Episode XII: The Liar Who's Fighting to Keep Her Throne
Witch Weekly's 'Modern Romance' series asks anonymous witches and wizards to record a week in their sex lives—with comic, tragic, provocative, and patently revealing results. This week, a pureblood wife burdened with duty finds herself fighting for her family's future once again: 42, female, straight, unhappily married.
DAY ONE
8:45 a.m.: I'm lying awake when my husband enters our bedroom, treading quietly through the door frame. He sees my eyes are already open and opens his mouth, closes it. I don't wait for him to decide what he wishes to say. "It's late," I point out, because our son might be awake, and he'd want to believe better of his father than this. So would I, really, but it's too late for that now. The best I can do is craft a lie that looks prettier, softer than the truth, and our son's father coming home (to his mother who is, quite frankly, not much better) after a night spent with someone else is hardly the image I've curated for him. "He's not home," my husband says. I close my eyes. Good.
8:49 a.m.: I'll call my husband Brutus; for as long as I've known him, he's been a man in some sort of philosophical crisis. He slides into the bed beside me, and I immediately go rigid. Lately, we've been attempting to "work on our marriage," but that effort has clearly seen better days. This falls somewhere low on the spectrum. "Are you okay?" he asks me, reaching out to caress my face, and I shrink back from his hand. "Don't touch me with that," I snap, "I don't know where it's been." His expression hardens. "Fine," he says, and then he leaves, heading into our bathroom for a shower.
9:30 a.m.: My marriage to Brutus was arranged, as most pureblood unions are. It was a disaster from the start; he was involved with someone else, expecting to be given my elder sister as a prize, and then he was instructed to marry me, the third daughter of an ancient, crumbling house. I was younger than he was, only just eighteen, and foolish enough to believe love was something as easily accomplished as merely speaking marriage vows aloud. It took a couple of years for Brutus to warm to me, and by then, I was in love with someone else; a man I'll call Caesar, though I'm not sure I'm ready to think about him. As a girl, I thought love was a steady, constant thing, but as a woman I know it comes in fits and starts. Brutus and I are relatively cursed by timing; only once did we manage to love each other at the same time, and it was during our son's youth. That seems a very long time ago now, after my husband's traumatic stint in Azkaban and a war that tore both our country and our family apart. Now we're ghosts to each other, and each of us is still the same liar we always were, only carrying around the shells of what we used to be.
10:47 a.m.: My son walks in through the Floo while I'm flipping through a magazine, contemplating a change of tapestry to obscure the unpleasantness of my personal life (as is my way). He's tall and poised, well-groomed and well-dressed and well-mannered; he possesses the best of me, the best of Brutus, and I feel a swell of pride the moment I look at him. I'll call him Caesarion. "Good morning, Mother," he says, and he looks tired in much the same way his father looked 'tired' this morning, but I can hardly hold that against him. I only hope that whoever she is, she's even remotely good enough for him. I hope she's far better than me, at the very least.
10:48 a.m.: "Hello, sweetheart," I say warmly, as Caesarion permits me to kiss his cheek. He's so much taller than I am, and though I know perfectly well he's a grown man, it still never seems to make sense. It seems impossible to calculate, actually, that my baby son is somehow grown, and that I'm old enough to have watched it happen. "Lunch?" he asks me, and regrettably, I shake my head. I'm having lunch with my sister and her grandson today, and I extend the invitation to Caesarion, but he declines. "I think I'm just going to read for a bit," he says, and slides a hand through his uncharacteristically ruffled hair. "Exhausted," he explains, not even attempting a hint of sheepishness, and I shake my head, feigning disapproval. He smirks his father's handsome smirk at me and shrugs. "Enjoy your lunch," he tells me, yawning, and then I watch him go, smiling a little to myself. He is the best thing I have ever done; perhaps the only good thing I've ever done.
10:57 a.m.: I fall into a bit of a melancholy state thinking about Caesar again, which is inevitable on the days in which I consider the many, many lies of my life. It's difficult to resolve my feelings about Caesar, considering what he became in his later life; his reincarnation of sorts, when he came back a stranger. Any capacity for boundless greatness makes for such a tenuous state of being, really. I fell in love with it, the vastness of everything Caesar was, even while I watched it destroy him, turning him into a monster, a murderer, a psychopath. Maybe he was all of those things while I loved him, but it wasn't until he returned from the dead that he turned all of it on me, on my husband, my son. Still, on days like this, I miss what it felt to be loved by him, to wake in his arms, to feel the reverence of his touch. Then I shudder, blinking the nightmare I lived through with him (for him) away.
12:30 p.m.: My older sister, whom I'll call Arsinoe, is looking positively glowing, which is likely something to do with the man she's been seeing for the last few months. It seems to be going well, if the flush in her cheeks is any indication. She and I have been estranged for more than half my life, but now we're foolish girls again, giggling about romance like teenagers. "He's just so insatiable," she whispers devilishly, describing what they'd been up to in the stockroom of his store the day before. Ah, I miss love. And I miss sex. I miss having both at once. Arsinoe seems to see that and coughs, abruptly guilty. I roll my eyes as her young grandson—whose mother and father both died in the war—scrambles into the room, having apparently tired of playing in the garden.
12:31 p.m.: Arsinoe's grandson (effectively her son, whom I'll call Helios) is an utterly irresistible child, and it doesn't help that he's a metamorphmagus, which means that he obligingly turns his hair pale blond at my entry, reminding me of my son. I know that a lot of that sensation is purely nostalgia, but they do look a bit alike, I think. "Hello!" I exclaim, opening my arms to him, and Helios bounds over, climbing shamelessly into my lap and babbling about quidditch. "Oh, hush," Arsinoe says to him, assuring him I don't want to hear about it, but I give her a wry, silencing glance. She often forgets I'm more than the image I crafted of a wealthy pureblood wife; I'm also the mother of a devoted quidditch fan, and more importantly, I'm the one who taught my son Caesarion how to fly. Brutus would never deign to ruin his hair, I suspect, for a recreation that doesn't end in orgasm. "Show me what you've been practicing," I tell Helios, and he trills with excitement, tugging me into the garden.
1:05 p.m.: Eventually Arsinoe drags us out of the garden (Helios' godfather has been teaching him some things, he tells me, but personally, I think the boy's technique could stand to be refined) and we make our way to Diagon Alley. Arsinoe takes Helios to the novelties shop her young lover owns; politely, I wait outside, catching a surreptitious kiss he brushes across her knuckles and the blush that paints her cheeks long after they part. It's a secret still, and he's not from a family ours would approve of, but neither was her last love interest, and I'm certainly not going to lose her over something so trivial again.
1:06 p.m.: "Sorry," Arsinoe says breathlessly, "but he agreed to look after Helios for an hour, so—" "Nothing to be sorry for," I tell her, and I mean it. I'm happy for her, even if it stings a little to watch. I had a lover of my own until recently, and I miss him terribly. That's what stings, I clarify internally, not the knowledge of my sister's happiness. That, I congratulate myself, is very much a genuine thing I enjoy.
1:16 p.m.: The weather is unseasonably pleasant, so we get a table on the charmed patio outside, enjoying the meal and chatting about nothing. Inevitably, Arsinoe asks me about Brutus, though I think she's actually asking me about someone else: the young man I'll call Antony. "I've been behaving myself recently," I say, which is true. I have been. She kindly drops her eyes to her forkful of spinach salad instead of me when she asks if Brutus has done the same. "No," I say tightly, suddenly losing my appetite.
2:11 p.m.: Eventually, conversation eases back into other things; nostalgia, mostly. I'm grateful that for all the war took from me, it brought me back my sister. Perhaps this kind of love is all I'm deserving of, and perhaps one day that will be enough. Eventually, she reminds me that she has to pick up Helios, and I nod, signaling for the check.
2:20 p.m.: "I've got it," I assure Arsinoe, and though she protests, soon enough we're chatting again while the waiter accepts the wave of my wand, enacting my Gringotts credit charm. "Miss," he tells me (flatteringly, which I accept, knowing perfectly well I look far younger than I am), "there's a hold on your enchantment." He shows me the Gringotts seal indicating the rejection, and I blink, realizing I don't have enough galleons on me. "Hold on," I say, but Arsinoe stops me, gesturing to her purse. "I have a job now, remember?" she tells me, as the waiter nods and vanishes her payment away, leaving along with it. "I know," I grumble, "but—" "It's nice to start over," Arsinoe says contentedly, looking immensely pleased, and for all that I'm frustrated with my own situation, I'm happy for her again. It brought her pleasure to buy me lunch; so be it. I thank her, genuinely, and then we head back to the store.
2:45 p.m.: I remind myself to purchase some things for Helios when I get the Gringotts situation sorted. I remember doing all this for Caesarion when he was first learning to play quidditch, and part of me is really quite excited to do it again. "Don't spoil him," Arsinoe pleads with me, but we both know I will almost certainly ignore her. What is the point of being wealthy if not to spoil the people I love, and the family I so long neglected? "Don't worry," I tell her, "I'll also teach him to dance when the time comes." "Fair enough," she says approvingly, and then we part ways, both smiling.
3:15 p.m.: I come home to my son Caesarion asleep on the sofa, a book called Pride and Prejudice fallen forward on his chest. An apt title, I think, given everything; I pick it up, conjuring a ribbon to mark his place, and set the book on the table, gently covering him with a blanket.
3:35 p.m.: I wish I had done better by Caesarion than inadvisably becoming involved with his best friend. Out of all the men I have loved, Antony was perhaps the worst, though also the best; before him, I'd exclusively loved men who were older, more worldly, more experienced, and yet Antony was more a man than all of them combined. Yes, it's over now, but still, I should never have started. No matter how Antony looked at me (or how he touched me, like he would never wish to set his hands on anything else again) it was never acceptable for me to keep that secret from my son. I wish I were less of a liar. I wish, more than anything, that I didn't ache for Antony even now. I wronged them both, and yes, Brutus, too—though, if I list my sins now, I may not make it through the day without collapsing beneath the weight of them.
6:30 p.m.: The elves prepare dinner and I eat alone, as Caesarion has gone out again. Brutus is here somewhere, I think, but I'd rather not face him at the moment. Our marriage was plagued by infidelity from the start, so it's not as if what passed between us this morning was unusual, but somehow I still manage to be newly betrayed. Sometimes I hate that I feel I owe him; I hate that by loving Caesar and Antony rather than the nobodies Brutus generally turns to, my betrayals have always been worse, and I always feel the need to do more to balance the scales. I agreed to a threesome with some pretty slip of a thing Brutus was seeing some months ago in an effort to combat my guilt, which was a terrible mistake. I couldn't look at him for weeks, and since then, things have only gotten worse.
9:17 p.m.: I don't notice Brutus walking into our bedroom until he clears his throat, leaning against the doorframe. "You had dinner without me," he notes, and I tell him I thought he'd be gone. I've dispelled my beauty charms by now; my cheeks are pale and colorless, the lines around my eyes starting to show. Brutus walks in further and places his hands on my shoulders, kissing the back of my neck, and I stiffen. "No one else to go to tonight?" I ask gruffly, and he shakes his head. "No one else I want," he tells me.
