Episode XIV: The Disgraced Aristocrat Struggling to Maintain His Veneer of Snobbery
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 disgraced pureblood deals with his family's ongoing disrepair and the loss of his once-promising future: 21, male, straight, in a (tumultuous) relationship.
DAY ONE
8:15 a.m.: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a mother being tried for homicide must be in want of an intoxicant. "This early?" asks my best friend, whom I am currently living in relative squalor with. I'll call him Charles, though Lord C seems more appropriate. He, like me, is something of a rubbish aristocrat. Naturally I reply in the affirmative, because again, my mother is on trial for murder; my father, for better or worse, is presently missing; my family home and all of my belongings have been publicly stripped from me; my fortune, heretofore the most reliable thing in my life, has been ruthlessly drained; my girlfriend, which is already quite a tenuous thing for me to even be saying aloud, is defending my mother in court (whilst insisting she and I take some time apart for "professional reasons")—and finally, I'm only admitting to any of this because chances are very good that I am still drunk from last night.
8:35 a.m.: When I was born my mother consulted a seer to chart my requisite stars; family tradition. The position of the stars at your birth are apparently very well-informed as to your future, or so my rapidly decaying line of wizarding aristocracy pronounces. My stars said that I would be a protector, a defender. A dragon of sorts. My only conclusion is that either my mother was lied to, or I was. I wonder if it's too late for a refund. I clearly need the money.
8:57 a.m.: "You're handling all of this very predictably," remarks Lord C, "by which I do mean exceedingly poorly." I say nothing, opting instead for a sip from my morning whisky—which, in my defense, does contain trace amounts of coffee. "I know that in the past my role has been as handsome enabler," Lord C continues blithely, "but I think I may have to step it up to handsome mediator." "Aiming far too high," I scoff. I am an expert in scoffing. I have a scoff for every emotion, or requisite lack thereof. "Charming mediator, then," Lord C amends, far too optimistically. "Chatty arbiter," I correct, "only there's nothing to go between." "Nonsense," he tells me, and adds, "Believe it or not, there are better versions of you than this."
9:05 a.m.: Here's the thing: Lord C, my beloved Charles, is being an unrepentant withholder of truth, and therefore I am hardly game for cheeky banter. He's been seeing someone as of late and steadfastly refuses to tell me who she is, which I find thoroughly repugnant. It's as if we're not even fraternal in the slightest, and further, it makes me twitchy with nerves. Can't I have one fucking thing that I want? I feel entitled to honesty, at least—though, in fairness, I generally do feel entitled.
9:10 a.m.: There is too much whisky in my coffee. "I need to lie down," I lament. "I'll grab the smelling salts," declares Lord C, which makes me want to punch him, only he's far too smug. He'd only take pleasure in having driven me to violence.
11:37 a.m.: Alas, I'm awake again. Alcohol seems to be failing me, which is perhaps because I've been relegated to the cheap shit that Lord C keeps stocked in the kitchen. There is of course only one person to turn to in times like these (i.e.: desperate ones), although I look at the clock and immediately bend to other impulses. It's nearly lunchtime at the Ministry.
11:45 a.m.: I take something for sobriety (irony of ironies) and Lord C smacks some color into my cheeks. "She won't like it," he remarks unhelpfully. "Once again, your sage wisdom is being transmitted to the pyre of failure," I reply, heading through the Floo. "Tighten up," he shouts after me, "that was abysmal."
12:05 p.m.: Predictably, Elizabeth is in her office, poring over some paperwork. She looks as if she hasn't slept in days, and she probably hasn't. I loathe that this is not my doing. Well, I suppose technically it is, but not in any recreational way. She looks up and sighs, shaking her head. "I told you," she murmurs as I shut the door behind me, "the press is going mad over your mother's case. If my personal life gets dragged into this—" "And what about my personal life?" I demand briskly. She sighs. "I can only do you one favor at a time," she informs me, calling me by my last name, which may as well be Darcy. I bristle. "I didn't ask you for this," I remind her, which is the start of a very familiar fight. I watch her knuckles whiten. "I don't have time for this right now," she says.
12:10 p.m.: "Time for what? For me?" I'm goading her, I know, but I'm a man accustomed to getting my way. War crimes aside, I'm very pampered, and I'm too sexually repressed at the moment to feel any shame. I watch Elizabeth's mouth stiffen, my very bones alight with promise at the sight. She's fucking glorious when she's angry, and I always make her angry. I drive her to the limits of madness—and I'd feel sorry, only she does the same to me. That, and I'm hardly ever sorry. I'm certainly not now.
12:11 p.m.: "Don't test me, Darcy," Elizabeth warns. I step closer. "What are you going to do about it?" I ask, watching the color rise in her cheeks. Truth be told, blood is rushing in all sorts of unhelpful directions. My gaze flicks to her desk and then back to her face. "Don't," she warns again.
12:13 p.m.: "I don't have time," she whimpers when I kiss her, giving her messy bun a loose tug to tilt her head back. "Deprivation doesn't suit me," I reply into her neck, angling her back against her desk to slide my hand under her skirt. It's one of those practical A-line shapes, resistant to motion, so I tear at the fabric until I hear the foretelling rip, my hand nudging her thighs apart. She reaches down, holding my wrist still. "You'd better be quick," she tells me. I shake my head. "I can't afford to develop bad habits," I tell her, pulling her hand away and nudging her knickers aside. I can't afford much of anything, I amend with an internal wince, but she concedes, yanking me towards her. "You have thirty minutes and not one second more," she informs me, tossing in my surname like she's spitting it out: "Darcy." It's vile, bitter, distasteful. I lick the venom of irritation from her tongue.
12:23 p.m.: Elizabeth tugs at my zipper, but I push her away. She's the sort of dominant woman who knows what she wants—and yet wants even more that I don't give it to her right away. She'll never admit it, but one thing the Ministry can't take from me is the look on her face when my fingers stroke the lips of her pussy, circling the slit of her cunt. "Darcy," she growls, "get to it." I ignore her. She hates to be ignored, but I love the way her legs shake when I take my time. She's got one of her feet propped up on an open drawer and the other thrown over my hip, her nails digging into my bicep. If she thinks I'm going to rush this, she's got another thing coming. "Don't beg," I tell her, "I'll get there. But if you're going to deprive me my right to your bed," I murmur warningly, "then you'll have to cede authority of your desk." "I'm not begging," she counters with a grimace, and I use my left hand to free a few of her buttons, coaxing the little bead of her nipple out from beneath her bra. She shivers. "Not yet," I murmur in agreement, and she gifts me a rapturous scowl.
12:28 p.m.: When she's about to come I slide my fingers out of her, rubbing my thumb in slow circles around her clit and avoiding direct contact. She's furious, sparkling with rage. "Darcy," she says again, "you absolute monstrous prick—" "What about it?" I cut in neutrally, and she tightens her grip on me so hard I'm positive she's drawing blood. I kiss her, and she bites me. She fucking bites me. I thrust my fingers back inside her and she groans, shifting her hips to win friction from my palm. "How do you want me to fuck you?" I ask her, speaking the words quietly in her ear. "On your back? On your knees?" I prompt neutrally, and tell her I'm not stopping until I see her cunt glisten for me.
12:31 p.m.: She's panting and I bend my head to her breasts, scraping my teeth against the nipple. She comes without giving me an answer, and I don't give her much time to bask. "What'll it be?" I say, stepping back, and the implication here is clear. She won't have what she wants until she says it out loud. Elizabeth rolls her eyes, shoving me back into her desk chair while she divests herself of her skirt and her blouse. "This is my office," she tells me, and leans forward, her hands bracing on my wrists. "You'll do as I say," she whispers, and fuck, I hope we break something. Considering what they've taken from me, I could do with ruining some Ministry property today.
12:38 p.m.: She straddles me and slides onto my cock, both of us stifling moans as I fill her. I put my hands on her waist and guide her hips, slowly—not that she needs my help. She picks a rhythm and rides me with ease while I kiss her neck, the bones of her clavicle, the curves of her breasts. She is inadvisably tempting; if the degradation of my sensibilities has a taste, then it's the one on her lips, languid and honey-sweet and sharp as sacrifice. I slide my thumb along her jaw and between her lips, letting her suck it lightly. She passes her tongue over it and then I lower it to her clit, giving her a stroke that makes her gasp. It isn't lost on me that my mother is sitting in a cell somewhere with a dementor, all so that I could have a guiltless midday fuck with the muggleborn girl on my lap. I shove the thought aside and continue until Elizabeth comes, her face positively serene with pleasure.
12:41 p.m.: I come with a groan and look up at her face, knowing the moment I'm gone from here all my guilt will have receded from its temporary cage and come back to toy with my better judgment. Elizabeth strokes my cheeks, my nose, my mouth. "You know I want you," she tells me. It's an unsatisfying statement, given everything, but I permit a nod. Having her to begin with was hard-fought and hard-won, and besides, she doesn't do things she doesn't want to—at least not when it comes to me.
12:42 p.m.: She hesitates, and then adds, "As soon as this is over—" "When this is over I'll still be a man who has nothing," I supply for her. She stiffens slightly. "I don't care about that," she says.
12:43 p.m.: She says that now. She says that now, while she's young, and while she hasn't yet realized that I'll only hinder her career, and probably grow to rely on her too heavily for meaning. She says it now, before she realizes she'll inevitably come to resent me for what little I bring to her life. I'm a spectacular fuck who used to have money, but who now has nothing to offer anyone. She's a genius who has only to rise. Sometimes I'm distressingly certain I wasted her time and mine trying to win her. Still—"I know you don't," I permit, and kiss her. Let one of us be happy, at least.
12:47 p.m.: "How is she?" I ask when we're getting dressed, and Elizabeth considers it. I know she'll try to spare my feelings if she has too much time to think about it (a noble thing, and one of her more intolerable heroic qualities) so I kiss her to keep her on track, and she looks up. "She still refuses to name your father," Elizabeth confesses, "but I think what hurts her most is that you might lose faith in her after hearing about—" she trails off. She's referring to the affair my mother may have been having at the time of the alleged murder, which, if true, is a somewhat unsavory alibi for us pureblood types. We like our indiscretions private; it doesn't surprise me that my mother prefers a murder sentence to public disgrace. Elizabeth tells me that my mother is refusing to let the man in question testify on her behalf. "If you could just talk to her," she suggests gently, and I stiffen.
