myself around that love, the conjoined twins of my desires and my worth.

He opens his eyes and looks at me and I think he takes a moment to recognize me, my face, the shape I take beside him.

I don't tell him that I feel a sudden need to plant myself somewhere that isn't so fragile, to build myself on something that stays more often than it leaves. I don't tell him that actually, I find his work devoid of value, absent of meaning, vacant of worth. I don't tell him that I wish I had not tried to be more than my sister—hadn't wasted my time with her trying desperately to prove I wasn't less—because maybe if I'd been her friend, I would have been stronger, surer, or at very least capable of choosing a man I trusted to love my flaws.

"You're so beautiful," my husband whispers to me, and because I know he means it, because I know it's true, I don't tell him that I know. Because so long as he believes it, I won't have to ask myself if I am anything else.

So I kiss him, still willing to bury myself in his hands, and waste away a little further into the consequences of the night.


a/n: I sense my mood is slightly off, so I may step away for a week to regroup in terms of crafting this story's atmosphere. Tbd. I'm about halfway through a totally unrelated nottpott one-shot, so you can probably expect to see that in Amortentia sometime this weekend. Stay home, stay sane! Oh, and if you want me to read you a story, find Olivie Blake is Not Writing on apple podcasts or podbean.