9:20 p.m.: I've wanted to leave him so many times. First I wanted to leave him for Caesar; after all, Brutus nearly worshipped him, and so did I, albeit in a very different way. After Caesar was gone, then, Brutus and I made our peace with what we were, raising our son together and finally warming to each other, but when Caesar reappeared as a mangled, ruined version of himself, I felt Brutus slip away from me again. The reminder of my disloyalty struck us both, along with the wrath Caesar visited on all of us, especially Caesarion; and I wanted to leave again when Brutus was put in Azkaban, too. I knew it would be better for Caesarion, better for me, but I couldn't—and then when Brutus came back, I felt even more trapped. He'd been skeletal and haunted, and I had loved him once, hadn't I? I thought I had, anyway, until I wanted to leave for Antony. Brutus' gaze slid past me by then, and only Antony seemed to see me, seemed to want me—but that was impossible. It seemed it was always going to be Brutus, and perhaps that's because even now, I can't really bring myself to turn him away. It's twisted, the way we're bound to each other; that however much both of us may want to run, we never manage to get very far.
9:30 p.m.: Brutus' lips shift from my neck to my back, tracing down my spine. I want to push him away, but honestly, I miss sex. Truth be told, I never go very long without it. By the time Brutus has undone the lacings on my nightgown, I've already resigned myself to the inevitable. I'm going to fuck my husband tonight.
9:34 p.m.: I let the silk of my nightgown pool shapelessly on the floor before turning to him, tugging at his trousers. I don't want this to be sweet, I don't want it to be romantic. I've fucked too many men with love in their eyes to settle for whatever consolation prize this will inevitably be. I draw out his cock, stroking it, and when he groans, I turn over my shoulder, making my way to the bed. I climb on all fours and glance over my shoulder, beckoning him without a word. Mutely, he follows, vanishing his shirt and trousers and placing his hands on my hips.
9:41 p.m.: I watch the hairs rise on my arms, my skin pebbled with gooseflesh as his lips graze over my back again. He slides his hand to my cunt and slowly, slowly strokes me, his kisses traveling over my backside. I feel his tongue slide inside me, register a shift as he sucks at my clit, but I don't look over my shoulder. By the time he strokes his cock against me, sliding it between the lips of my cunt, I'm shivering, waiting desperately for him to fuck me, but far too proud to beg.
9:49 p.m.: Brutus aims the tip of his cock at my slit and I ease my hips back, taking him inside me. He inhales sharply; I can hear the way his teeth are ground together, the way his jaw is wired shut. I round my back, releasing him slightly, and then arch it, taking him in again; my motions are smooth and sensual, my hips rolling rhythmically, and I wish that the extent to which I know how to give a man what he wants were not so wasted on a moment like this, totally devoid of much of anything. His fingers tighten on my hips as his hand drops to my clit; he knows I like it rough, almost senseless, and he grinds the palm of his hand against me until I tighten around him, choking out the bitterness of pleasure.
9:55 p.m.: Sex is such a carnal thing, but sometimes I appreciate that. If this were Caesar, he'd have taken me against the wall, not waiting to remove my clothes; he'd have had me with his hand across my mouth, catching my muted groans of pleasure and swearing breathlessly in his ear that he would love me eternally, would worship me for all of time. If it were Antony, he'd have lain on the bed to look at me with wonder in his eyes, drawing me up to straddle his lips as he licked me, never taking his eyes away; he'd have called me a goddess, kissed me while he fucked me, tangled his fingers in my hair to draw it back from my face while he looked me in the eyes. With Brutus, though, it's almost always out of necessity, out of instinct. We don't need to tell each other stupid lies or make inadequate promises. The only thing I want from him is his cock filling the ache inside me, and whatever it is he wants from me, I don't care.
10:03 p.m.: He makes me come again, burying himself deep inside me, and then, shortly after, he comes, sputtering. I release my elbows and we both shift forward as he lies on top of me, his cock still inside me while he brushes his lips against my neck. I can feel him watching me, but I don't look at him. The physical contact is reassuring—I will readily admit that I miss having the weight of another body on mine from time to time—but I don't want any more than this.
10:08 p.m.: Eventually Brutus gets up and I summon my nightgown, putting it back on. I turn out the light and go to sleep before he comes back, and then he slides into bed beside me, not saying a word. I miss sleeping with Antony; he had such a vulnerability to his touch, and the way he curled around me made me feel safe. Brutus' hand slides up, resting between the blades of my shoulders.
10:10 p.m.: "There's something wrong with the Gringotts account," I say, and add, "I'll go in tomorrow." He toys with my hair for a moment. "You always take care of us," he notes, and it sounds like little more than an observation. "You're my queen," he adds, this time with a touch of gratitude, and I shrug. Better that he believes that; better that everyone believes that, as it has cost me most of my sanity trying to live up to that lie. "Thank you," he murmurs.
10:15 p.m.: "You're welcome," I say, because I'm the best liar I've ever known. I'm a beautiful woman and, for all intents and purposes, a dutiful wife, and if there's one thing to know about me, it's that I tell the prettiest lies.
DAY TWO
9:17 a.m.: When I wake up in the morning, Brutus is gone from the bed. I'd wonder when I'll see him again, but I don't like to waste my time.
10:18 a.m.: By the time I'm ready to leave for Gringotts, Caesarion is back on the couch, reading again. "What's the book about?" I ask, settling myself at his feet, and he tucks one hand behind his head, considering it. "A very strange, poor woman with no sense of propriety," he says, "and her highly relatable male adversary." "Is it good?" I ask skeptically, and he shrugs. "I've read worse," he says, and I resist the urge to smother him with an unseemly, horribly maternal embrace. "Where are you going?" he asks me, and I tell him. "It's nothing to worry about," I add, though he looks uncertain. "Is this about the war reparations?" he asks, sitting up, and I'm a bit startled that he knows about them. He is a man, I suppose, with a man's ability to read the newspaper, but still. "Nothing to worry about," I assure him, briskly patting his feet. "Are you sure?" Caesarion asks, arching a pale brow with a quizzical expression I'm certain belongs to me. "I'll take care of it," I promise, and he seems to believe me. Why shouldn't he, after all? I've fixed everything in the past, and I'm not about to stop now.
10:41 a.m.: Truth be told, I loathe Gringotts. I never go to our vault unless it's strictly necessary. "There's been a hold placed on my account," I tell the goblin. All goblins make me uneasy, and this one is no exception. "Yes," the goblin agrees, "but it's the Ministry's doing, not ours."
10:45 a.m.: Horrifyingly, the room has fallen silent as he's said that, and I see a handful of faces that swivel in my direction. One of them, I note, is a tall redheaded man who seems to work there; he's wearing a Gringotts pin on his lapel, though my gaze lingers more attentively on the scars across his (somehow) still exquisitely handsome face. He brings a hand up, curiously curling it around his mouth, and I blink, abruptly processing what the goblin has said. "What do you mean the Ministry placed a hold on my account?" I demand, and the goblin shrugs. "Nothing in or out of your vault until it's lifted," he says, and then adds, "Have you paid your war reparations?"
10:47 a.m.: The redheaded wizard's curiosity seems only to heighten as I lean forward, dropping my voice. "Yes, of course we have," I hiss at the goblin. The reparations, essentially a hefty tax levied on the families who sympathized with Death Eaters during the war, account for a percentage of the wealth in our vault that was paid to the Ministry. "Can't you see that for yourself?" I snap, gesturing to his records. The goblin spares me little more than a wary stare, and I turn, outraged, as the redheaded wizard's gaze follows me through the doors.
11:36 a.m.: Thankfully, Brutus is home when I arrive, so I don't have to go prying him out of some willowy girl's bed. "Is there a problem with the reparations?" I ask him without preamble, and he pauses, his cup halfway to his lips. "What do you mean?" he asks carefully, and if it wouldn't be unseemly to slap him, I would. "This is me you're talking to," I remind him, because I've seen us both through trouble with the law before. I make certain the look on my face discourages him from lying, and he sighs. "We paid the reparations based on what's in our vault," he explains, "but I'd already hid some of our wealth before then."
11:40 a.m.: I pinch the bridge of my nose, furious, and Brutus has the audacity to shake his head. "Didn't you wonder why we were still wealthy?" he prompts drily, gesturing around our extravagant manor house. "Those reparations were intended to cripple us," he reminds me, "and I made sure they did not." I am incensed by this. "You could go back to Azkaban for this," I tell him, but his expression hardens. "I'm never going back there," Brutus tells me, and I know he isn't. I know he can't. I may spend most of my time hating my husband, but even I wouldn't wish it on him again.
11:48 a.m.: "I'll fix this," I snap, and then I turn, leaving him without another word. He's right, after all, about how I should have noticed. The problem is that the money is part of the lie; the money is necessary for cosmetically enhancing the reality of what we are. I didn't question it because I didn't want to do without it. Frankly, I've been unwilling to live the version of my life that's stricken by both poverty and unhappiness. I'd hoped to limit it to one.
12:37 p.m.: The more I think about it, the worse it gets. For example, I realize that if we owe money, it's too late to call it an error now. The crime has already been committed. I recall Brutus' clandestine meetings with other purebloods and wonder how many of them are involved in this before registering that it may be far worse than I know. If Caesar were here, he would… No, I remind myself firmly; Caesar is what got us into this mess. I pace in front of my vanity, wondering who to turn to. I wonder who I have left.
1:06 p.m.: 'I need you,' I scribble in an owl. 'I'm sorry, but I need to talk to you. Can I see you?'
1:18 p.m.: The response is one word: 'Yes.'
1:24 p.m.: I walk through my Floo to find Antony waiting for me, sitting with his elbows braced against his knees. "Are you okay?" he asks without looking at me, and I can see very well that my note worried him. I can also see that he knows it was a mistake to let me into his home again, but he and I both know he would never have refused me. "No," I tell him, and ask if he knows anything about the reparations; specifically, about how the other purebloods have suffered from them (or not suffered, as the case may be).
1:31 p.m.: He seems relieved that I've come to discuss business. "I paid mine," he says, shrugging, and explains that that's why he was forced to get rid of most of his father's things. He admits, though, that some of his friends don't appear to have struggled much. "I can find out what's going on, if you want," he offers. "How?" I ask, because Antony's never really been very politically connected; he's sort of aimless and solitary, really, down to his very being. He looks up, arching a brow, and I realize what he means. "Ah," I say uncomfortably, looking at my hands.
1:34 p.m.: Antony is seeing someone else now. A man, actually, and a contemporary of my son; my son's Hogwarts rival, in fact, which I imagine is one of many secrets Antony is accustomed to keeping. I'll call his new love interest Octavius. "Do you think Octavius can help?" I ask, and Antony shrugs. "He can give me answers," Antony replies, and I can see once again how he's so easily made my problems his. He has a way of doing that, and it makes me hate myself, only it also reminds me how much I miss him; how much better a man he is than Brutus; how much better a human being he is than me. "Thank you," I say, and when he looks up at me, I want terribly to cry. I want to throw my arms around him, to feel his lips on mine, to be held in his arms. I notice, too, that perhaps he still wants the same; his fingers twitch at his sides, restless.
1:38 p.m.: I don't want to hurt him, but I want him. I need him to be done with me, I need my marriage to stand between us, but I also badly need his help. I take his hand, pulling him to his feet, and settle his hands on my hips, tilting my chin up to speak in his ear. "Thank you," I say again, curling my fingers around the back of his neck, and I feel him shudder. His head shifts and I brush his cheek with my lips, slowly. He freezes, so I move for him. I take his hands and draw them over the bodice of my dress, up the front of my gown and over my breasts, sliding his fingers across the swells of them as I slide my lips against his jaw, his neck, his throat. He swallows and I feel it beneath the pressure of a kiss I give him, softer than a breath. I want him terribly. I want him so badly it aches.