12:52 p.m.: I haven't gone to see my mother privately since the trial began. I'm not angry; I simply don't know what to say to her. Besides, to be forced to see her behind bars… I shudder. I need something. I need to take something, and quickly. I haven't even left the office and already reality is turning the taste of Elizabeth bitter. "If I go to see her, they'll just accuse us of collusion," I say, though Elizabeth and I both know this is a flimsy excuse. What can I say? My very material is questionable; every excuse is flimsy with a spine like mine. She kisses my cheek. "Just think about it," she says, fixing her skirt and returning to work.
1:05 p.m.: I'm making my way out of the Ministry when I run into my Hogwarts rival, the Almighty Savior of the Wizarding World (said with only a perfunctory amount of distaste) and the Auror who arrested my mother. All that's to be said about him is that he's a Bennet of some sort, largely in that he's frustratingly admirable and, at his worst, intent on seeing the good in others. It's exhausting.
1:07 p.m.: "Did you get my owl?" Bennet says. I ask him very politely if we can please continue to not speak until one or both of us dies. "Fine," he grunts with displeasure, "but it's a yes or no question. One word won't kill you." This, I remind him, is speaking, and more importantly, there's no guarantee that he's right. "Now that I am once again delivered to your righteous mercy, I'd prefer you not rub it in," I pronounce with finality, and turn to leave. Bennet grabs my arm, because of course he does. Heroes are so flagrantly unsubtle. "Don't be a fucking idiot," Bennet says. "Too late," I reply crisply, and depart without a turn of my head.
1:35 p.m.: My next stop is to visit my friend Wickham, who, despite having some sort of successful career catering to the needs of talentless social climbers, still largely strikes me as an unprincipled layabout. "I need something," I say, because I no longer have money and he does, and he arches a brow. "Thought you were behaving yourself now?" he prompts. I don't respond, because I don't generally respond to annoying questions. He sighs.
1:45 p.m.: "Aren't you going to ask me about my trip?" Wickham drawls. His penthouse flat in Diagon is spotless, per usual, though I eventually note the unopened suitcase in the corner. He must have just arrived home. "Tell me about your trip, then," I beckon, though I am mostly congratulating myself on my timing. Imagine if I'd needed him yesterday; I shudder to think. Wickham rolls his eyes. "I have someone coming over," he tells me. By my head, here come the Capulets, I think from his tone of voice, and artfully (snottily) reply, "By my heel, I care not." Wickham grins. "Ah, fine," he permits, falling down beside me, "but only as you're such a gentleman, it would be rude to refuse."
1:57 p.m.: I'm thoroughly succumbing to the effects of my vial when the door to Wickham's flat opens, revealing yet another Bennet (read: irritating hero-type). I'll call this one M, like the forgettable middle one whose name I had to think about for several minutes (it's Mary, but nobody cares). M looks surprised to see me, and slightly disapproving of Wickham, who has a brow arched, beckoning for a scolding. Clearly this is something aberrantly sexual. M, I notice, is positively covered in tattoos. "That's new," I say, gesturing to the ink on his arms. "As is this," M replies, tonelessly referencing my presence. If I'd used a tone, it would have been a contemptuous one. Instead I glance at Wickham, who shrugs. "You remember each other from Hogwarts, I presume," he says delicately. What an utter hound.
2:14 p.m.: M is hesitant to enter at first, but seems unsurprised when Wickham rises to his feet and kisses him firmly on the lips. I'm stoned, so I don't care, but also I wouldn't particularly care either way. Wickham is known for his dalliances; specifically, the way they never last. "Careful with him," I tell M, "he's the least sincere person you'll ever meet." Like Lord C, I have a knack for saying things that will upset people, though I tend to overplay my hand. I don't this time. M looks indiscreetly uncomfortable. Wickham merely shrugs. "He knows that," he tells me, and pulls M down to the sofa, offering him a vial. M says no. What a shocking revelation. "Do you mind if I take one?" Wickham asks him, and M hesitates for a moment. "I encourage you to change your mind, by the way," Wickham adds, "as the head post-intoxicant can be intensely illuminating." "Yes," I agree, "your dick can see the future after one of those."
2:33 p.m.: Together, Wickham and I wear M down. He accepts a hit from a vial, nearly coughing up the inhalant, and then reclines awkwardly against the sofa. "This feels weird," M says, subversively. I certainly hope Wickham isn't intending to keep M around for long. I find it difficult to breathe when there's a surplus of naivety in the room. "How's Lord Charles?" Wickham asks me, reverently stroking a line down M's torso. "He's fucking someone," I supply gruffly, "and he won't tell me who." Wickham quickly obscures a look. "What?" I demand, sitting upright, but Wickham persists a highly dubious innocence. "Nothing," he assures me.
3:04 p.m.: Unhelpfully, the more I stew over my displeasure that Charles is keeping secrets (and that Wickham of all people clearly knows), the more my brain offers me other upsetting things to occupy my thoughts. Like how my parents were escaping after the death of my ex-girlfriend's father, until my mother stayed behind and took the blame; for me, as I've mentioned, in a rather roundabout way I'd rather not get into. Nothing new, of course; everything she does is for me. And Elizabeth is defending her, of course—costing her nearly all of her other relationships, including the budding one she had with my ex, another woman I've surely wronged—also for me. The funny thing is that I have never once deserved it. My mother has sacrificed herself for me countless times, and what have I done in return? Nothing. Isn't that hilarious? The joke here, if you're missing it, is me. I'm arrogant, unkind, selfish—just like my father. My presence in Elizabeth's life isn't much better. In fact, it's worse. I thought I was doing the right thing by staying, but not this way. I fail her more and more every day.
3:38 p.m.: When M and Wickham start murmuring slurred sentimentalities to each other (I missed you, I missed you too, thought about you every day, so glad you're home) I abruptly rise to my feet, leaving through the Floo. Wickham calls out after me, but it's fairly perfunctory. I'm sure they'll be fucking soon enough, so I don't stop.
3:40 p.m.: I come home to Lord C, who's reading on his sofa. "Charles," I announce, "I've indulged unwisely." "In what arenas, my lord?" he beckons. "I'll give you a hint," I say, falling beside him: "I'm not sober and I'm not a monk." If Lord C disapproves, he doesn't say it.
3:43 p.m.: "Who are you fucking?" I demand, and Charles gives me a half-smile. "Are you going to tell me about your owl from Bennet?" he prompts, and I sit up, glaring at him. "You're changing the subject," I accuse. "Am I?" he echoes, feigning offense. He is my very best friend and I loathe him. "I can't take the job," I say, and Lord C rubs pensively at the back of his neck. "And why not?" he asks.
3:45 p.m.: One of Bennet's Aurors is leaving the department, meaning there is space for someone of what he calls 'my caliber,' which seems like a lie. I assume Elizabeth put him up to it. "He doesn't want me," I tell Lord C stiffly. "Well, who would?" prompts Lord Charles, but he softens slightly when I make a face. "It's not a bad idea," Lord C sighs. I demand to know whose side he's on. "Yours," he says, which is unhelpful. I wish he'd made a snide comment instead, or mocked my hair.
6:35 p.m.: Lord C and I make a very poor imitation of an adult's dinner and down a bottle of wine. It's very odd to me that Charles seems so very stable. It's unsettling, actually. He's normally so reliable for trauma, but at least his willingness to imbibe hasn't changed too drastically. "Tell me who you're fucking," I demand again, but he shakes his head. "Not yet," he says simply. I am furious. "You know all my secrets," I accuse him, conveniently forgetting that I didn't tell him about Elizabeth until it had already been going on for a couple of weeks. She'd had a boyfriend at the time; I wasn't sure she'd choose me. In fact, I was right about that, seeing as she mostly chose herself, and I only became her choice much later. If I were being sympathetic I might guess at Charles' secrecy being due to something similar, but I'm not, and Lord C himself merely nods, guiltless. "Yes," he agrees, "but I am much more adept at secrets than you. And more interesting when I have them."
8:24 p.m.: Lord C gets an owl that calls him away. I send one myself, tearing a page out of the lone book on my temporary nightstand and filling the margins with my handwriting: 'I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you—'
8:38 p.m.: 'Where are you?' she asks me. I don't answer.
10:17 p.m.: I wake up to Elizabeth slipping under the duvet, curling herself around me. "You were drunk when you sent that owl," she notes, without much of an implication to her tone. I suppose she might have guessed. "I thought you said we had to keep our distance," I say, and she shrugs, so I turn to gather her in my arms. "I keep saying that, don't I?" she whispers, and I kiss her. I kiss her, and I want more, but I think she just wants to be held. By me. What a tragedy for both of us.
10:30 p.m.: "Don't destroy books," she says as we're dozing off. "I'll do what I want," I tell her. It's the only book the Ministry would let me keep. In fairness, it's the only one I wanted. I only bought it because of her, and I know perfectly well what was on the page: 'I have been a selfish being all my life… Such I was, and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.'
10:37 p.m.: "I love you," she whispers. I hold her tighter. One of these days I will be kinder, and have the will to let her go.
DAY TWO
8:03 a.m.: When I wake up, Elizabeth is gone. It occurs to me that I don't know how she got here to begin with. This is, after all, Lord Charles' house, and she's been insisting on distance for the last two weeks; still, I suppose I'm not terribly difficult to sort out. I stumble downstairs to find said lord sitting at the table, idly contemplating the universe in his cup of tea. "What shall we do today?" he asks me. "Accost Wickham," I reply. This delights Charles greatly; he is a natural antagonist. Together, we make a fine pair of villains.
10:07 a.m.: "O, I am Fortune's fool," declares Wickham upon our entry to his office, which is predictably luxe. In reality, it seems Fortune has seen fit to lavish finery upon him, though even at my most sullen I can't particularly say it's undeserved. "Murdered Tybalt again, have you?" Lord C prompts irreverently, and Wickham shrugs. "I'm not Romeo, he is," he informs us, pointing at me, and I scoff. "Which makes you—?" "Benvolio, obviously," Wickham supplies, "while our man Charles here dies in Act Three." "Ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man," Lord C agrees. "Shut up, you morbid fucks," I say. "A plague o' both your houses," Wickham replies amicably. "That's my line," says Lord C. "I'm leaving," I announce, only to be yanked back by both of them.