1:42 p.m.: Antony remembers himself and steps back, jerking his hands free. "Go," he says, rubbing his forehead, "please." I hate that he turns me away, but only because it makes me love him more. If he'd said yes, if he'd taken me in his arms as I so badly want him to, I'd know he was just as terrible as I was. Somehow, I'm both pleased and shattered to know, as I've always known, that Antony is a vastly better being than me. "I'll help you," he promises me, gritting his teeth, "but you have to go. Please."
1:45 p.m.: "Antony," I say softly, and his entire body shudders. "Please don't do this to me," he begs me, and I nod, because I care for him at least that much. I care enough to break, don't I? So I turn and walk through the Floo without another word.
6:45 p.m.: As I eat dinner alone I contemplate telling my sister, only I'm not sure I want to disrupt her happiness. She certainly can't help me financially, so I don't want her to worry. I consider that Caesarion should know what's happening, but I can't bear to tell him yet. Not after everything else we've put him through.
8:47 p.m.: Seeing Antony again makes me voraciously long to be touched, but Brutus doesn't come home. Better that way, I remind myself, and lift the silk of my nightgown, tracing the curves of my thighs. I can't think of Antony at the moment—he was in too much pain, and I can't bear to draw his expression to mind again—so I think of Caesar, the way he used to be. He was the most handsome man I've ever known, even now; even after I saw what he became, all slitted eyes and unnatural claws and terrible, unfathomable betrayal. I hear his voice in my ear—I long for you, all day, all hours, I see you I want you I have to have you, I must have you you're mine, you'll always be mine—and feel the possession in his fingers, the way they used to make a home in the circumference of my waist. He'd amused himself with my sister until all he wanted was me; unlike Brutus, who hoped for my sister and settled for me. I slide my fingers in and out of my cunt, wet with memory, and come with Caesar's name on my lips; his real name, not the title he gave himself, burdened by illusions of grandeur. I knew more about him than anyone else ever did, which is probably why my betrayal was the worst of all.
8:55 p.m.: He should have known I was a liar. They all should have known—all the men who've been foolish enough to love me. I wonder which lie will save me this time, and smooth over my mask of regency, preparing to fight for my family once again.
DAY THREE
8:15 a.m.: When I wake up, Brutus is in bed beside me. "You were asleep when I got home," he tells me, and I turn away. "What was her name?" I prompt, which is probably a childish thing to say, but I don't particularly care anymore whether I sound like a child or not. He sighs. "It was about the accounts," he protests defensively, but I don't care. I'll be the one to fix this. I don't need his help.
8:25 a.m.: "Please," he says, his hand snaking around me to hold my back against his chest, "please don't be angry with me. We need each other now." He holds me close, burying his nose in my hair and inhaling the smell of it, continuing to murmur in my ear. "Remember when we were in love?" he asks me, and I stiffen. "Remember before the war?" he muses, and I do. He was a successful Ministry figure, a Hogwarts school governor, our son a rising star; I was a faithful, dutiful wife, and my husband slept in my bed every night, making love to only me. How could I forget the one time in my life I was anything close to happy? How could I forget the time in my life I try most fervently to replicate, only to find that nothing is as it was?
8:35 a.m.: I don't remind Brutus that he betrayed me first; that ultimately, I chose to stand by his side while his reputation and mine were torn to shreds, even though I didn't have to. I don't tell him that his collection of errors brought Caesar's wrath down on our son, on our family, on me. I don't remind him that I would never have turned to Antony if not for the way Brutus turned away from me. Blaming each other for our marital failings would take a lifetime, so instead I get up from the bed, saying nothing and leaving Brutus' impossible effort at nostalgia behind.
10:29 a.m.: I'm combing through my files, looking for something (or someone) I might be able to appeal to for help and waiting to hear from Antony when an owl taps at the window, interrupting me. It isn't Antony's, nor does it belong to anyone else I know, but my name is on the letter.
10:30 a.m.: 'Come to my office at noon. We have something to discuss.' It's marked with a Ministry seal and signed by Octavius, Antony's boyfriend. I'm wary, naturally, but I have no choice. If my accounts are already frozen, the Ministry must already have evidence of something; the situation may be further gone than I even realize. I hope Octavius can be trusted. I put on my most persuasive dress, just in case he can't.
11:59 a.m.: I dislike coming to the Ministry even more than I dislike Gringotts. Unlike Brutus, I've never worked in the Ministry, so the only times I've been here have been for unpleasant things, like the countless Wizengamot trials wherein I saw my family condemned, or my husband, or myself. I wander the halls uneasily, half waiting for an Auror to stop me and drag me down to one of the chambers, finally handing me over to a dementor and putting me where I belong.
12:00 p.m.: Octavius is sitting at his desk when I enter his office. He has a full takeaway lunch set out beside a mass of papers, but he hasn't opened any of it. He's sitting in his chair, arms folded, staring into nothing when I enter, and then he looks up at me. "Close the door," he says, and I do. For someone my son's age, he does have an air of authority about him.
12:03 p.m.: "Do not ask Antony to lie for you," Octavius says. "You no longer have that right," he tells me, and I blink, uncertain if I'm being admonished or warned away. I wouldn't have thought Octavius a possessive person, but it seems for Antony, he is. "He wants to help you," Octavius says, "and for him, I will. But if you ask him to lie for you again, you and I will have a problem."
12:05 p.m.: "Is that a threat?" I ask coolly, though I can see that it is. Octavius shrugs. He seems angry, fidgety, coiled; I assume he and Antony fought about it. "I don't forget that your lie saved my life," he tells me, which is meant to be an offering, "and I don't want any harm to fall on Caesarion." Ah, so he's noble. A quality that only heroes can afford to cling to, I think. "But if you think you can manipulate Antony into doing your bidding, I'm going to be much less inclined," Octavius concludes. I'd laugh at the absurdity of this boy accusing me of being some sort of siren, only part of me admires it. He clearly cares enough about Antony to fight for him. Good for him. Good for them both. "Understood," I say, as disinterestedly as I can. "Any help you can offer me is appreciated."
12:10 p.m.: He tells me he knows for a fact that the Ministry has collected information about my husband. "It's bad," he says flatly, and I bury my apprehension in the tightening of my interlaced fingers, somewhere below his line of sight. "What are they accusing my husband of?" I ask, and Octavius grimaces. "Alleged crimes include collusion, criminal conspiracy, obstruction—" "Conspiracy?" I cut in, startled, and Octavius nods grimly. "Many pureblood families have skirted their reparations by hiding some of their wealth in unregistered offshore accounts. They lead back to Brutus," Octavius explains, and then amends, tentatively, "There's a witness who can tie it all back to him."
12:19 p.m.: My mind whirs with panic, but I paint serenity on my face as best I can. "Does Caesarion know?" I ask, and Octavius shakes his head. "Antony didn't know either until he came to me yesterday," Octavius warns, and adds that Caesarion will likely know soon, informing me that a muggleborn girl they went to school with (who works in the Ministry's legal department) will almost certainly warn him. "Why?" I ask, and Octavius blinks. "That's just her way," he says, but from one liar to another, I see right through it. Unfortunately, I can't think about that right now. "Who is the witness?" I ask, but I can tell already it's yet another person Octavius is protecting. "I can't tell you," he says. "Can't?" I echo skeptically, and his green eyes cut gravely to mine. "Won't," he corrects himself, and I can see that conversation is over.
12:25 p.m.: "I'm going to try to help you," Octavius says again, slowly. "Not because I feel sympathetic to your cause, but because Antony wants me to; because I don't want to see harm come to Caesarion. And because you saved me once," he clarifies, "and now I can return the favor. But don't make the mistake of thinking I'm soft." I don't tell him that I know he isn't. I don't ask him if he knows what he's doing is illegal. I don't point out that this could destroy his career. "Thank you," I say, rising to my feet, but he doesn't get up. He stares out his window, contemplating his final remarks.
12:30 p.m.: "You don't get to lie to Antony anymore," Octavius says, as if I ever wanted to; as if he could possibly know that Antony is one of the only people I never lied to at all. Then, with a sharp-edged blow, Octavius adds: "If you ever really cared about Antony, you'll leave him alone now." I spare us both the indignity of a response. He doesn't need to know what Antony was to me. I nod, and then I leave, letting the door fall shut behind me.
12:31 p.m.: On the other side of the door, I fight something that might have been a sob if I were a weaker woman. I'm not, though, so I shove Antony out of my head, out of the spare corners of my heart; he's better off, I remind myself, and force myself to keep walking.
12:45 p.m.: I'm making my way through the corridors thinking about what I'll do next when I nearly collide with someone who takes the corner without pause; it's the redheaded wizard who was watching me at Gringotts the day before. "Sorry," he says, and I look up, blinking slightly as his face registers. I can now see a vacant piercing where an earring once was; his hair is swept back from his face in a smooth, gold-lit wave; up close, the scars are more obvious, but his eyes are bluer, his mouth more thoughtful, the angle of his brow slightly softer. I exhale these observations, realizing now who he must be. He's closer to my age than I would have guessed, though I suppose I've never spared him any thoughts before. "Be careful," I admonish him briskly, but I think perhaps he's noticed the pause I took to study him. He seems to be studying me very closely himself.
12:47 p.m.: "You were at Gringotts yesterday," he notes, and I grimace, recalling that he's seen me at one of my more shameful lows and determining briskly that I now have to leave. "Yes," I say, and angle myself to exit, only he shifts slightly in the same direction, which pauses me. "What are you doing here?" I demand, perhaps too brusquely, and he shrugs. "Had to drop something off with my father," he says. "And you?" he asks me. "Event permits," I say, listing the first thing that comes to mind. He nods (why wouldn't he?) and then slides his tongue carefully over his bottom lip, contemplating something. "Would you like to have lunch?" he asks, which even he must know is a stupid question. He must know how stupid he sounds. Then again, I think, sparing myself some flattery, I do have quite an enticing dress on.
12:49 p.m.: I shouldn't, I know. It would be irresponsible, meaningless and selfish, but I have only ever been selfish with my lovers, so why stop now? "How about a drink," I suggest instead, "somewhere private?"
12:50 p.m.: His eyes widen, caught off guard, and he glances reflexively over his shoulder. I can see his better judgment playing with his tongue, but he manages nothing. I give it a few moments of silence before promptly turning to leave (I don't want someone who is going to play coy, after all; I hardly have the time or energy for it) but he steps hastily after me, his fingers catching the inside of my sleeve. "Wait," he says, and I turn to glance at him over my shoulder, aware that if we pause any longer than this, people will notice. People will realize immediately that he and I should have no reason to speak to each other, and truthfully, we don't. I wouldn't wish myself on him, either. On anyone. But still—"You have three seconds to decide," I tell him. "One, two, thr-"
12:52 p.m.: "My office," he says quickly, running a hand through his hair as he releases me. I nod. "Ten minutes," I say, and then disappear into the crowd.
1:15 p.m.: "You're late," he says when I enter. "I took a leisurely pace," I tell him, and his gaze travels over me openly now, skating across the bodice of my dress in a way that suggests he wouldn't be particularly gentle. I find I welcome it, and he gestures to the chair opposite his desk, charming a bottle of whisky into pouring us both a drink. "You're married," he notes, and I take the glass closest to me, toying with a sip. "So are you," I say, because I can see the outline of a wedding ring on his finger. He shakes his head. "Not anymore," he says.
1:20 p.m.: "My wife is leaving me for my brother," he informs me, with a wry tone of humorlessness. I decide I'm going to call him Cassius, because by now, he clearly needs a name. "Interesting," I say, taking another sip. The whisky burns down my throat. "What's your story?" he asks me. "My husband is a criminal," I reply. "Everyone knows that," Cassius replies. "Then why am I here?" I ask him, and he carefully toys with an answer.
1:25 p.m.: "For a second yesterday," Cassius says slowly, "you looked on the outside how I feel on the inside." For some strange reason, I know precisely what he means.
1:26 p.m.: "Lock the door," I determine, abruptly making up my mind about what's going to happen here today. "It's already locked," he replies. "Confident, are you?" I ask drily, and his lips twitch up at the corners. Oh, he's a liar too, as much as I am; I can feel it. He knows perfectly well what it is to wear a mask. "I already cast a silencing spell, too," he informs me with a clever half-smile, draining his glass, and by now, I am more than intrigued. I toss aside my problems with Brutus, with Antony, with Octavius; none of those things can be resolved this afternoon. My curiosity about Cassius, though, is almost certainly an achievable endeavor.
1:30 p.m.: When my glass is empty I rise to my feet, and he does too, mirroring me. He steps towards me, leaning back against his desk, and makes a single motion with his chin; a beckoning gesture of sorts. I step towards him and he reaches out, curling the backs of his fingers against my cheek and then drawing them down, the knuckle of his index finger following the line of my throat. "You are the worst possible person I could get involved with," he tells me, tilting my chin up and openly admiring the parting of my lips. "I wish I could say the same," I reply, "but I have a history of catastrophic choices. With how innocuous an option you are, I doubt I'll even remember you." His mouth twitches slightly. "I'll take that bet," he says, and lowers his head, brushing his lips against mine.
1:35 p.m.: The smoky taste of the whisky burns as Cassius slides his tongue into my mouth. He tastes me, exploring, while one hand rises to slide around the back of my neck, deepening the pressure along the vertebrae. It's been months since I've been with anyone—really been with anyone, not counting Brutus—and my body responds to his immediately, my hips meeting his with less hesitation than I would like. His free hand gladly lands on my waist, tight at first, and then slides up my bodice; he reaches behind me—his chest pressed flush against mine, prompting me to gasp into his mouth—and picks up something that only registers as a flash of silver until I realize he's slicing open the stitching at the front of my dress. "What are you doing?" I protest, leaning back as the letter opener flashes against my skin, but he holds me still, unfazed. "I'll fix it when I'm done," he informs me, and kisses me again, tossing the letter opener back onto his desk and tearing the stitching open with his hands, his fingers spreading over the curves of my breasts.
1:45 p.m.: He shifts me, sitting me on his desk and hastily drawing the silk of my gown up to my thighs before placing himself between them. Then he pauses, maddeningly, and begins to methodically roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt, folding the cuffs with a careful, agonizing patience. "Let your hair down," he tells me, not even looking up from the curation of his sleeves, and I tug the pins out of my usual polished twist. I set each pin down on his desk, one by one, until my pale blonde hair falls in waves down my shoulders, cascading over the delicate lace of my bra. Part of me knows, recalling whispers of admiration from lovers past, that this is when I'm most beautiful, and Cassius is not without some requisite affliction at the sight of me. He pauses, looking at me, and wraps his fingers loosely around the bared skin of my thighs. Then he strokes two fingers down from my clavicle, drawing them between my breasts as I inhale sharply, waiting. His mouth quirks with approval, and I reach forward, carefully undoing the buckle of his belt.
1:52 p.m.: I don't yank at the clasp of his trousers. I don't fumble with his zipper. He stands still, waiting, and when I've slid his cock free, he watches me eyeing his shaft in my hand, my thumb slipping over his tip. I can see the carved shape of the muscle that slopes from his torso, cutting down from his hips, and I admit, he is intriguing. I lean back against his desk, waiting. "Impress me," I beckon, as regally as I can. His mouth twitches again. "You're already impressed," he says, not unwarrantedly, and leans forward, kissing me again.
1:55 p.m.: He slides inside me effortlessly; there is nothing quite like the thrill of a liaison like this, and I know I'm wet before he touches me. I hardly require much foreplay beyond the way he leans back to look at me, watching the way I react to having him inside me. I can feel myself tense around him, unable to prevent an inadvertent shudder, and he draws my hips forward, taking slow, rhythmic motions to slide himself in and out of me. His thumb darts over my clit, and I shiver again; he knows what he's doing. So do I. I lean back onto my elbows, hitching my heels up on the desk and raising the angle of my hips, permitting him a better view of his cock as he fucks me. At that, his jaw tightens; a breath slides out sharply, and I lower my hand to my clit.
2:01 p.m.: I let my head fall back, my hair slipping from my shoulders, and his blue eyes fall hungrily on my breasts before he leans forward, sliding his tongue over my nipple as his belt buckle digs into my thigh. I hiss in opposition, anticipating a bruise, and he frowns with frustration, his brow furrowing as he registers the inadequacy of the angle. Before I can adjust, though, he picks me up, both hands under my thighs as I instinctively snake my arms around his neck, and he carries me over to the bookshelf, propping me up at a more pleasing height. His belt continues to dig into my skin, but by then, I no longer care; I have my fingers buried in his hair while he kisses my neck, and he's poised so perfectly at my clit I forget my discomfort. My dress is pushed up around my waist, the lace of my bra pulled below my breasts, and part of me wishes I were naked, wishes we were bare against each other, wishes I knew more things than I know now; like what his fingers feel like, his tongue, what his voice sounds like when he says my name—which we both know he isn't going to say. This is all we're getting. This is where this will end.
2:10 p.m.: I register that he's going to leave marks on my neck, but I can't bring myself care. By then, the rhythm he's built up is exploding inside me and I claw my nails into the back of his neck while I come, while he comes, while we finally permit ourselves to fall still, wrung out and probably injured in one way or another. He eases back, tensing the wrist that was holding us both up, and I rub my thumb across the tendon. Some simple spells I can do without a wand, which is something Caesar always liked about me. Cassius nods, impressed, and rolls out his healed wrist. "Well," he says, glancing over me. I disentangle myself from him, gesturing to my bodice. "Fix it," I say without expression, and he reaches back for his wand, obliging. "Reparo," he says in a murmur, in a way that makes me imagine how the words yes and fuck and pussy might sound on his lips.
2:20 p.m.: Cassius has a Floo in his office, thankfully. I hardly want to venture into Diagon Alley like this, which he seems to grasp. He seems to be searching around for something to say, so I spare him. "You're aware this was a mistake," I tell him, and he nods. "You'll be discreet?" I prompt, and he looks mildly amused. "I suspect I have more to lose by mentioning it than you do," he tells me, which might be true, or perhaps not. What does it really matter what the truth is?
2:25 p.m.: "Goodbye," I say, and before Cassius can say anything, I pass through the Floo into the one in my bedroom, my hair still loose around my shoulders. There's a sound in the corner, and I jump; Brutus stares expectantly at me, his arms folded over his chest. At least it wasn't Caesarion. "What?" I ask brusquely, daring him to question me about where I've been. He opens his mouth and closes it, biting down on the obvious; that there are red marks on my neck and the tops of my breasts, that my dress is wrinkled, my hair is loose and the lipstick he saw me leave with is gone. "Nothing," he manages eventually, and I head into the bathroom, half-wishing he'd said anything at all.
6:30 p.m.: I try to avoid Brutus for the rest of the day, but find him sitting in our dining room when I come down for dinner. He's waiting for me, a bottle of wine set out with our meal, and I register with discomfort that this appears to be some sort of attempt at romance. "Sit," he tells me, and I do, lacking many other options.
6:35 p.m.: "Are you trying to get back at me?" he asks in an egregiously patronizing tone, and I struggle not to groan. We're on neutral ground; outside of our bedroom, everything we do takes place within the realm of pretend, just in case our son wanders in. "If you're trying to punish me," Brutus begins quietly, and I glare sharply enough to stop him in his tracks. "Not everything I do is about you," I inform him, as that's apparently a novel concept. He hesitates. "The other day," he begins, and I cut him off which a shake of my head. "I don't care," I tell him, and though I wonder for a second if he'll persist, he doesn't. I don't know if I hate him more or less for that.
6:57 p.m.: The rest of the meal is virtually silent. Eventually, though, I can't take it. "We're in trouble," I tell him, "and in a way I don't know if I can fix." He doesn't look up, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek. "Please tell me it was only money," I say quietly, and he glances up, fixing his grey eyes on mine. "Please tell me there was nothing criminal," I plead again, and he hesitates much, much too long. I force my eyes shut; open them, hoping the world has changed, though it hasn't.
7:05 p.m.: "Why?" I demand harshly. Brutus stares at me. "You would have left me if I'd lost the money," he replies simply, but I refuse to take that as an answer. "What about our son?" I demand. "What about his future? What will happen if you're forced to—"
7:06 p.m.: "Forced to what?" Caesarion interrupts, revealing himself in the doorway. I break off, glancing down at my plate, and Brutus gives our son something of an uneasy smile. "Nothing," he says, and I want to take my steak knife and stab it into his heart. I can't be the one to tell Caesarion what's happened; not again. "Just a small problem," Brutus says, "but your mother and I are taking care of it."
7:10 p.m.: Caesarion doesn't believe him. Good. "Mother?" he asks me. I dab my napkin against my lips as Brutus gives me a warning glance, clearly hoping I'll say nothing. I glance down at my knife again, considering the damage I could cause. "I'm tired," I say, and rise to my feet, leaving my half-eaten dinner behind as I kiss Caesarion's cheek. "I'll take care of it for us," I murmur in my son's ear, and he nods uncertainly. I'm positive he remains unconvinced, but I don't want to worry him yet. Not before I hear from Octavius.
7:35 p.m.: If I leave Brutus now, I'll be able to speak against him at his trial. I'll be able to insist that Caesarion and I knew nothing about the missing funds. We don't have to go down with him—but the moment I think of sending Brutus to Azkaban, I suffer a wave of guilt. He barely survived it the last time; if he goes back now, he won't come out alive. I may loathe him, but I loved him once. We raised our son together. I've spent more than half my life being his wife, and pureblood marriage vows are not an easy thing to break.
8:15 p.m.: If I stay and two of the three in our family are presumed guilty, it will be difficult to prove Caesarion wasn't. Easier if I force Brutus to stand on his own. Would I do it to protect my son? Yes. Yes, I know I would. But do I really wish my husband dead?
9:45 p.m.: I'm still awake, staring at the ceiling, when an owl taps at my window.
9:48 p.m.: It isn't signed, but there's only one person who could have sent it. 'I have to see you again,' from Cassius.
9:56 p.m.: I toy with it for a few minutes, knowing it's a mistake, but I'm too angry at my husband to make good decisions. I'm too hurt by Octavius' accusations. I'm too lonely, too heartbroken, too sad. 'Tomorrow night,' I write back, sending it with his owl just as Brutus comes into the bedroom.