10:21 a.m.: "So, what's on the agenda?" Wickham asks, leaning back in his chair. Apparently work is not much of a priority today. "I did just return from Sicily," he adds defensively, though neither of us asked. We should really learn to ask. "Why exactly are you back?" Lord C says, subverting the point entirely, and Wickham grins. "Quidditch World Cup," he explains, and pulls out a pair of tickets to the first game of the tournament, which is this weekend in London. A very good English team is playing a semi-rubbish French team, which should be fun—or would be, that is, if I thought it safe to attend. Lord C accepts the ticket without hesitation, but I pause. "I'm not sure now is the best time for me to be out in public," I say. "Why not?" asks Wickham, and I pointedly glance down at where my family's name is being slandered across the Daily Prophet's front page. "Oh, that," Wickham says.
10:30 a.m.: Luckily, Wickham does me the kindness of not dancing around the subject. "Right, yes, this is shitty publicity," he confirms, and being a publicist, he would know, "But it's not like you're going to be sitting with the Minister. We'll have a private box, my treat." Tempting, very tempting. I can't afford any other sort of ticket, but I'm certainly not going to give that hateful admission any air time. "Fine," I concede, tucking the ticket away and trying not to brood too pathetically.
10:40 a.m.: "Should we go out tonight? Cause a ruckus?" Lord C suggests. "Regrettably, I'm rather domesticated these days," Wickham says, though he and Lord C both glance conspicuously at me, "but I suppose I could have a night off from good behavior, if you're both free."
10:43 a.m.: "This is wildly transparent," I tell them. They, shameless bastards that they are, remain consummately unfazed. "Our Romeo has a soul of lead," remarks Wickham, and Charles nods. "If love be rough with you, be rough with love," Lord C replies smartly, and I sigh. Sometimes I wish I had dumber friends, or at least illiterate ones.
10:55 a.m.: "So you've really heard nothing from your father?" Wickham asks me, and I shake my head. I don't expect to hear from him. Azkaban nearly killed him the last time, and if he resurfaces, he'll return there for sure. If he hasn't shown up by now—for the somewhat compelling reason of keeping his own wife's soul intact—he's better off staying gone. In fairness, my mother's the only one in our family with the constitution to get through it. I wish I'd inherited more from her, though I may as well be a carbon copy of him. "Fathers," Wickham remarks, rolling his eyes. On that, the three of us agree.
11:39 a.m.: Eventually Lord C and I head back to his house, agreeing to see Wickham this evening. Charles' father died shortly after the war and Charles himself was more than willing to part with most of his wealth, so the house is emptied of nearly all its previous belongings. Lord Charles paid his reparations proudly, I think. Perhaps even smugly. I'm sure it struck him as the finest revenge for his father's sins. Reparations, indeed.
11:56 a.m.: "There's no food in this house," I say. No drugs, either. That's unfortunate. My head aches. I need a job, but I also need a vial. Several vials. "Are you going to see her today?" Lord C asks, eyeing the time. I shake my head. I'm hardly peak me at the moment. What's the opposite of peak me? Me on the floor, I suppose, which is at least peak accuracy. Seems unfair to subject her to something so pathetic.
1:17 p.m.: I get another owl from Bennet, much to my displeasure. 'I think I deserve an answer,' he tells me, and I imagine he does think so. I imagine he thinks he deserves a great number of things, and the worst of it is that he's probably right. 'It might go a long way with your mum's case if you accept an offer from the Ministry,' he adds, and says something about the benefits of gainful employment. These do-gooder types can be so indelicate; as if I don't already know as much. This owl, like the last one, goes unanswered.
4:37 p.m.: I wander into one of Lord C's unused rooms, looking for something. Not sure what. A book, maybe. Instead I find the shards of a broken vase on the floor and recall how many times I had to stop him from self-destructing. "You're regressing," Charles notes behind me, and I turn at the dry tone of his voice, suddenly irritated. "Oh, and you think you're fixed?" I prompt. He shakes his head. "I'm not," he says, and adds, "But for the record, I don't enjoy seeing you in pain." Whoever he's fucking must have a twisted penchant for honesty. He seems to be tripping and falling into sincerity more frequently than usual these days.
5:01 p.m.: I don't say anything, and Lord C leaves. Part of me wants to stop him, but I don't. Part of me wants to talk to Elizabeth, but I don't do that either. Even at my best I hardly deserve her. The last thing I want is to fall at her feet and beg her to love me, and at the moment, that seems the only thing I can think to do.
8:35 p.m.: Methinks I looks't pale. Dry sorrow drinks my blood, I muse, and grimace. I hope Wickham has something potent on hand. What's the worst of my losses, you ask? Ah yes, this should be a fun exercise in pity! The destruction of my pride, I suppose. I am very little else without it. I don't have the sort of moral fiber that remains worthy once brought low.
10:37 p.m.: Lord C and I meet Wickham at the club where I first ran into Elizabeth again after Hogwarts—the first time I (or anyone) brought her to orgasm, funnily enough. I wasn't even the one touching her. Hard to imagine ever possessing that kind of restraint now; I've only touched her once this week, and I'm half out of my mind with longing. "Say you have something," I say to Wickham, who grins and slips me a vial just as someone taps me on the shoulder. "Mind if we join you?" asks Bennet, who has M at his side, along with a few other Bennets. L and K, I suppose they'd be by default, though they hardly matter. "Do whatever you want," I say, and shove past him for the bathroom.
10:51 p.m.: Bennet finds me as I'm vanishing the vial. "I need an answer," he says. "You have an answer," I say, because clearly, it isn't a yes. Even he should be able to sort that one out. "You're being unreasonable," Bennet tells me. I tell him that if we're simply stating facts, he could stand to come up with a less obvious one.
10:55 p.m.: "She's worried about you," he says, and I shove him hard, slamming him into the wall behind him. He doesn't fight me. He doesn't even look very surprised. Maybe he's become better acquainted with unreasonable people in recent times. "Stay the fuck out of it," I warn him, disdain sliding between my teeth. He doesn't need to bring Elizabeth into this. He doesn't get to. I don't need to hear it from his saintly mouth to know for certain he thinks she's too good for me. I already know it myself. "Just think about it," Bennet says, and I shove him one more time for good measure before heading back out.
11:05 p.m.: Lord C is watching me as if he knows where I've just been. "What?" I demand, but he says nothing. I catch M watching me and I round on him, glaring. "Do you have something to say?" I prompt scathingly, but Lord C gives me a warning nudge, shaking his head. "Don't bite," Charles says. I scowl. "You can stop," I tell him. "Stop what?" he asks. "All of it," I say, and add that I don't want to be an Auror, and I certainly don't want him to keep hovering. I don't want to be seen, I don't want to be watched. "I didn't say anything," he tells me. "You didn't have to. I know you," I reply hotly, and his mouth twitches. He thinks it's funny. Fucking Lord Charles and his princely humor.
11:18 p.m.: Eventually Lord C wanders away and Wickham reappears, materializing from nothing. He's been dancing, it appears. He grabs M's face and smacks a kiss on his lips, looking pleased with himself. M's cheeks burn slightly, but he doesn't push Wickham away. Instead he watches Wickham dart off, apparently fetching more drinks, and inches closer when he sees me watching. "This isn't really my scene," M says. "Obviously," is my scathing reply. "Hey," M says casually, "you know, they're looking for teachers at Hogwarts. Have you ever considered working there?" I turn, glaring at him. "What the fuck are you doing?" I snarl, and he blinks. "Talking," he says. "Well, shut up," I snap. I'd hoped the vial might make me feel more numb than this. Instead it's like a bad radio frequency, where everything's both dulled and noisy at the same time.
11:34 p.m.: "You're a bad influence on him," M says quietly, and I glare at him. "Why, because of the drugs?" I prompt snidely, "Because I have news for you, fucker. Wickham's not likely to abandon his vices just for you." "No, not that," M says. He doesn't look bothered. Actually, he looks sort of smug, as if I've just proven his suspicions right. "What, then?" I snap. "You don't see it," M says, and I want to strangle him. "If I have to say see what—" "You don't see how much people care about you," M replies. "You're self-centered and selfish, and I've seen it enough times to know that cowardice like that is contagious. Self-pity is an addiction. A virus." He shrugs. "You're bad for him," he finishes, and before I know how to respond, he's already walked away.
11:38 p.m.: For a few seconds, I have no idea what to do. My barely-helpful high buzzes in my ear. Lord C says my name, but I shove past him. Just like that, I can't be here anymore.
11:46 p.m.: Elizabeth is sitting on the floor of her living room when I arrive, thick legal books spread out around her as she yawns into her coffee. She looks up when she sees me, happy at first, and then it drains slowly from her face. "You're drunk again," she realizes aloud, and I flinch. "Stoned, actually," I say gruffly. She rises slowly to her feet, taking my face in her hands. "Oh, Darcy," she exhales, giving me a mournful look.
11:48 p.m.: The first time I told her I loved her was a night like this one. Late hours, lights low, the shape of her cast in shadow, the two of us standing together in the center of the room. Don't send me away, I said, don't make me turn back now. She's a realist. Pragmatic. I thought I was too, but she proved me wrong. I thought that because I had so easily walked away from the women in my life before, it would always be that easy. Instead, she broke me down and made a ruin of me and I held my arms around her and begged her not to let either of us make a mess of things. I told her I loved her and she cried in my arms, but she said it back. I don't say the words now. I don't know that I deserve to hear them, firstly, but I do know I won't be able to stand it if I don't.
11:53 p.m.: For a long time, neither of us says anything. "You know why I'm doing this," she says. I nod. I do, but that doesn't make it better. Nothing does. I've never understood my feelings for her and now, clouded by intoxicants and shame, I still don't. I want things to be simple. I lower my head and kiss her. Simple. She inhales sharply, but kisses me back. Immediately, the sparks catch. I'm fucking ignited. I fumble to reach under her shirt, bearing down on her ribs, and she shoves my hands away, holding them still. "No," she says, "we can't. I just said we can't." I blink. I drop my hands and step away. I turn to the Floo and leave.