10:15 p.m.: "I'll fix it," Brutus whispers to me when I slip into bed beside him. I don't turn around. "You can't fix it," I tell him bluntly, because he and I both know he's never been able to fix anything without my help. Rather than wait for an answer, though, I merely close my eyes, hoping I'll manage to sleep.
DAY FOUR
9:04 a.m.: When I wake up in the morning, Brutus is gone. There's no evidence of him downstairs, either, though Caesarion is awake, staring into space. "Sweetheart," I say, and he turns, dragging his mind from a thousand faraway places. "Mother, what's happening with you and Father?" he asks me.
9:15 a.m.: "Marriage is sometimes very difficult," I tell him. He nods. "Is it any easier, do you think, when the marriage isn't arranged?" he asks me, and I consider it. Of the men I have loved of my own volition, I doubt a relationship would have been any easier. Marriage to Caesar or Antony would have come with problems of their own, and in truth, I don't quite know how to imagine a life where I wasn't married to Brutus. "I think that people change very easily," I tell Caesarion, who nods, "and any relationship may, at times, take on very different forms. Love is very powerful," I add, "but it isn't everything. Sometimes duty and responsibility do most of the work, while love waits for happier times."
9:20 a.m.: "I'm seeing someone," my son tells me, "and I don't think you or Father will approve." I don't tell him that he would hardly approve of my liaisons either; that seems an unhelpful remark. Instead, I try to comfort him, placing my hand on his shoulder. "If she makes you happy," I tell him, "then that's enough for me. Within reason," I add quickly, because if it's anyone Brutus has slept with (among which would be Caesarion's first girlfriend, unfortunately), I doubt I can bring myself to look at her. Caesarion smiles warily. "I'm not ready to tell you who it is yet," he tells me, and I nod. He's my son, after all, and I know the value of a secret. Some things are too delicate not to keep safe until the time is right.
9:34 a.m.: Reflecting on my son reminds me of Helios, and the quidditch things I wanted to send him. "Do you mind if I send some of your old toys to Helios?" I ask Caesarion, who shrugs. "Sure," he says, but reminds me that some of his brooms are valuable vintage models. I know this, having been the one who bought them. Still, it seems wise to strike them from our possessions, if only so as not to watch them being taken away by the Ministry. "Thank you, sweetheart," I tell him, and he smiles at me. He doesn't smile often; like his father, his natural expression leans towards wry disdain. I always like catching glimpses of myself in him, and I like to imagine his happiness belongs to me. "You're welcome, Mother," he says, and excuses himself, heading into his bedroom.
3:37 p.m.: That afternoon, my sister Arsinoe sends me a photograph of Helios wearing Caesarion's first keeper helmet. It's a little big for him (Caesarion had an immensely large head as a child) but it's adorable, and I Floo her to thank her for sending it. "I should be thanking you," she tells me with a sigh, and suddenly disappears. "Sorry," she says when she returns, breathless. "He's just been off—HELIOS, SLOW DOWN—" "Go," I tell her, laughing, and she waves frantically at me before ending the call.
4:45 p.m.: It occurs to me that I still haven't seen Brutus. I wonder whether he's committing further conspiracy, or if it's merely adultery again. I can't believe that my marriage has become the sort of hellscape where the latter is a far more promising sign.
6:04 p.m.: An owl finds me in my sitting room. There's very little in the letter; only the location of his house, and then one word: 'Now?'
6:10 p.m.: I walk in to find Cassius waiting for me just across the fireplace. He lives in a small cottage near the ocean, from what I can see through the window, and on the roof, I can hear the pattern of rain starting to fall outside. Next to the fireplace is a small pile of things; suitcases and boxes, by the look of it. "My wife's things," he explains when I look over at it, his expression hardening slightly. "Is she coming to pick them up?" I ask, and he shrugs. "Next week," he says, "but I started packing for her." He pauses, swallowing, and then quietly, he adds, "I was losing my mind."
6:15 p.m.: I step closer to him. Outside, the rain is starting to fall more aggressively, like a scattered, racing pulse. "I'm not going to fuck you in the house you shared with your wife," I inform him, and he manages a humorless chuckle. "There's an inn nearby," he tells me, and I nod. "We're going there," I say.
6:20 p.m.: "We shouldn't be doing this," he murmurs to me while the innkeeper hunts for a key, babbling over her shoulder about the room upstairs and what a remarkably lovely couple Cassius and I are. "No," I agree, and ask if he wants to stop now. His blue gaze cuts to mine, raking over me. "I couldn't stop thinking about you yesterday," he says, and I swallow. "I left work early," he adds, "because I was going mad in that office, and—" "Ah, here's the key!" the innkeeper interrupts, brandishing it in Cassius' face. He quickly turns towards her, the flush along the outside of his cheeks the only remaining evidence of what he'd been saying to me.
6:27 p.m.: The room is small but quaint, and from the large window we can still see the rain pouring outside. I move to close the curtains but Cassius stops me, pausing me where I stand. "The way the light hits your hair," he explains, and I loosen it from its pins again, letting it fall down the length of my spine.
6:28 p.m.: I unbutton my blouse, one by one, and his gaze follows my fingers.
6:29 p.m.: I unzip my skirt, letting it fall to the floor.
6:30 p.m.: I reach behind me, loosening the clasp of my bra, and then let it slip from my hand.
6:31 p.m.: I slide my knickers down, stepping out of them and keeping my eyes on his, waiting.
6:32 p.m.: Cassius removes a hand from his pocket, dragging it slowly around his mouth, and then takes a few long strides towards me. He comes to a halt directly in front of me, pausing for a moment, and then gently sits me down on the Victorian chair by the window, lowering himself to his knees. He doesn't say a word; he merely settles himself between my thighs and looks up at me for a long, discerning moment before he lowers his mouth to my cunt, sliding his tongue over me and then pulling back. "I'd hoped you'd taste like this," he says softly, and I try not to shudder as he eases my legs further apart, draping them over his shoulders.
6:43 p.m.: I curve my hand around Cassius' jaw as he licks at me, sliding his tongue inside me and then replacing it with his fingers, thrusting them into me while he busies his mouth on my clit. I've had excellent cunnilingus before—Brutus is no slouch, certainly—and this is no exception. Cassius makes me come with relative ease, and when I tighten my fingers in his hair, he looks up at me, staring for a long moment. "You're a queen," he tells me, matter-of-factly, and I press the arch of my foot to his chest, nudging him back. "Would you like to be a king?" I ask him, rising to my feet.
6:51 p.m.: I strip Cassius of his shirt, his belt, his trousers, sliding my hands along the muscle of his chest and torso before pressing them into the lines of his hips. I stroke his cock through his underwear for a few moments, waiting until his breath quickens, and then I slide those off too, letting them pool on the ground before gesturing for him to sit in the chair, upright. He watches—partly bemused, partly wanting—as I turn my back towards him, making him my throne while I slowly rotate my hips. He pulls me closer, hastily reaching for my clit; I swat his hands away, reaching behind me to take hold of his shaft and then sliding him into me, guiding his hands to my breasts. I lean my back against his chest, still rocking slowly above him, and I'm rewarded with the hiss between his teeth, the impact of it brushing my ear. He says my name, and it's no less charged than what I imagined; I shift my legs to roll my hips encouragingly, and he groans masculine, meaningless things (fuck, god you're so—fuck, yes, fuck it's so good, you feel so—you're so—fuck, fuck, fuck) and presses his lips into the curve of my neck.
7:04 p.m.: Cassius hikes one of my legs up to rest my foot on his thigh, dropping his fingers to my clit, and soon we're both panting, both starting to sweat. I struggle to keep my rhythm controlled, wanting suddenly for everything to be harder, faster, more violent, and eventually he picks me up, sliding out of me and throwing me back on the bed. I pull him close without hesitation, savoring the way his hands rise to covet my breasts, and I come just before he does, both of us letting out incoherent gasps of something that's equally satisfaction and idle, stupefying torment.
7:18 p.m.: I could leave, I know, but I don't want to. Cassius takes a lock of my hair, loosely wrapping it around his finger, and I don't think he wants me to go either. After a moment, I trace the scars on his cheeks, drawing the pads of my fingers gently over his brow. "What happened to your face?" I ask him quietly, and he sighs, his eyes floating shut. "Your side did this to me," he says, and I blink. For all that I've been with the wrong people before, I've never actually been with someone who was on the opposing side. "How?" I ask, and he merely replies with the name of a werewolf Brutus used to consort with.
7:26 p.m.: "Do you blame me for what happened to you?" I ask. "Yes," Cassius says without hesitation. I blink, surprised. "Not just you," he clarifies, "but certainly everyone who believed what you believed." "Then why are you here now?" I demand, and for whatever reason, he laughs. He laughs. "I don't know," he says, and reminds me that I was a terrible idea from the start. I knew as much, obviously, but not for the same reasons. I touch his cheek again, wondering what to say. "I'm sorry," I tell him, and he turns his head, brushing his lips against my palm. "Thank you for saying that," he says, affording me the kindness of acceptance, which strikes me as far more than I deserve.
7:28 p.m.: It's never actually occurred to me to be sorry before. I'd so long thought of my family's crimes as belonging to Brutus alone, but clearly they're mine, too, even if I never technically raised a wand in defense of my prejudices. I worried about the implications of our choices, of course, but never like this. I'd never wondered what centuries of my family's rhetoric might have cost a handsome young man who'd done no wrong. I find it doesn't sit well with me at all, even as Cassius slides an arm around my waist, drawing lightly with his nails against my skin.
7:43 p.m.: "I've only ever been with girls before—does that make sense?" he asks me, mindlessly twining his fingers with mine. "I'm used to being needed," he clarifies, "but I'm pretty sure you don't need me at all." I don't tell him that I actually need a great many things, but he's right, at least, that he is definitely not one of them. "I'm certainly not a young girl anymore," I say instead, intending to be wry and graceful about my age, but he shakes his head. "You're a woman," he tells me, a satisfied smile pulling at his lips. "A queen," he amends, brushing his lips against my knuckles. "And you're at least closer to my age than the last married woman I was with," he adds guiltily as I arch a brow, facetiously disapproving. "Well," I say, "good to know I'm not the only dearth of morals in the room."
7:56 p.m.: He doesn't hold me, exactly. We're not clinging to each other, per se, but it's comfortable to be by his side, facing each other while we remain naked on the bed. Antony always wanted to hold me; I think it was his way of feeling close to me, of feeling like he had more of me than merely whatever I permitted to come and go. I suffer another wave of guilt and Cassius draws a hand over my arm, misinterpreting my unease. "Does this bother you?" he asks. I shake my head. He can't know the truth of it, of course, but for all that Cassius is unwise and ill-advised and a poor show of judgment, he is still objectively a better sin than Caesar and Antony both. Actually, if I'd met him under other circumstances, perhaps I'd feel no guilt at all. Perhaps he'd be rather good for me, if I were even remotely free to give any parts of myself away. "It doesn't bother me," I say firmly, and he nods, satisfied.
8:15 p.m.: Eventually Cassius leans forward, brushing his lips against my forehead; he kisses each part of my face with a slow, unhurried motion, from eyelid to eyelid and then down to my lips, tilting my chin up. There's something very syrupy about our kisses like this—something treacle sweet and rich and full, the two of us still lying on our sides—and eventually he snakes an arm around my ribs as I roll on top of him, settling him on his back and shifting to straddle his hips. "Do you need to get back soon?" he asks me, his fingers still tracing patterns on my arms, and I shake my head. "He doesn't care," I say honestly, as Cassius reaches up, drawing my face down to his. "He's an idiot," Cassius says, and kisses me. "A stupid—" (another kiss) "—dumb—" (kiss) "—did I say stupid?—" (a longer kiss, my tongue darting against the roof of his mouth before a muffled "yes") "—stupid idiot," he finishes, and then groans as I slide his cock inside me, easing back to sit upright.