12:06 a.m.: I'm back in Lord C's house and heading out onto the lawn ready to drown my sorrows in the good Malmsey he keeps in the cellar when I hear footsteps chasing after me. Elizabeth snatches the bottle from my hand and flings it aside, glaring at me. "That wine is fucking expensive," I tell her, watching it roll away in the grass, and she folds her arms over her chest. "It's not my job to keep your demons away from you," she says, and I can't tell if she's actually yelling it or if she's trying not to cry, and so it seems like a shout. "It's not my job," she continues furiously, "to make sure you don't self-destruct!" "No one made you come here," I snap at her, and she looks like she might curse me where she stands.
12:10 a.m.: "I don't love you for your name or your money," she grits out, and then barks, "And I certainly don't love you for your reputation—" "Then WHY?" I shout at her, and she curls her hands into fists before suddenly going limp, shaking her head in disbelief. "Show me why," she says, and I stare at her. "Show me the man I fell in love with," she says, "because it isn't this. This isn't you." That's really fucking unfair, I think, and I tell her so. I'm a lot of things, and sometimes what I am is shitty. "You can be shitty," she says bluntly, "but right now, you're more in love with your own misery than me." She turns to leave and I stumble forward, blocking her path.
12:15 a.m.: "If you leave me right now, promise me you won't come back," I tell her, breathless. It occurs to me that maybe I can't breathe because my heart is breaking. Can hearts break when you're on drugs, or is it just a little-advertised side effect? "If you go," I plead, "then stay gone. Stay angry at me. Be angry, be furious—hate me, please, I'm begging you—"
12:16 a.m.: She cuts me off with a hard, bitter kiss, her fingers tearing through the roots of my hair as I stumble to hold her, both of us falling to the ground. I take the brunt of it, catching the weight of the fall with my forearm and then pulling her close as she hurriedly rolls on top of me, shivering while she undoes the buttons of my shirt. Her hands are shaking, so I take over while she temporarily rolls away, kicking her pants away and then pulling at mine, tugging them down to my thighs. She straddles me and I roll over her, my hand cradling her head while I pause with my hand on her knickers. "Are you s-" "I'm sure," she gasps, and I relent. Lord C, even if he's home, is far enough away from us, from this, from everything. I slide into her with a groan while she digs her nails into my back, clawing around to my ribs.
12:27 a.m.: The ground beneath us is vaguely damp and soft and pliable and I maneuver her hips up, fucking her as deeply and as intently as I possibly can. I shift one hand under her cotton t-shirt, palming her breast, and it isn't gentle. I'm fucking her in the dilapidated garden of a disgraced manor house and I am nothing, and she is everything, and I worship her with every thrust of my worthless hips. The first time I fucked her I could have given her the world, and now I have absolutely nothing. "Fuck, I love you," I say between kisses, between gasps and sighs, "I love you, I'm so fucking in love with you—" She comes with a moan in my mouth, choking it out, and I kiss her again, hard. She bites down on my lip and I come with a shudder, falling against her in the grass.
12:45 a.m.: "Don't make me regret loving you," she murmurs to me, stroking the nape of my neck. I think again about the stars I was born under. Maybe I don't have to protect the world. Maybe just her.
12:48 a.m.: "I won't," I say, though I'm not actually sure what that means for tomorrow.
DAY THREE
7:04 a.m.: This time I wake up when I feel her moving beside me, catching her just as she's sliding her feet out from under the duvet. I snake my arm around her waist and tug her backwards, holding her against my chest. She fights me for a second, but then exhales slowly, leaning into my touch. "I have to go to work," she murmurs, and I nod. "I know," I say, "but if you're still intent on this distance thing, I have to take what I can get." She pauses, considering it, and then turns over her shoulder. "Fifteen minutes," she says.
7:06 a.m.: I slide a hand between her thighs, propping one of her legs up while I stroke gently at her slit. "I love when I wake up to you naked," I say in her ear. I catch her eyes fluttering shut and continue: "If I could, I'd fuck you so slow. I'd get you on your knees and lick you, taste your pussy on my lips. I'd bury my head between your thighs and not leave until you came for me, until you begged for me." She whimpers and I slide the tip of my cock against her, running my shaft between the lips of her cunt. I feel her hips move and I shift to slide my other arm under her, one hand holding her leg while the other spreads possessively over her torso. My cock slips easily inside her; she's wet and panting and she slides her own hand down, rubbing at her clit. "Good girl," I whisper in her ear, and she lets out a tiny whine, her mouth falling open as she and I both pick up speed.
7:11 a.m.: I love the way she looks when she's desperate to come, teeth clenched, her hand moving faster on her clit while I shift her legs and fuck her deeper. I roll onto my back, pulling her with me, and shift so that she's sitting on my lap, the two of us leaned against the headboard. She spreads her legs wider, the narrow frames of them shaking on either side of mine, and I kiss her neck and whisper obscenities in her ear until she comes with a sputter, letting her head fall back against my shoulder. "How do you do this to me?" she rasps, and I shrug, my arm locked around her waist. "I could ask you the same thing," I say, which is true. I had good sex before her, and theoretically, if I wanted, I could have it after—but it will never feel like this. Like parts of her were made for my touch. Like I was made for hers.
7:47 a.m.: Eventually she leaves again. She had a boyfriend when all of this started, so I am more accustomed than I'd like to admit to watching her go. If I'd known back then what this would come to, would I have ever gotten her alone? Could I have recognized the sadness in her features and chosen to ignore it? Hard to say. I'm not particularly known for my foresight. If anything, I'm known for disastrous foresight—I make terrible mistakes, with catastrophic consequences. But she, for better or worse, makes me forget for a few minutes what I am.
9:45 a.m.: "Brace yourself," says Lord C, throwing a copy of the Daily Prophet down in front of me. Looks like there were photographers out with us last night in Diagon; a tawdry image taken from a distance flashes from the cover. "Let me guess," I say, throwing it back to him without reading it, "'Darcy heir, son of murdering thieves, lives shamelessly beyond means in vapid show of Ministry contempt'?" Lord C gives me a strange look, shoving the paper back towards me. "Keep reading," he says, as if he's sorry he has to say it.
9:48 a.m.: 'Is war hero Elizabeth Bennet being threatened into compliance?' the headline reads. 'While the case surrounding the criminal conspiracy to withhold pureblood fortunes from Ministry reparations does not include the only son of the Darcy family, one has to wonder whether he is, in fact, as innocent as he hopes to appear. Given the history between Elizabeth Bennet and Mr Darcy, is it possible that his role in his family's misconduct is more sinister than it seems? A suspected former Death Eater himself, Darcy's criminal past precedes him. The question of what atrocities he is capable of, be they Unforgivables or otherwise, is certainly a pressing issue—"
9:55 a.m.: The message is clear: once a monster, always a monster. I shove the newspaper away and Lord C places a fraternal hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, though he has no reason to be sorry. I find I'm strangely irritated by the concept that he would even say as much. He hesitates before adding, "I'm sure Bennet will defend you."
9:58 a.m.: Anger surges in my chest. Bennet always defends me. He was my rival, my enemy, my least favorite person on earth, and somehow I'm forced to consistently rely on his defense of me. Shame and rage mix together, shaken up and searing through my lungs. "I don't want his help," I growl, and rise to my feet. "Don't do it," Lord C sighs, stepping directly in front of my path, "whatever it is." I glare at him. "Thy head is full of quarrels," he quotes at me, "as an egg is full of meat." I tell him now is not the time to Mercutio at me. No time is, actually, but sometimes it's better to let him tire himself out; this is not one of those times. "Make it a word and a blow," he suggests, and I groan. "Do you really want me to stab you?" I demand. "I think you'd thank me for the distraction," he replies, like the haughty duke of shamelessness he is.
10:35 a.m.: "No one will believe it," assures Lord Charles, which is not as helpful as he suspects it is. He has no idea, does he? He's been a loner all his life, easily dismissive of others' opinions; Wickham, however, would know better. Wickham knows that people are generally stupid enough to believe what they're told. Remind them I've got a Dark Mark on my arm and they'll never hear anything else. I wait for him to rescind his invitation to tomorrow's game; I anticipate it coming any moment.
11:47 a.m.: I wait to hear from Elizabeth, but I don't. After a couple of hours of silence from every direction (am I dead? Am I a ghost?) I start to fidget and head to the Floo, finding myself once again blocked by Lord C. "Don't do it," he warns. I tell him I'm not going to fight with anyone. I'm not stupid, and I'm not him. He takes the slight but hesitates. "Be discreet," he suggests, but eventually stands aside.
12:01 p.m.: When I get to Elizabeth's office, she's sitting at her desk with a Ministry official standing behind her. She looks up, her lips pressed thin, and glances over her shoulder at the official. "May I have a conversation in my own office, or do you still worry I may be a threat to this entire government?" she asks sarcastically, gesturing to me, and the official hesitates. "As a reminder, you have my bloody wand," Elizabeth snaps, and the official grimaces in resignation. "You can talk," he says warily, and Elizabeth shoves her chair back, glaring at him before walking over to me.
12:05 p.m.: I start to ask her what's going on when she cuts me off. "You should go," she says flatly, and adds that she would have sent me an owl, but she's been rather busy this morning. "Why do they have your wand?" I ask, and her mouth stiffens. "They think I've been Imperiused," she says tightly, and I feel a blow that is at once furious wrath and a general sense of crushing inequity. "How could they not tell if someone were under the Imperius curse?" I demand in disbelief, and she fixes her gaze levelly on mine. "It's happened before," she reminds me simply.
12:08 p.m.: It doesn't occur to me until after a minute or so that they suspect me of placing her under the Imperius curse. It dawns on me that they think she's defending my mother in Wizengamot court because I forced her to, and as angry as the thought makes me, it also makes a cruel amount of sense; why else would a war hero defend a family whose prejudices once sought to have her killed?
12:09 p.m.: I think she can see it on my face as I come to that conclusion, and her expression contorts slightly. "It's probably better if you go," she murmurs, glancing over her shoulder at the Ministry official assigned to watch her. "They won't find any problems," she reminds me, "so the rumors will die down, eventually." I know she's familiar with unflattering press (she's certainly been damned by the media before, many times over) but still. I can't help feeling this is entirely my fault. Her fingers seem to repeatedly twitch towards her lack of her wand; I register again that it's currently in the hands of an apathetic Ministry employee who hopes somehow to prove Elizabeth's mind is not her own—as if anyone on earth could ever take ownership of her. I only want her heart, and I've never felt further from it.