8:42 p.m.: By the time he's rolled over me, one of his arms hooked firmly under one of my legs, he and I both know I'm not going anywhere. The rain outside continues to pour, beating down on the roof of the inn, and I know without a trace of doubt that whenever it rains next, I'm going to think of the way it felt to have Cassius' eyes on mine.
DAY FIVE
7:13 a.m.: When I wake in the morning, I find that one of my legs is tucked under Cassius', my shoulder pinned beneath his. I normally sleep with the intent to keep my distance from Brutus, so it's an interesting sensation to discover human contact when I open my eyes. I shift slightly, sliding out from under him, and he stirs, turning to look at me. For some reason, I worry he might say something—what he would possibly say, though, I have no idea—so I kiss him, my hands steadily framing his face and capturing his startled half-gasp between my lips. He responds quickly, almost greedily, his hands spreading over me without hesitation or restraint.
7:24 a.m.: Oh, he's very good. He's very, very good. I recall my thoughts on sex with Brutus and compare them to Cassius, because while this is still carnal—this is desperate and shameless and entirely about touch, about the tactility of skin and the necessity of closeness—there is intimacy here, too. I haven't said aloud that I am lonely, exhausted, scared; he hasn't said aloud that he is aching, hollow, breaking, but somehow I know we still feel it. I know he can feel it in the way I reach for him, not allowing an inch of him to ever be away from some spare inch of me, and I can feel it in the way he bends his forehead to my shoulder, dragging in a breath from wherever he is drowning. We are filling each other's empty spaces. We are carrying each other's pain. What sort of sex is that? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. But I know I want him now, and that's enough.
7:49 a.m.: I'm in the bathroom renewing some beauty charms when I hear Cassius open and close the door; we still haven't spoken yet, aside from a relatively tender kiss against my temple that struck me, somehow, as good morning. "Who was that?" I ask, and he holds up the Daily Prophet, gesturing to a cup of coffee on a small tray. "For you," he explains, sipping his own, and then glances down, skimming the paper. "Huh," he remarks, as I take hold of the cup, wrapping my fingers around it and enjoying the way the warm ceramic feels in my hand. "What?" I ask, taking a sip, and he glances up. "A Death Eater died," he says, and for a second, my heart stops.
7:56 a.m.: He explains quickly that it isn't my husband (I figured as much, as I doubt even he would have said it to me so carelessly) but it's someone I've known for a long time; the father of Caesarion's first girlfriend, in fact. His mind was going—had been since the war ended, actually—and he'd been in St Mungo's under the watch of a dementor. He was a friend of Brutus', I think, at one time, and I believe his daughter was very close to him—though I hardly want to consider her feelings at the moment. "They think it might be foul play," Cassius remarks, and I blink. "Aren't there surveillance charms? And a dementor in his room?" I ask, and Cassius nods. "That's the thing," he says, pointing to the article as I sit beside him, "the death didn't seem unnatural, but all the charms around his room were disabled." It strikes me as problematic, but I tuck it aside.
8:01 a.m.: After a few more minutes quietly sipping coffee, Cassius sets the paper down, leaning over. He slides his hand up the inside of my thigh, resting it there, and turns my chin towards him, kissing me. "What if I want to see you again?" he asks, and I listen for any signs of trouble; any problematic neediness I might need to be wary of. I don't hear anything. In fact, I merely think a second time that he and I are the same; we're people who wear masks, who made our lives into lies, and we simply can't summon the strength to wear them all the time.
8:05 a.m.: We kiss again, for a bit, until it looks as though it might lead to something more; neither of us have the time for another irresponsible dalliance, so I nudge his hand out from under my skirt and adjust the buttons of his shirt, straightening his collar. He, in turn, fixes a loose curl of my hair, tucking it thoughtfully behind my ear. I'm used to being a wife, and he's used to having one; I don't think either of us realizes what we're doing until it's already been done, and then we're both sheepish. "Maybe we shouldn't," I begin to say, and he nods. "I understand," he tells me, and we stand, ready to part ways.
8:10 a.m.: I opt to apparate into my bedroom, where the bed is still made. I wonder if Brutus ever came home yesterday. I wonder if it's even worth thinking about, and then abruptly conclude that it isn't.
9:15 a.m.: After I've fixed myself for the day I come downstairs to find Caesarion reading the Daily Prophet, a bit of worry furrowed into his pale brow. "What is it?" I ask, preparing myself to express a renewed bout of dismay, but Caesarion doesn't say what I thought he would. "Father was gone all day yesterday," he remarks, and then looks up, catching my eye. "Do you know why?" he asks me, and I feel a cold chill of apprehension.
9:20 a.m.: "I don't," I say, and Caesarion's mouth tightens. "I think something is very wrong," he tells me, rising to his feet to stand beside me. "I think you and Father don't want to tell me that something's wrong, but I'm a grown man, Mother," he says, and I wish I could deny my son anything. I wish I could tell him anything other than the truth. "Your father and I aren't very happy," I tell him, and he nods. "And there's a chance that—" I hesitate, not wanting to say it, but Caesarion nods again. Someone's obviously said something to him. "Did you know about it?" he asks me, and I start to shake my head, but then I stop. "I should have known," I said, "but I didn't want to."
9:45 a.m.: Caesarion and I sit down to breakfast; I note that he takes a moment to thank our elf for the food, which is not typically his practice. "Sweetheart," I say tentatively, "may I ask you something?" He looks up warily, and I give him what I can feel is a tired half-smile. "We've never really talked about the war," I say, and I can tell this isn't what he expected. "Or the fact that we live in a very different world now," I attempt, not sure how to express my thoughts less ambiguously, and he tilts his head, thinking.
9:52 a.m.: "I feel guilty," Caesarion says eventually. "I feel foolish," he adds, "and blinded." "Do you blame me for that?" I ask hesitantly, and he grimaces again. "Not blame, exactly," he says, which is an admission in itself, "though I do think you were wrong." I nod. "I think I was wrong, too," I tell him, and he looks up, his grey eyes filled with something like relief.
10:11 a.m.: Eventually, he slides the Daily Prophet article over to me. "It's her father," he explains, referring to his first girlfriend again. "They were very close—do you think I should talk to her?" he asks me, and I can see he's truly asking, because he doesn't know. I don't know, either. I doubt she'd be stupid enough to bring up the fact that she slept with Brutus for months, but still, part of me wants to protect him from the possibility. I remember, though, that Caesarion is a man, and he should be a man made to face consequences; unlike his parents, who cause wreckage wherever they turn. "If you think you should, then perhaps you should," I tell him eventually.
10:15 a.m.: Caesarion is silent for a long moment, thinking about something. Then, tentatively, he asks, "Father couldn't have done this, right?" I blink, realizing what's been bothering me. The man who is now dead had a degenerative brain illness; what if Brutus was trying to silence him before he gave them both away? The word conspiracy darts in front of my eyes again, and I blink it away. "Surely not," I tell our son firmly, clearing my throat and forcing a smile.
11:20 a.m.: The moment Caesarion is gone, I scribble a note to Octavius. 'Any news?' I ask, signing my initials. I glance over the script of them, recalling again how long I've been Brutus' wife; how long I've carried Brutus' name. I don't remember what it was like to be anything else, but I consider again that perhaps I should. Any further, and I may not be able to persist innocence. The time I have to keep myself and my son clean seems to be shrinking with each passing hour, and I am loath to consider the consequences should it come to be too late.
6:45 p.m.: Brutus comes home when I am waiting for him at the dinner table. He stops abruptly, looking at me, and I can see the darkness in the crevices around his eyes. "It's not a woman," he tells me, and when I lift a brow, he adds, "I'm doing this for us. I'm doing this because we'll lose everything if I don't."
6:51 p.m.: "What do we have left to lose that matters?" I ask him, and he glances around warily, looking for Caesarion. "He's not here. Sit," I command testily, and Brutus sits, staring wordlessly at me. "Our marriage is in shambles," I tell him. This is not news. "If you've resorted to crime, Brutus, I don't know what we have left." "We have a family," he insists, reaching across the table for my hand. "We have our family, and I'm fighting for it—" "Are you?" I interrupt, and he pauses, startled. "I didn't want this life," I inform him, slamming my palms against the table and pushing back from my chair, pacing our dining room. "I never asked you for wealth. I never asked you for this house, these heirlooms, these meaningless things," I fling at him, gesturing around, and he looks as though I've slapped him. He looks as though he can't possibly understand what I mean.
6:57 p.m.: "Why couldn't it have been simple?" I beg him. "Why couldn't you just love me?" I demand, and he opens his mouth to argue, but I'm not finished. "I was young and stupid enough to believe you would love me simply because I was your wife, but—" I dissolve into something that isn't quite sobs; my breathing becomes strenuous and I clutch at my chest, inelegantly panting. "I only ever wanted you to love me," I say, and Brutus, I note, seems to be equally in pain.
7:01 p.m.: "I did love you," he tells me, "I do—" "How can this be love?" I beg, plead, accuse. "How can it be love when it hurts me more than it helps me? When it makes me feel as if I'm alone?" I demand, and he rises to his feet, his hands reaching out for me until I shrink back, wishing I possessed the constitution to cast a spell that would keep him away. Wishing, in fact, that I wouldn't miss him if he were gone. "We're not young anymore," he tells me, lamenting it, as if that somehow explains anything. As if knowing I've spent my life growing older and less desirable beside him is enough to make me forgive the things he's done. "I have only ever loved you, everything else has only been—" He sputters. "Nothing else but you has ever mattered to me," he insists, and while I know it's isn't a lie, it isn't a particularly helpful truth. "You still hurt me," I fling at him. "You hurt me, and now I can't forgive you!" I shout, and he comes closer, and I don't move. "You broke my heart when I was eighteen years old," I whisper as he takes me in his arms, "and you break it now, every day."
7:10 p.m.: He holds me in silence, his hand cupped around my hair, and a younger version of myself recalls how much I longed for this, how much I wished he'd seen me as something other than the girl whose father had forced his father's hand. Brutus wanted Arsinoe, I know, if not for her better nature, then for her better value; he got the money, of course, but only after my family's reputation had been tainted. I wasn't enough for him then, and I'm not enough for him now. He whispers in my ear over and over that he loves me, but suddenly, on perhaps the tenth refrain of the words that have lost all meaning, I realize that perhaps he isn't enough for me, either. Perhaps we've never been enough for each other, and we've foolishly spent our lives wanting to believe we could ever really be more.
7:21 p.m.: "Did you kill him?" I murmur, when my tears have dried and all I feel is a hollow, empty ache. I feel Brutus swallow tightly. "I had to," he says, "for us. His mind was going, and if I wanted to save us, if I wanted to make all of this go away—"
7:22 p.m.: I pull away, stunned and disbelieving, and Brutus calls after me, begs me to wait, but I don't. I can't. I can't wait, and I don't even know where I'm going until I get there. I walk through the Floo and Cassius looks up, startled, and to my relief, he doesn't ask. He doesn't say anything. He holds out a hand and I take it, letting out a breath, as he pulls me into the kitchen, sitting me down at a small table and pouring me a gratuitously large glass of whisky. "Drink," he suggests, sliding it over to me, and I nod, raising it to my lips as he pours himself a glass and sits beside me. Minutes pass in silence, and when I feel like I might cry again, I tip my head back, draining the glass. I look at Cassius, and he looks back at me. "The sofa might be more comfortable," he suggests, pointing to it, and I stand. "I'll pour you another glass," he tells me, and I nod mutely, heading into the living room as he turns back into the kitchen.
7:38 p.m.: I'm sitting on the sofa when Cassius returns, another full glass in his hands. He looks at me, considering something, and then he sets both glasses down on the coffee table, getting to his knees and slowly drawing my dress up my legs. I hesitate, my breath hitching, and he looks up at me as he places his mouth delicately against the slit of my cunt, his hands massaging into my thighs. I say nothing. He says nothing. He sucks my clit through the silk of my knickers and I lean my head back, light sparkling behind my eyelids as my head begins to spin.
7:42 p.m.: Cassius pulls away, reaching for the whisky, and hands me the glass as he slides my knickers down my legs, pushing my knees aside. I let him yank my hips forward, the whisky sloshing onto my hand as I slurp it artlessly from the curve of my thumb, and then he puts his mouth in me in earnest, my legs beginning to shake as I bring the glass to my lips. With my free hand, I tighten it in his hair—in his red hair, a sure sign that he belongs to a family I hate, have always hated, and yet now care nothing at all about—and angle my hips up, permitting him to go deeper, to have more of me. The whisky burns at my throat and withheld sobs burn at my eyes and I am aching, I want more fully than I have ever known I could want, and I'm grateful this is not a man who claims to love me. He's not Caesar, whose love drove both of us to madness; he's not Antony, whose love made us both into fools; best of all, he's not Brutus, whose love drove me here. Drove me to this. Thank god Cassius doesn't love me. Thank god he can make me come like this.
8:05 p.m.: My second glass is empty and I no longer care that Cassius' wife's things are in the corner of the room. I pull him onto the sofa, pulling his trousers down only low enough that the zipper doesn't pound into the bruise from two days prior, and I straddle him as he draws his mouth to my breasts, curling his tongue around my nipples. I feel sick and feverish, I feel worn and wrung out and ruined, and I bite down hard on the muscles of his neck as he makes me come again, buried deep in the hollowness I feel. He hurriedly shifts above me, twisting around, and my vision of his face starts to swim as he comes, choking out something that I swear is missed you today—thought about you all day—what the fuck have you done to me? I don't know, I want to tell him, I don't know; but then he staggers against me and I hold him, precisely as I know I shouldn't.
8:29 p.m.: Strangely, we do things in reverse. After he fucks me he delicately undresses me, kissing my thighs, my hips, my stomach as he slides my dress up over my head. For a moment, the fabric parts us, but when he's risen to eye level again I tighten my fingers into the slats of his ribs, pausing him. "What happened?" I ask, which is a dangerous question, because the more I know about him, the worse it will get. He pauses for a moment, toying with my hair, and then he slowly removes the pins, letting it fall down around my shoulders.
8:45 p.m.: "I could feel her unhappiness," he says, "but didn't know how to fix it. We wanted the same things, or so I'd thought, but then she wanted more, and I didn't know how to be more. I've never had to be more. I'm the oldest, I always had to do everything right, but I—" He exhales, and I wait, stroking his hair. "I didn't realize there was such a vast distinction between looking perfect and being good enough for someone," he says wryly, in a way that reeks of misery, and I shift to look at him. "I know exactly what you mean," I say, and he nods, as if he'd already guessed as much.
8:57 p.m.: I drop my fingers to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one as he continues talking, the low growl of his voice resonating beneath my hands. "We tried an open marriage," he says, "and I think that's where the trouble started. I think they can work, don't get me wrong," he adds, as I nod, carefully removing each of his shoes and brushing my thumb against the arches of his feet, "but I think it only works when you do it for the right reasons. Our reason was that we were unhappy on our own, which isn't exactly a good place to start. Other people can't fix a marriage that's broken from the inside." I pause, kissing the inside of his knee, and glance up. "Are you going to be okay?" I ask him. He arches a brow. "Are you?" he asks in return.
9:02 p.m.: I clear my throat. "Should I leave my husband?" I ask him, and Cassius shrugs. "Do you love him?" he prompts. Yes, in some terrible way, in a way that's mostly habit; in the sense that when I look at our son, whom I love most in the world, I see his father's face, and love him for it. I love Brutus in a way that means I don't know if I can betray him; not after I spent so long fighting for him. "Doesn't your wife love you?" I ask instead, and Cassius flinches. "Ouch," he says, but I shrug. "Love isn't always enough," I say, "is it?" He nods. "I love her, and I believe she loves me," he agrees, "but I think the time for our love has passed."
9:12 p.m.: We're naked now, and I'm in his lap. Sex would be the obvious thing, but not yet. "When did you know it was over?" I whisper to him, and he shakes his head. "When I could see my life without her," he says. "For a long time," he explains, "I could only ever see her. But now…" He trails off, and in the silence that remains, I try to see my life. I'm fairly drunk, really, so seeing much of anything is difficult, but it's difficult to see myself without Brutus. I see myself, Brutus, and Caesarion, and it's all I've ever seen. Even with Caesar, even with Antony; I saw the three of us, and perhaps I see it now, even as I start to grind on Cassius' lap. His breath hitches, his fingers tightening on my hips, and I lower my lips to his.
1:13 a.m.: "You came back," says Brutus, who is sitting at the edge of our bed when I return. "I said I would protect you," I tell him, "and I will." In truth, it's the only reason I came home. Well, that, and because even in my drunken haze, I didn't want to sleep in Cassius' room, taking up his wife's side of the bed.
1:15 p.m.: I fall into our bed, knowing perfectly well I smell like another man's cologne and wondering if that will ever be enough to make my husband give me a reason not to stray.
DAY SIX
11:17 a.m.: There's hangover potion beside me on the nightstand when I wake up, along with an owl. I jump, noticing the seal, but Brutus doesn't appear to have read it. I shakily rip it open, read the message, and down the potion, hurriedly getting dressed.
12:01 p.m.: "Well?" I ask breathlessly, scarcely waiting until I've walked into Octavius' office before I speak. He looks up at me, the scar on his forehead particularly distinct as he rubs his temple, and then he beckons for me to sit. "It's not good," he says, and I hold my breath.
12:04 p.m.: "Can you account for where your husband was two days ago?" Octavius asks, and I swallow hard. "Yes," I say, and Octavius arches a brow, clearly dubious. "You're still an Auror building a case against him," I remind him, and Octavius shrugs. "Fair enough," he agrees, but adds that murder is now a possible offense. "You could be considered complicit," he adds, and I struggle not to scream, forcing myself to stay calm. "So what can I do?" I ask him, holding my breath.
12:10 p.m.: He tells me Brutus' only option is to run. He says that the better option is, of course, if I simply turn Brutus in. Octavius says he'll protect me if I want to be the one to tell the Aurors what I know. "If you do it, you won't be investigated," he assures me, "and neither will Caesarion." I blink. "Why?" I ask, and he starts to give some sort of legal explanation, but I hold up a hand. "I meant why do you want to help me?" I amend, and he hesitates, looking uncomfortable. "Maybe because you told a lie once that saved my life," he reminds me, "or maybe because the man I love loved you once, and that means something to me."
12:20 p.m.: I stare at him. "You love Antony?" I echo, and Octavius shrugs, though in the same motion, he looks as though he might fight me if I question how he feels; like he might fight anyone over it, and I realize that I recognize the feeling. Octavius loves Antony in much the same way I love my family. In a way that means I can't possibly turn my husband in, because I'd rather harm myself than see harm come to him. "If Brutus runs," I say slowly, "then what?"
12:27 p.m.: Octavius looks disappointed, but not surprised. "I've arranged for a portkey that will take him out of the country," he says, handing me a fine-toothed comb that is missing a few bristles. "Aurors will be at your house tomorrow morning, and this will be active for exactly five minutes. It will take Brutus out of our jurisdiction, but he's on his own from there. They'll want someone to blame," Octavius adds, "so he'll have to keep running. He'll have to run for the rest of his life." I stare at the comb. "An unregistered portkey is illegal," I note, and his expression doesn't change. "This is obstruction. You could lose your job. You could be arrested—" "Then don't make me regret it," Octavius interrupts me, and I can see he knows precisely what he's done. I know, too, that he did it for Antony. Whatever Octavius may claim that he owes to me personally, and however much he may want to keep Caesarion from harm, I know that it's because of Antony that he would risk this much.
12:45 p.m.: "Thank you," I say quietly, tucking the comb into my pocket, and Octavius nods stiffly. There doesn't seem to be much left to say, so I leave without elaboration or farewell.
1:30 p.m.: The first place I go from the Ministry is Diagon, directly into the shop that I only now realize belongs to Cassius' brother. It's too late now, naturally, to feel overly burdened by the obvious piecing of these things together, so I head for my sister Arsinoe, who's sorting through the store's budget. I call her name, breathless, and she looks up, surprised and pleased; "What is it?" she asks, but the truth freezes on my tongue. "I just wanted to see you," I force out, managing what I hope is a smile.
3:34 p.m.: I spend the rest of the afternoon playing with Helios and chatting with Arsinoe, who gratifyingly doesn't ask me too many questions. She says Helios loves the new brooms I sent over, though she's finding it much more difficult to make him focus on anything else, and I laugh. He is very much like Caesarion, only with a much better mother. I run my hand over his smooth, bright blue hair, and press a kiss to his forehead, expressing something to him that he won't understand for many more years, or perhaps ever.
3:38 p.m.: "I'm happy to have you here," Arsinoe tells me, and I reach a hand out, squeezing her fingers. "I love you," I tell my sister, "and I wish we were never apart." "That's the past," she reminds me, and I force a nod, a smile. "Yes, of course," I agree.
4:15 p.m.: When I come home, I find Antony waiting for me on my sofa. "Is Caesarion here?" I ask, glancing around, and Antony shakes his head. "I was waiting for you," he tells me, and I can't help it; I rush towards him, colliding with his chest, and he sets his arms around me carefully, brushing his lips against the top of my head.
4:20 p.m.: I think I can feel in his touch that there are some lingering feelings between us; maybe it's something I simply want to believe, but I am such a liar, even to myself, that there's really no telling what's true. I can feel myself want him, and I can feel a tiny sliver of him that still wants me, and I pull away, glancing up at him. "I loved you because you were everything I wasn't," I say, forcing the past tense as I brush my thumb over his cheek, "so don't go backwards now. Take what you have and fight for it." He nods, at once burdened and grateful, and I finally feel that I've done right by him. Far too late, obviously, but at least it can still be managed.
4:32 p.m.: "It's not too late for you, you know," Antony tells me in his dry voice, fixing his eyes on mine in a way I really wish he wouldn't. As the words register, though, I recall my sister's words from earlier this week; it's nice to start over, she says in my mind, and I consider that perhaps it would be. Perhaps Antony's right.