12:10 p.m.: I back away slowly. She's right. I know she's right, and true, I don't think she blames me. Still, most of me wishes I had never come. Lord C was right to try and stop me. I'm not sure I can unsee the look on Elizabeth's face right now, sitting back down at her desk under supervision; I can't unsee her being treated like a criminal by the Ministry she very nearly gave her life to defend.
12:15 p.m.: When I arrive back at Lord Charles' house, I find an owl waiting for me. It contains four words: 'I can help you,' and Bennet's signature. He means, of course, that he can rehabilitate me. Service my image by turning me into well-meaning public servant. An admirable goal, only rather short-sighted. So I could become an Auror; so what? What will people say when I'm inevitably forced to handle another Death Eater? What will my testimony ever count for in court? Already they suspect me of Azkaban-worthy crimes on nothing but gossip and suspicion alone. Why should my occupation change their perception of me? Everyone will always see the choices of my past and use them to define me. I'm not going to become Bennet's pet project just so he can breathe easier, having crossed me off his list of problems to be solved.
4:37 p.m.: I spend most of the day wanting a drink, or a vial of something. I don't, though, because I can't strike Elizabeth's look of frustration and pity from my memory. Maybe the woman herself can't cure my vices, but the fear of disappointing her certainly can. I remember that first taste of her on my lips; so fucking sweet, despite my fervent opposition. I never wanted to fall for her. I still don't. A significant portion of my being remains convinced that my life would be much easier if I could only find the dial of my feelings and turn it down to a manageable level. Then maybe possessing only some of her would finally be enough.
5:57 p.m.: I wonder where my father is. I wonder how my mother is doing. I wonder who Lord C is fucking. I wonder if I'll be hearing from Wickham. I wonder what I should do with my life. I get an owl from Elizabeth: 'Got my wand back, but have work to do all evening. Should probably stay at the office tonight.' Yes, I think, you should. I don't reply, and I wonder if she'll hate me. I wonder if I can make her hate me again, like she used to, and then I wonder if I could stand it. I think I could. I could definitely stand it, actually, if it meant she'd have her life back. All things considered, maybe loving me is where she really went wrong.
10:05 p.m.: I fall asleep on the sofa at some point and wake up to Lord C sitting beside me, sipping a glass of something. Whisky, I think. He imbibes quite a bit, like me, but he broods quieter. "I see Queen Mab hath been with you," he tells me, and I roll my eyes. "I've been sleeping," I tell him, "not dreaming." He shrugs, taking another sip. "So, about Bennet's offer—" "What do you care?" I demand at a growl, growing increasingly frustrated, and he fixes his lofty gaze on me.
10:15 p.m.: "You took your N.E.W.T.s in all the Auror prerequisite courses," he reminds me. I open my mouth to tell him for the thirtieth time that was entirely coincidence when he cuts me off, shaking his head. "You could have taken any number of classes," he says, "so don't tell me it's a fucking coincidence that you took those."
10:20 p.m.: I find it extremely distasteful when Lord C decides to be clever. It happens more frequently than I would like, seeing as he isn't a total idiot. Probably his worst quality, actually, how not-an-idiot he is. I need to locate my less observant friends and spend more time with them. "Who are you fucking?" I demand of Charles, and he rises to his feet with a lordly sigh. "Are you going to consider Bennet's offer?" he asks, which is neither an answer nor a pleasing venture into my business. I tell him, under no uncertain terms, that his time would be better spent pleasuring himself and/or the high horse he rode in on. "Then I suppose I have nothing to say to you," he sniffs, though he pats my head before he wanders off, whistling something into his whisky.
12:08 a.m.: I hate sleeping without Elizabeth.
DAY FOUR
6:54 a.m.: I wake up to a sharp jab in my shoulder. Apparently I did not, as I had hoped, get swallowed up by the night. "Charles," I groan, greeting the morning with a scowl. "The very same," Lord C replies gravely, and tells me to wake up. "World Cup match," he reminds me, and I sit up slowly. "I'm still invited?" I ask, and Lord C shrugs. "It seems Wickham hasn't cast you off quite yet. Luckily there's always tomorrow," he adds cheerfully, tapping my nose.
7:15 a.m.: It's the first time I'll be out in public (during the day, at least) since my mother's trial started and I find myself facing the unsavory prospect of not knowing what to wear. I look tired and faintly ill; black is too harsh, blue too unpatriotic, red too garish. I opt for grey, which will impress no one. I'm unfamiliar with trying to hide, but it seems the proper thing to do in this situation. Lord C is wearing something similar, which I take as a promising sign. He is an expert at blending into scenery. Frankly, were he even slightly more skittish, he could have been a deer.
7:30 a.m.: We arrive at Wickham's to find M there already, wearing a hideous, ill-fitted England jersey that clashes stridently with every aspect of his coloring. Apparently Wickham, who is wearing his usual impeccably tailored suit, hasn't taught his pet to contain his enthusiasm in favor of not blinding people. "Shall we, gents?" Wickham beckons, looking incomprehensibly pleased with himself.
7:34 a.m.: M leans over, murmuring something to Wickham about how he'll meet up with him at the pitch later. "Are you not coming to the game?" I ask bluntly, not bothering to feign any lamentation, and M turns to give me a vaguely disinterested look. "I've already agreed to sit with other friends," he says. Other Bennets, I imagine. Probably the Bennet, even. "Pity," I note caustically. "Play nice," warns Wickham, stroking M's jaw before gesturing for him to go.
7:38 a.m.: As M leaves, I wonder silently whether the truth of the matter was that Wickham didn't invite him along. It's hardly within Wickham's playbook of fanciful pretend to permit the general public to witness his string of easily-forgotten lovers. It gives me a renewed sense of conceit, then, which I desperately need; it permits me to lift my chin slightly, remembering that I may be out of favor with the Ministry, but at least I was never an M. I have never been easily overlooked, and together, Wickham, Lord C, and I are an unmissable trio of sophistication and wealth (former wealth, in my case, though I opt not to fuss over the particulars). I paint my long-practiced facade of aristocracy back on and abandon the prospect of blending in. I'm still a Darcy, am I not? Let them have their fill of looking. Let them look until they envy me again.
8:00 a.m.: My preening doesn't last long. The moment we arrive, I realize that it was unlikely Wickham was ashamed of M; more likely, M did not want to be seen with us. Glances shift after us as we make our way to Wickham's box seats. Eyes seem to follow me, specifically, but they certainly aren't envious glances. Children are yanked out of my way as I pass, as if I might curse them, or snatch them; I hear whispers of my name in conjunction with the phrases what nerve and stay away. "Shame on you," one witch hisses at me, "taking advantage of that poor girl." Lord C gives her a cold, narrowed glare, but I find it difficult to conjure much coolness at all. My pulse races. Yesterday the world believed me capable of Unforgivable curses against a war hero, a public figure, their brightest witch; what do they believe me capable of today?
8:49 a.m.: "I shouldn't have come," I mutter to Wickham when we take our seats. "I'm going to ruin your reputation," I add with a brief swallow of pride, and to that, Wickham permits a loud scoff. "Nonsense," he says, and reminds me it's hardly as if he came away from the war unscathed—or had any sterling reputation to begin with. "We're villains," Wickham says, looking wickedly pleased as he says it. "There is no doing right by the heroes when it comes to us, but that plays to our advantage. We will always be cheerfully despised, but no amount of bad press will ever really discredit us. The bar is so low for success that it's nearly impossible to fail. Them, on the other hand," he says, shaking his head, "all it takes is one slip, and they may never recover." He takes a sip of firewhisky, which has been dutifully brought to him for his consumption. "Being an interesting villain is a gift," he tells me, toasting me with a sly grin. "It's being a hero that's impossible."
12:14 p.m.: It's a relief to be in a private box, far enough away from judgment to almost pretend there aren't people here who consider me nothing more than a criminal. Still, I find it difficult to focus on the game, despite England thoroughly trouncing France right from the start. One of the Chasers, the only girl on the team (whom I went to school with, though I prefer not to think about it) received quite a lot of criticism at the start of the postseason, but seems perfectly in sync with the other two. Lord C, who barely deigns to pay attention to any sort of quidditch, nudges me sharply. "What's happening?" he asks, gesturing as the two seekers nearly collide in the sky. I wasn't paying attention, but seeing as the game's not over, the implication is clear enough. "They lost the snitch," I say disdainfully, realizing this could still go on for quite some time.
12:21 p.m.: I get to my feet, suddenly restless. "Going to get a drink," I say, and Wickham nods. I could easily order one from here, but he knows I'm well aware of the luxuries of private seats. Lord C asks if I want company; I don't. He shrugs. "At least my gentlemanly duty has been fulfilled," he says, and I roll my eyes, wandering away.
12:36 p.m.: Naturally, the moment I leave our box I run into Elizabeth, who is probably here with Bennet and her usual posse of heroes. She's not a quidditch fan in the slightest (nor does she enjoy brooms much—learned the hard way that she prefers her feet solidly on the ground, with only minor exceptions that would be uncouth of me to mention) but I recall the English chaser is one of her close friends. I see my luck hasn't changed. My stars remain devoted to mockery. "Darcy," she exhales, and glances away. People are looking at us.
12:39 p.m.: Ah, wonderful, everyone is watching. Being a hero is impossible, I think again, watching the spectating eyes narrow not in my direction, but towards Elizabeth. They really do think less of her for having defended my mother, and for being seen with me. I can see it in their eyes. "Don't you have a quidditch game to watch?" I snap impatiently at the onlookers, and they turn away, but I catch the flicks of disapproving glances. Again, it's not me that's disappointed them. It's Elizabeth. The irony is enough to drive me to madness.
12:45 p.m.: "We're done here," I say to Elizabeth, and she looks up at me, startled. "You'll thank me someday," I say, and as I turn to leave she reaches out, gripping my arm tightly and hissing for me to wait. "I don't care what they think," she whispers to me, but she does. I know she does. And if for some inadvisable reason she doesn't, someone should, so I'll do it for her. She's fought too long and too hard to lose her reputation on behalf of someone like me—or something like us, which clearly only works in secret. It only works when no one's watching, and she knows it. She must, because why else would we have kept it between us this long? She was right to push me away. She always did know better.
12:47 p.m.: "Your service to my family is appreciated," I say loudly, so that everyone can hear, "but you are released from it. Thank you for your generosity, but we do not require it." She blinks wordlessly, soundlessly, her lips parted and vacant as if she waits for me to take it back, to announce I'm joking. "We're done here, Miss Bennet," I say, and hold a hand out for her to shake. She stares at it for a moment (or three), but she takes it. Elsewhere in the arena, the snitch is caught. The game is ended. England wins the round, Elizabeth is permitted to keep her good name, and I pull from her reach and disappear, determined not to look at her.
3:38 p.m.: Lord Charles finds me on the floor of the guest bedroom. "What did you do?" he asks quietly. "Ended it," I say. He sits beside me on the floor, settling himself against the boards. We sit in silence for several minutes. Then he lies down beside me, resting his hands on his chest like the grave man he once cheerfully claimed to be. "You've done a lot of stupid things," he murmurs, "and I usually know how stupid they are in the moment, but right now, I can't actually decide."
3:47 p.m.: I'm not in the mood to introspect, nor do I feel like depreciating myself any further. Luckily, Lord C understands more things than I usually have to tell him out loud. When I told him about Elizabeth, in fact, he said nothing. He knew I wanted her forgiveness nearly as much as I wanted her. He knew that, for a time, wanting one or the other was almost interchangeable until I knew what it felt like to hold her in my arms, and then I wanted her immeasurably more. He knows my heart is breaking, broken, shattered, gone. Strange he knows so much about me, and I know so very little about him. I know someone is making him happy, at the very least. Happier than I've seen him. He looks and acts the same, mostly, but I know the man well enough to know that he isn't. Why isn't that information enough?
4:01 p.m.: "Who are you sleeping with?" I ask again, my eyes falling shut as I ask him. My voice is syrupy and morose and I loathe it completely. Charles opens his mouth and falters, hesitating. I think he really does want to tell me but can't for some reason, and it's infuriating. When did he develop morals? I do not wish to reward this behavior, so I rise to my feet to leave. He reaches out, gripping my arm. He has about five seconds of my attention and he knows it, but per usual, he uses his time wisely. "Talk to your mother," he murmurs. Five seconds lapse and I leave the room.
8:08 p.m.: An owl from Elizabeth. Another. One more. All some variant of 'You can't mean this,' or worse, 'I don't believe you.'
8:30 p.m.: Silence would be cruel, but there isn't much to say. 'I love you,' I tell her simply, 'and this is how much.'
12:04 a.m.: I wait, but the owls stop.
12:06 a.m.: She knows I'm right. Is that the worst part?
12:11 a.m.: Is there a worst part, or is it all equally disaster?
12:15 a.m.: Was it a disaster from the start? Was it somewhere in the sky at my birth? Doesn't matter. Don't trust the stars. They're impassive at best, liars at worst.
2:11 a.m.: O, I am Fortune's fool.
DAY FIVE
10:34 a.m.: I avoid all forms of media this morning, though it's difficult. The house is empty. Lord Charles is off being mysterious and I, for as much as I would like to sleep for one thousand years and awaken in another society (or perhaps not at all), find I do not enjoy the silence.
11:15 a.m.: "I didn't expect to hear from you," says Bennet when I waltz through his Floo. It's Sunday, and he seems to be a bit ruffled and out of sorts, but I don't particularly care. "I need to see my mother," I say, and Bennet's mouth quirks slightly. "Well, I just lost a bet," he murmurs, sinking into the chair behind his desk, and I purse my lips, contemptuous. My favorite expression, really. "I don't care much for the state of your finances," I say, "all things considered." He loftily waves a hand, which is, frankly, quite dismissive. I wonder who taught him that. "Sit down," he says, "and I'll arrange it."
12:04 p.m.: Is it strange that I'm nervous to see my mother? I suppose it isn't; not really. She's a very intimidating woman, after all, though never that way for me. My mistake, thinking her softer than she was. I patterned myself off my father for too many years before realizing my mother was the brave one, the smart one, the dangerous one. I know she didn't kill anyone, but I also know she would have. For me, she would have, and that's the part that keeps me from facing her. I know she's doing this for me, and I am too overcome with shame to meet her eye. I don't know yet how I'll manage it.
12:35 p.m.: There are dementors in the corridor and I remember how much I feared them, how much my father feared them. My mother looks tired and drawn and glinting silver in her captivity, but she doesn't look afraid. She turns with her usual regality and eyes me for a moment, her gaze keen at first, and then soft. "Hello, sweetheart," she says, and before I know what I'm doing, I've already knelt at her feet, resting my forehead against her knees.
12:36 p.m.: She rests a hand on my head, like she used to when I was a child. "What is it?" she asks me, and I say nothing. "Elizabeth tells me you've dismissed her from my case," she notes, and I nod, acid in my throat. "I'll find someone else," I whisper. "Darling, you and I know there is no one else," my mother sighs, sweeping her fingers through my hair.
12:40 p.m.: "I'm not good enough for her," I say, and my mother's grip tightens. "I don't deserve her," I murmur, "and she deserves better than what they're saying about her, what they're doing to her—"
12:41 p.m.: "It's not your right to determine what someone else deserves," my mother says, and I look up at her, meeting her blue eyes with my father's grey ones. I know that's what she sees, and I opt not to soften the blow. "Then why are you doing this?" I ask her, because she and I both know better. Maybe I don't know what she's done, but I certainly know what she hasn't done. "Tell them the truth," I say softly. I'm begging, which I know my mother will not approve of. But if she would face death for my father, for me, then I imagine I can damage some pride for her.
12:45 p.m.: She hesitates, and then draws me up, reaching up with both hands to curl around my cheeks. "Do you know," she murmurs to me, "you are the best of me and your father both?" I want to tell her that isn't very good, unfortunately, only I can't speak. Well, I can, but only one thing seems worth saying. "I asked you not to go," I tell her, "and this, what you're doing, is going. You're giving up. You're leaving. You're going somewhere I can't follow."
12:48 p.m.: Even in captivity, my mother is like a faerie queen, a priestess of stars. She lifts her chin and fills her cell with light—and it strikes me suddenly that while Azkaban nearly killed my father, my mother would almost certainly survive. "I have to tell you some things," she murmurs to me, "and if you can forgive them…" She trails off, and I grip her hands tightly. "No need," I say, and she frowns up at me. "All is forgiven, Mother," I promise her, "whatever it is."
1:39 p.m.: When I return to Bennet's office, he's not alone. Elizabeth is there, her face pale, eyes tired. "Legally," she tells me quietly, "I need to know what you discussed with my client." I remind her that my mother is no longer her client, and her expression hardens. "That's not your decision to make," she snaps at me, and between us, Bennet looks uncertain. "If your mother rescinds her statement, I can let her go," Bennet says tentatively, and at that, Elizabeth glances questioningly at me, expectant. "If she plans to rescind it, she hasn't said anything to me," I say, which is the truth. I still don't know what, if anything, my mother is fully responsible for.
1:42 p.m.: I turn to leave and Elizabeth steps after me, pausing me before I reach the door. "Is it really over?" she asks me, holding her breath, and I nod. I want to kiss her. I want to hold her, only that wouldn't accomplish anything at all. "Better for both of us this way," I force myself to say, and then I leave.
2:01 p.m.: By the time I get to Wickham's, my hands are shaking. I need something, anything, but I enter the living room to find M there alone, shirtless and tousled and entirely the opposite of what I came for. The lion tattooed on his chest rears up and I turn, about to leave, when M calls to me. "He's not here," M says. "Obviously," I snarl, grabbing a handful of Floo powder, but M clears his throat, pausing me. "I know where he keeps the vials," he says, and I let my hand fall, hesitating. "Or," M says when I turn, "I can just listen. Up to you."
2:05 p.m.: "You hate me," I remind him, and he shakes his head. "No, I said you were a bad influence," he reminds me neutrally. There's a decorative portrait of vines wrapping around his arm. I stare at it for a second and he shifts, holding it out. "Devil's Snare," he explains, and I roll my eyes. I know what it is. I'm not an idiot. "Devil's Snare is very interesting," M tells me, "because it will constrict anything it touches, and the harder a person struggles, the more it binds them. The faster it kills them. But," he says, leaning his forearms onto the counter, "it shrinks away from light."
2:10 p.m.: "I fucking took Herbology," I tell him, because I know this. Everyone knows this. I'm here because I'm itching for something to put in my chest or my lungs or my veins, but M gives me a discomfiting glance that makes me stiffen. "You think I'm stupid," M remarks. I say nothing. "More to the point, you think I would be stupid enough," he clarifies, "to love someone like Wickham, who isn't capable of loving someone like me." Again, there's not much to say in response. This, like the pitfalls of Devil's Snare, is highly accessible information.
2:13 p.m.: "Why do you like Wickham?" M asks me neutrally, and I groan, about to leave, but M continues. "Because he's very smart, isn't he? He's clever, he's interesting, he's a bit of a charming scoundrel. But it's also because he listens." M eyes me carefully as he talks, casually brewing a pot of tea. "Because he withholds judgment, even when you have passed it on him. You don't like him because he's lost," M informs me slowly, "you like him because even in the dark, he has hope."
2:17 p.m.: "This is intolerable bullshit," I say.
2:18 p.m.: "Do you know why Wickham likes you?" M asks. I obviously do not, but I spare myself the inelegance of admission. "Because you feel conflict," M supplies, as if that's any reasonable thing to say. "Because the rest of Wickham's world is desensitized beyond recognition, but you never really manage to lose your soul completely, do you? You're never too far gone to feel the weight of your choices. The more you're constricted, the more you look for light. You're just too proud to reach for it."
2:22 p.m.: "I do not accept your egregious plant metaphor," I inform him.
2:24 p.m.: "Fine. The vials are in his nightstand," M replies, daring me to make a choice.
2:26 p.m.: Fuck.
2:27 p.m.: FUCK.