4:35 p.m.: "Thank you," I tell Antony, because as much as this was Octavius' doing, Brutus would be facing prison tomorrow if not for Antony. And what a strange thing, too, considering how much Antony hates Brutus. I don't want to think about what it means that Antony's done this for me; I'll miss him too much if I do. Antony's a far better man than Brutus, a vastly better man than Caesar; I wish the circumstances of our lives had been different, but they're not. Octavius, at least, is a man worthy of Antony. "Go," I tell Antony, not wanting him to say anything that might ruin us both, and he nods. Really, what we would do for the people we love is an astounding, discomfiting thing. He lowers his head, brushing his lips across my palm, and then he leaves without looking back.
6:57 p.m.: I skip dinner this evening, and Brutus comes to find me in our bedroom. "What is it?" he asks, and I hold up the comb. "You have to leave," I say, and I can feel him hold his breath from across the room. And then, inevitably, he says it: "Come with me. You and Caesarion both, please. Come with me."
7:15 p.m.: I knew he would ask. I've been thinking all day what my answer will be, and I still don't know. He's had to ask me to stay before, and I've done it—why? I don't know. I don't think I'll ever know. I try to picture my life without my husband and I can't do it. I doubt he can picture his life without me, without our son, and I understand why he's asked it. But for once, I want this to be about the two of us; about him, and about me.
7:17 p.m.: "Is it too late for you to love me?" I ask him, and he closes his eyes beneath it, as if I've stabbed him in the heart. "I've always loved you," he tells me. "I've loved you for so long," he says pleadingly, "that I don't know how to feel anything but love for you." He takes my hand and tells me we've hurt each other badly, that we've been punished enough; "Let's take it back to the start," he whispers to me, making promises we haven't made for years, and when he kisses me, I let him. I taste my husband and let him settle between my lips, familiar and strange, as if what I've always wanted is finally on the tip of my tongue.
7:20 p.m.: "Only you," he tells me as he tears my dress from my shoulders, fumbling with the zipper and dropping the material to the floor. "I only want you," he mutters into my bare skin, and then he deposits me roughly on our bed, repeating the same words over and over like a psalm, like a prayer. I hold him close, permitting myself to cling to whatever we could be; because this is it for me, isn't it? I've built too much of my life around this man, and I cannot let him go. He slides into me, both of us aching, and he doesn't look away. "Will you go with me?" he whispers, and I look into his familiar grey eyes. "I'll go with you," I promise, and he lets out a breath I suspect he's been holding for a very long time, kissing my neck and cradling my face while he makes love to me.
8:15 p.m.: Brutus falls asleep afterwards and I slip out, walking to my closet and running my hands over the fine silks of my dresses; the lace, the cashmere, the materials I may not wear again for a very, very long time. I'm sure I'll miss the money, but it was only ever an illusion. It was never really what I needed. I pull on a grey wool sweater and a pair of black trousers, leaving my hair loose, and then I head through the Floo, looking for Cassius.
8:45 p.m.: "I hoped I'd see you," Cassius says, and I force a smile. "I don't think you'll see me again for some time," I tell him, "so try not to believe whatever you read about me in the papers tomorrow." "Why do you care what I think?" Cassius asks, gesturing around his living room. He's done more packing, I see. "I'm a mess," he reminds me, and I shake my head. "You aren't," I promise him, and he bends his head, kissing me. I kiss him back, as sweetly as I can. "You're going to be okay," I tell him. "How do you know?" he prompts, grinning slightly as he slides his arms around my waist. "I'll cast a benediction for you every night," I say, and his grin broadens. "I'd like to know you're thinking about me," he concedes, and I will be. I'm positive I will be.
9:15 p.m.: "You could stay," he whispers temptingly in my ear, and it's alarming that he says those words, considering what I've recently decided, only I know what he's really asking. "I can't promise anything actually worth staying for," he acknowledges with a grim chuckle, "but if you wanted to be wildly irresponsible with me, I think we could do that." "Oh, we'd do it so well," I assure him, as he kisses me again. "I'm willing to take that bet if you are," he tells me. "You should know, I'm even worse than you think I am," I inform him, and he laughs. "I'll take that bet too, then," he says, "but no rush, obviously."
9:21 p.m.: The words "no rush" remind me that for me, there is a fairly considerable rush. "Quickly," I say in a hushed voice as he hastily unbuttons my trousers, "I don't have a lot of time." He slams my back against the wall, helping me kick the pants aside as he wrangles my legs around his hips. "Oh, it won't take long," he says, and I gasp, pleased. This, I tell myself, is as satisfying a goodbye as any.
9:48 p.m.: When I return home, Caesarion appears to have come home to collect some things. He and I pause in the corridor, and I take a deep breath. "You got my owl?" I ask, and he nods. "Sit down, darling," I say, and he sits, expectant.
10:15 p.m.: "No," he says, and I blink. "What?" I ask, and he shakes his head. "You can't go," he says brusquely, "and I'm certainly not coming with you if you do." "Caesarion," I say slowly, "your father, sweetheart—these charges are—" "If I leave, I can never come back," Caesarion cuts in angrily. "You can never come back, Mother, not ever—" "But if you come with us," I plead, and he shakes his head. "I'm not leaving her, Mother," he says, and my entire body goes numb with panic. "I won't leave her," Caesarion tells me again, and then he rises to his feet.
10:20 p.m.: "I'm glad that if you and Father want to be together, you will be," Caesarion says, "but I won't run. If I'm not guilty—if you're not guilty—" "I still should have known what was happening," I protest, "and that's the argument the Ministry will make. That this is just as much my fault as his, and they'll take us without hesitation!" "Maybe," Caesarion permits with a haughty shrug, "but if you and Father are running, I want no part in it. I won't leave her," he says again, and my heart breaks, shattering into particles of nothing.
10:23 p.m.: My son turns to leave, heading to whatever woman it is he loves this fiercely, and I scramble to my feet, reaching for him. "At least say goodbye," I beg him, feeling tears at the corners of my eyes. "Please, Caesarion, please—I can't go like this, not if this is the last time we see each other—" "This is your choice to make, Mother," he tells me, and he softens as he looks at me, but only for a moment. "Don't you remember, Mother? This war, it was about our choices," he tells me, and it aches, it strikes me with violence, to know that my son has managed to become such a worthy man. "I'm not going to celebrate this choice for you, Mother," he says, gently disentangling himself from me, "but if you feel this is the one you need to make, then so be it."
10:28 p.m.: He leaves, and I crumble where he's left me.
10:39 p.m.: "What happened?" I hear Brutus ask behind me, but I can't answer. I feel as if my lips will never move again. "Come on," he murmurs in my ear, gathering me in his arms and carrying me to our bedroom. "Come on, love," Brutus whispers to me, "let's get some sleep."
DAY SEVEN
6:30 a.m.: I'm already awake when I get the owl from Octavius. '9:00,' it says, and I write an owl to Caesarion. Then I dry my tears, heading downstairs.
8:15 a.m.: I gather some food, some clothes; anything we might need, though nothing that makes it look as though this was premeditated. I don't want Octavius or Antony to be questioned, so I take very little. Mostly, I busy myself around the house, cleaning things I've never touched before until the elves all glance at each other with confusion. Brutus wanders the house like a ghost; I think he's saying goodbye to it. It was his parents' house, his grandparents'; there's history in these walls, and Brutus paces mournfully, parting with all of it.
8:35 a.m.: "The Ministry will take all of this," Brutus says hoarsely. One thing settles on my tongue, but I do my best not to say the words, even as they beat themselves against the inside of my chest. Was it worth it?
8:47 a.m.: "He isn't coming," I say dully. "He might still come," Brutus assures me, holding me close, and I shake my head. "It's better that he doesn't," I say. I want our son to move on. I want him to be free from our mistakes. I want him to be happy, to be safe. At the very least, I want him to be with a better woman than I am, whatever else she might be.
8:55 a.m.: The Floo roars to life, and I glance up to see Caesarion in the fireplace. "I'm not coming any closer," he warns, and Brutus stiffens, but I nod. "I understand," I tell him, "and I love you, Caesarion. I love you." "I love you, Mother," he says, "and you, Father. Even if I don't understand any of this. I'm angry," he adds, and I nod again, "but I've recently been advised that I will regret it if I don't say those words to you."
8:58 a.m.: I stare down at the portkey on the table, and then up at Brutus. "I love you," he tells me, and I nod. "I love you, too," I reply, and glance over at Caesarion, who, true to his word, has not come any closer. I want to throw my arms around him; I want to run my fingers along the shape of his mouth and remind him that for all the features that belong to his father, his happiness is mine. I gave him his smile.
8:59 a.m.: The portkey glows, and Brutus wraps his arm around my waist. "Ready?" he asks me, and I nod. He exhales sharply. "Okay—"
9:00 a.m.: The moment that Brutus reaches for the portkey, I tear myself from his reach. His eyes widen, his fingers closing around the comb in the same moment that I see the betrayal on his face, and then he disappears, flickering out of sight. For a second, it settles in my chest like a weight; it stings me, stabs at me, and then I turn, haunted, as Caesarion rushes into my arms. "Mother," he says in my ear, his voice husky and wrought with fear. "Mother, what did you do?"
9:01 a.m.: The Aurors arrive within seconds, Octavius among them. "We have a warrant for the arrest of your husband," he says, looking somewhat surprised to see me, and in the moment that things come to a head, I almost miss someone else rushing through the fireplace; I only catch a flash of unruly hair, but don't have time to process it.
9:03 a.m.: "It wasn't Brutus," I say to the Aurors, including a stunned Octavius. He warned me, though, that they would hunt Brutus so long as there was no one else to blame, and I love my husband at least enough to grant him some peace from my betrayal. "It was me," I announce, my voice firm and clear. "I'm the one you want; all of it was my doing. Not my husband, not my son. I'm guilty of—" "STOP," a young voice interrupts me, and I blink, realizing that I know the person the voice belongs to; that, and then secondly, that she has her hand protectively on my son's arm. It's the muggleborn girl he went to school with, her brown eyes positively wild as she looks briefly at him before stepping between us. "I'm a lawyer," she whispers to me. "Don't say a word. I'll be right there, okay? Don't say anything." I frown at her, utterly bemused. "Why would you want to defend me?" I ask, and she hesitates to answer, but the moment the words leave my lips, I already know why. I know why, and I look up at Caesarion, giving him a single, careful nod: my approval.
9:11 a.m.: I have always been a liar. I tell the prettiest, softest lies—until today, and for once, I have managed to do something unselfish, after so many crimes against my conscience. I have loved a man who became a monster, after all; I've loved a man whose loyalty should have only ever belonged to my son. I think about Cassius, too, about the scars on his face and the extent to which I caused them, and I realize that finally, I will get what I have so long deserved.
9:15 a.m.: The Aurors put me in restraints and lead me through the Floo. On the other side, the cameras flash; my image is ruined. Still, I smile.
9:20 a.m.: I smile, and I stand alone, and it all goes back to the start.
a/n: I didn't detail the narrator's relationship with Caesar much, but if you'd like to read more about it, you can hop over to the one shot Eyes Closed (Chapter 11 in my Draught of Living Death anthology). To those who were adrift, last diary's Achilles was the same as this week's Antony. The theme in this one was (loosely) the life of Cleopatra. Ah, and last thing: if you're a fan of Octavius and Antony, I wrote a quick seven-chapter fic called Lethal Combination, which you can now find in my profile.
Dedicated to afanoffanfic, chanberra, and starksqueen. Thank you for reading!