2:29 p.m.: "Don't think you've taught me anything," I tell M, as viciously as I can manage. He looks amused. What a motherfucker. I'm beginning to suspect that whatever he and Wickham have isn't quite as trifling as I thought, which is unfortunate. M's an absolute nightmare, and if Wickham experiences any sort of personal growth as a result of his inane herb analogies, I'm going to be furious. I'm already furious. I'd very much like to punch M in the face, only I suspect he'd enjoy it. Also, he might punch me back, which would not be ideal.
2:30 p.m.: "You're going to have to start dressing better if you're planning on being with Wickham," I snottily inform M. "Noted," he replies, and I twitch with irritation. Help topple an evil empire and apparently you become immune to shame. "Want tea? It's chamomile," he says, and for fuck's sake, is he even a person? Does he not understand the world? "I do not," I reply disdainfully. He shrugs, disappearing back into the bedroom. On his back, an illustrative sword stabs a tattooed snake. Subtle, I scoff internally.
2:45 p.m.: "What shall we drink to?" Lord C asks me when I arrive back home, "Lost love, our unimpeachable criminality, or just a general sense of macabre?"
8:48 p.m.: "I love her," I slur through my whisky haze. "Mm," mumbles an equally inebriated Lord Charles, who seems to be having some difficulty fitting his tongue in his mouth. "Here's to my love," I quote into the bottle, muttering my misfortune, and Lord C drags himself up from the floor to rest a hand on his shoulder. "Fuck the stars," he says, which I'm pretty sure is not a quote. No guarantees, of course. "You took the Auror courses," he slurs, flailing, "you got all Outstandings on your N.E.W.T.s, you got the recommendation letter—" "What recommendation letter?" I ask vacantly, but he only grips both sides of my face. "You are a gentleman and a scholar," he tells me gravely, "and you deserve better than this." "You don't get to tell me what I deserve," I inform him. "NEITHER DO YOU," he shoots back nonsensically, taking a swig from my bottle.
9:35 p.m.: Sometime before dragging myself into my bed I pull Lord C into my chest, giving him something of a strangling embrace. "Thank you," I say deliriously. He shoves me. "Stop fighting it," I say as he smacks me inexpertly in the kidneys. Gradually he relents, groaning. "You stupid princely idiot," he murmurs. "You fucking lordly fool," I reply.
12:14 a.m.: I wake briefly to an owl carrying a single page, a few words underlined. 'She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she hardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that she could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should meet.'
12:18 a.m.: There's nothing to say. I've said it all already, and telling her I love her while I turn my back is more than cruel. For once, I opt for silence and think it kind.
DAY SIX
7:34 a.m.: "Get up," Lord C says groggily, looking an absolute fright. He's more swamp monster than lord at the moment. "Charles," I tell him, shoving his face away, "your dominion is limited to the rooms I'm not presently in." He persists, like the infectious plague that he is. "Your mother's verdict," he mumbles, groggily pressing his fingers to his temple. "Verdict?" I ask, bolting upright and immediately regretting it once my head spins. "But her trial's not scheduled to conclude until—" "Delivering it today," he cuts in impatiently, shoving the paper in my face.
7:55 a.m.: It occurs to me later that I should really ask Lord C when he even started reading the goddamn newspaper, much less at this ungodly hour—but I shove my feet into my trousers and down the vial of Sober Up that he holds out for me. "Your hair is a fucking travesty," he tells me. "I'm going to murder you," I graciously reply.
8:45 a.m.: We stumble into the Wizengamot courtroom to take our seats and I look down at my mother, who looks as regal as ever. I catch her eye, and she gives me a brief reassuring smile. It's alright, she mouths, and I'm not sure if I believe her, but I'm willing to find out. Bennet walks in, the prosecutor at his side, as Elizabeth takes a seat beside my mother. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that she doesn't look at me.
9:00 a.m.: The prosecutor begins by announcing that at the Auror department's urging, the Ministry has dropped most of the criminal charges against my mother. "It has come to our attention that the defendant's initial testimony was falsified to protect her family," the prosecuting wizard says uncomfortably, "and because there is no compelling evidence tying her to the murder in question, nor to the larger criminal conspiracy, Auror Bennet insists these charges must be dropped."
9:05 a.m.: I swallow hard, and beside me, Lord C leans forward, waiting to see what the judge will decide when Elizabeth rises to her feet. "If it pleases the court," Elizabeth says, "given that the expected Ministry reparations have now been recovered in excess, the damage from my client's only plausible crime has been more than repaid. I would beseech the Wizengamot to consider foregoing Azkaban in favor of some suitable alternative." "Such as?" the presiding Warlock asks, giving my mother a pursed look of suspicion. "Perhaps Ministry-supervised house arrest," Elizabeth suggests, and the Warlock's expression sours. "And who would supervise? Surely not her son," the Warlock says, giving me a glance of disapproval. "Her sister is in good standing with the Ministry," Elizabeth suggests, and provides a couple of other options, including the name of a Gringotts employee—the eldest brother of her ex-boyfriend, in fact, which delivers me to utter bemusement. "Not good enough," pronounces the Warlock, and I feel my knees weaken just as elsewhere in the courtroom, someone stands.
9:20 a.m.: "Hogwarts is desperately in need of qualified staff," says the professor I'll call Lady Catherine, who is presently Headmistress and whom I thought was no particular supporter of mine, nor my mother's. My mother, in fact, looks more startled than anyone by her appearance. "I happen to know that the defendant is exceptionally skilled with wandless healing charms," Lady Catherine continues soberly, "and would be a credit to our staff. Our faculty, too, were the school governors to agree to having her in the classroom." "Hogwarts would take in a criminal?" the Warlock asks skeptically, and Lady Catherine shoots him an unpleasant look of irritation that was once so often turned on me. "Hogwarts would be better for having her, and if anyone disagrees," says Lady Catherine, who is herself a war hero twice over, "they can take it up with me."
9:35 a.m.: "Well," the Warlock asks my mother gruffly, "if it wasn't you, then who was it?" She doesn't blink. She looks more queenly than ever as she says, her voice clear and inescapable, "I don't know." I exhale slowly. It won't satisfy them, but I knew she wouldn't betray my father. She did this for me, I'm sure of it. She'd have gone to Azkaban without batting an eye if not for me. I mouth the words thank you to her from where I'm sitting and she lifts her chin again, daring the world to challenge her. Meanwhile, Bennet rises to his feet. "Speaking on behalf of this Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement," he says in his hero's voice, "I believe the Wizengamot would be abandoning every value it claims to protect if it did not dismiss the additional charges. Better no answers," he adds, "than the wrong one."
9:47 a.m.: Bennet, that surprisingly clever bastard, has the Warlock in a political corner. "Fine," the Warlock pronounces tightly, and sentences my mother to five years house arrest under Lady Catherine's watch at Hogwarts for her part in obscuring financial crimes. Elizabeth visibly lets out a breath, nodding to Bennet with gratitude; this is a win for her—the best possible outcome, considering there was never going to be a not-guilty verdict—and a major, career-altering loss for him. He walks away with an unsolved case and public questioning of his judgment, I'm sure. Ostensibly, he'll have to hunt my father to make up for it, but I don't think he will. I really think he's willing to take the failure to spare my mother, and I grudgingly admire him for that. These honorable motherfuckers. Bennet is precisely where he belongs.
10:30 a.m.: I make my way to my mother and Lady Catherine, knowing I have about five minutes to speak with her before she goes. "You're welcome to come see your mother at Hogwarts," Lady Catherine tells me in her stiff, lofty way, and I nod. "Thank you," I say. Underwhelming, really, but I doubt I've ever said as much to her before. "Don't thank me," she sniffs, "but do not waste my recommendation, young man. My word carries weight, and I will not have it be put aside." Again, I have no idea what she's talking about. "What recommend-" "Don't dawdle," Lady Catherine admonishes flatly, gesturing to my mother and stepping away.
10:34 a.m.: "Hello, sweetheart," my mother says, and I pull her into an embrace. It's true, she is a very gifted witch. She'll be a credit to the school, and to Lady Catherine. Still, I know this wasn't the outcome she wanted. I think part of her wanted to be punished, and this will feel like more than she deserves. "For what it's worth, I'm relieved," I murmur, and I feel her smile as she runs her hand over the back of my head. "Be good, darling," she tells me, and pulls away, her gaze flicking to where Elizabeth stands elsewhere, preparing for an official press release. "Be good," my mother tells me, "and be happy. If you have the opportunity to be happy, sweetheart, don't hesitate to take it."
11:17 a.m.: Eventually Lord C and I make our way through the Ministry, wandering out of the courtroom. "It's over," I say, and he nods, still staring straight ahead. "Now what?" I ask, and he shakes his head. "You need to get a fucking job," he tells me. "What about you?" I demand, gesturing vaguely to his general sense of aimlessness. He shrugs. "I'm not as purpose-driven as you," he tells me, and we come to a halt at the crowd of journalists and photographers surrounding Bennet and Elizabeth.
11:25 a.m.: "I will confess that I'm dismayed by the rumors that have spread about my involvement in this case. However, I've been accused of some terrible things throughout my career," Elizabeth drily reminds the reporters, "and therefore I can't be too surprised. I hoped for privacy and did not receive it, and in my attempts to ensure discretion in my personal life, I unfortunately led you to make your own conclusions. I regret this. I should have been clearer." She looks up, and her gaze finds mine. I hold my breath.
11:27 a.m.: "I chose to defend the Darcy family because I am in love with Darcy himself," she says, and immediately, voices drop. Cameras flash. Magical quills scribble. "This is not to excuse the reality, which is that the woman on trial wasn't guilty of most of the crimes she was accused of committing. But would I have chosen to defend her anyway, if she had been? Yes," Elizabeth says, and I nearly choke on my disbelief. "Yes, I would have," Elizabeth continues, without regard for the damage she's almost certainly causing to herself, "because Auror Bennet and I didn't fight against a Dark Lord because we wished our names glorified, or so that we ourselves could be placed on a pedestal. We fought this war so that we and everyone else in this world could love whoever we chose to love, and I will not have public opinion or any foolish quest to preserve my reputation stand in the way of that. Prejudice is prejudice, whatever shape it takes, just as pride is only pride. And if you or this Ministry think less of me for my choices, then so be it. You all possess the freedom to disapprove because I helped restore it to you, and I will never regret my part in that." She glances at me again. "So, why did I take this case? Because I love him," she confesses again, softening, "and I should have been clear from the start that because I love him, I wouldn't—I couldn't—turn my back on him. Not now, or ever."
11:35 a.m.: When she steps back from the podium, there's not a sound in the atrium aside from scratching quills. "Thank you," she says curtly, suddenly looking shaken and withdrawn, and she walks away. Nobody stops her. She slips between Bennet and the prosecutor and disappears.
11:47 a.m.: "Fuck," exhales Lord C, and suddenly the journalists turn, finding me in the crowd. I glance at Lord C, who looks back at me. "Run," he advises at a mutter. While I generally hate to listen to Charles, in this case, I do.
12:05 p.m.: I skid into Elizabeth's office to find her with her arms folded, surveying the neatly piled landscape of her desk. "I should probably quit my job," she remarks neutrally, and I shake my head, breathless. "Don't," I say, because they'll only replace her with someone far worse. This Ministry doesn't deserve her, and that's precisely why she should stay.
12:07 p.m.: She looks up, still distant. "Your mother is a terrifying woman," she remarks. I nod my agreement, walking towards her like I'm in something of a trance. She rises to her feet, slipping around to the other side of her desk, and holds her hand out for mine. "I'm ready if you are," she says. "Ready for what?" I ask. She shrugs. "Everything," she says, "provided it's with you."
12:10 p.m.: I take her hand and bend my forehead to hers, breathless. "The Daily Prophet will never love me," I say, "and neither will the Ministry." "No, but I will," she replies without pause. I marvel at how easily it comes to her—love and bravery both. Though, I'm no longer uncertain either; which is perhaps surprising, considering I have so little to cling to aside from fear. Did I really have to sink to nothing to get here? Maybe I did, actually. Maybe I did.
12:15 p.m.: "I'll be better for you," I promise her, reveling in the feel of her when I brush my lips against the hollow of her throat. "I'll be a fucking hero for you," I add deliriously, my tongue darting out against the vibration of her laugh, and she draws me closer, pulling my head up. "I'm hero enough for the both of us," she replies smartly, and I savor the slow kiss I give her, relishing the taste of her lips. "Don't be anything else but you, Mr Darcy," she tells me, and I kiss her more hungrily this time, parting her legs with my knee before sliding a hand up her thigh.
12:25 p.m.: A knock at the door interrupts us and Elizabeth nudges me aside, fixing her skirt before calling for entry. It's Bennet, whom I very much immediately want to murder, only I remember I'm once again in his debt. His death will, unfortunately, have to wait for another time. "Darcy," Bennet acknowledges, arching a brow at me before turning to Elizabeth. "Are you ready?" he asks her, and she nods. "Excuse me," I insert frustratedly, having been in the middle of an extremely promising seduction, but Elizabeth merely smiles at me. "We've waited this long," she tells me, and remarks that one more afternoon won't kill me. I inform her she has no way of knowing that. She shrugs, indifferent. "Think about my offer," Bennet reminds me on the way out, and they both leave. I sigh loudly, kicking aimlessly at Elizabeth's desk.
5:35 p.m.: I'm pacing my living room when the Floo indicates a visitor. To my displeasure, it's only Wickham. "What?" I demand. "Yes, yes, hello to you too," he offers, and holds out a vial for me.
5:37 p.m.: "No," I say, and Wickham grins with approval. "M suspected you'd say that," he remarks, moving as if to toss it into the flames. "Well, hold on, those are expensive," I remind him exasperatedly, seeing as I used to be the one who procured them for us (back when I was capable of procuring anything—fuck, Lord C is right. I need a job), and Wickham shrugs. "I'll take the loss," he tells me, "in favor of personal fulfillment." If there's one person I can safely punch it's probably Wickham (also, he probably deserves it the most), but for whatever reason, I opt not to. Also, if he throws it in the fire, we'll all be intoxicated in minutes. "Well, that's an idea," he suggests, just as Elizabeth waltzes in through the flames.
5:39 p.m.: "Oh, are you busy?" she asks me, to which I growl that if she tries to leave, I will be distinctly displeased. "We're discussing the principles of inhalants," Wickham informs her, "and whether incinerating them would or would not intoxicate the whole house." "Oh, that's interesting," Elizabeth says, tilting her head in thought as Lord C apparates in beside me. "What's interesting?" he prompts. I, not unpredictably, am infuriated by the sudden influx of idiots in the room I'd very much like to have sex in. "Please leave," I say, though Elizabeth is hopelessly distracted. "Why would you be burning an inhalant?" she asks Wickham, and he grins. "Funny you should ask," he tells her.
5:45 p.m.: "I'm not doing them anymore," I assure her hastily, but Elizabeth waves my good intentions away. "You should try it. For science," she clarifies. "To science!" Lord C declares, snatching the vials from Wickham's hand and tossing them into the flames.
6:17 p.m.: "I don't feel anything," Lord C says, "but I don't know which of your two heads to look at while you're talking." "I'm not talking," I tell him. "Uh oh," he says, listening to what are apparently the voices in his head, and Elizabeth lets out a high-pitched giggle. "You're breaking the law," I remind her, and she squints at me, lifting her head from the floor. "What are you, an Auror?" she demands. I consider this. "Should I be?" I ask. She shrugs. "Lady Catherine wrote you a very compelling recommendation," she offers anecdotally, and I groan. "How does everybody know that?" I demand. "We're all smarter than you," Wickham replies, his eyes closed.
7:23 p.m.: Eventually we're all draped over various pieces of furniture, each our own artful version of sloth. Elizabeth and I are both on the sofa, her head resting in my lap. Lord Charles is—no, wait. I look around and realize Lord C's gone. Wickham's gone, too. I'm sitting still, hardly moving, and I'm hardly aware that I'm talking until I realize I'm telling Elizabeth about my stars, and the dragon I was born under. "I'm supposed to be a protector, but all I really want to protect is you," I say aloud, lightly stroking her hair, and beneath my touch, I feel her breath catch. She turns her head, brushing her lips against my thigh, and the impact of it rushes through my veins, darting to my extremities.
7:24 p.m.: My fingers tighten in her hair and she pulls herself up slightly, her fingers shifting nimbly along the zipper of my trousers. I hold my breath, watching her as she circles her tongue around the head of my cock and then closes her pretty lips around it. "Oh, fuck," I exhale, my hands wrapped in her curls as she lowers her mouth down my shaft.
7:29 p.m.: I'm so tense while she blows me the arches of my feet start to cramp. The effects of the burning vials have mostly worn off by now, but I still feel a vibrant buzzing in my blood, a heightened tingling of sensation. I'm especially conscious of the pads of her fingers digging into my hips, the way the firelight dances along the line of her shoulder wherever I catch glimpses of her bare skin. I shiver and she pauses, glancing up, her wide eyes meeting mine with her lips around my cock. "For fuck's sake," I whisper, pulling her up to me and groaning my desperation into her mouth.
7:35 p.m.: She shifts hurriedly, not bothering to undress, and I yank her knickers aside—or rip them, difficult to tell. Difficult to care. She slides easily onto my cock and we both gasp, my fingers digging into the fabric of her skirt as I draw her legs wider, thrusting up into her while she grinds her hips on mine. "How do you want me to fuck you?" I ask her, hands tight around her waist, and she leans towards me, speaking in my ear. "Like we still have tomorrow," she says, and I pause, shivering at the words. "Love me like I'm going to wake up in your arms," she implores me, and I pull back to look at her, catching something strained and wanting in her voice.
7:46 p.m.: "I'm sorry," she says, and I blink, about to protest that she has nothing to be sorry for when she shakes her head, unfinished. "I'm sorry I fought this for so long," she whispers in explanation, "and I'm sorry I left you alone when you were hurting. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you needed me—" "Stop," I say, taking her hands and pressing my lips to the palms of them, one by one. She can't know, of course, how different this is from everything that came before her. She can't possibly understand, and I certainly can't put it in words—every woman I ever touched before was only a temporary beacon on my way to you is nothing anyone wants to hear, I imagine—but after I kiss her hands, I kiss her shoulders, I kiss her neck and her nose and her lips. I kiss her cheeks, her eyes, her forehead. I kiss her until she lets out a breath, shaking in my hands, and then I look at her, so she can see my eyes are full of only her.
8:01 p.m.: "Tell me I can have tomorrow," I say to her, and she lets out a breath, her fingers tracing the shape of my mouth. "You can have all of my tomorrows," she promises softly, and I kiss her, filling her slowly again.
DAY SEVEN
6:15 a.m.: I'm awake when she shifts in my arms, squinting up at me. "What is it?" she asks, as if my waking pulse has prompted her to concern. "Nothing," I say, "I just have to do something. I'll be right back." She nods, tilting her face up for my kiss before burrowing back in the blankets.
6:31 a.m.: It's outrageously early, but I think if I have to go to the Ministry to do this I may very well lose my nerve. "Bennet," I call as I enter the Floo, and pause as he turns towards me in the kitchen. Only it's not him. It's some other lanky raven-haired man, and a much more aristocratic one, at that. "Where the fuck am I?" I demand of a shirtless Lord Charles, who sips amicably at some coffee despite very firmly not living here. "A nightmare, I imagine," he replies just as Bennet stumbles in, equally in a state of undress. "Did someone just—oh," he says, squinting at me.
6:33 a.m.: It takes approximately one further minute of disbelief for me to do the math. "HIM?" I demand, because nothing has ever 1) seemed less likely and yet 2) explained more things, and Lord C shrugs. "Say what you came to say," he advises me, "and save the yelling for later, or I'll have wasted the last week of my life keeping a secret for no reason." I stare at him. "I knew you wouldn't take the offer if you knew about this," Lord Charles explains, exchanging a glance with Bennet, "but please, for the utter love of fuck, Darcy, don't let your pride keep you now."
6:37 a.m.: I grumble my concession. "I want the job," I say to Bennet, "but I don't want you to give it to me. I want to have earned it." Whether it was at Charles' urging or Elizabeth's, I still want it to be my merit under consideration, not whatever favors Bennet feels he owes. "You have," Bennet assures me, and tells me about Lady Catherine's recommendation, which she sent to him unsolicited along with my N.E.W.T. scores. "This has nothing to do with who you are," Bennet says, "and everything to do with the fact that nobody comes close to your qualifications."
6:45 a.m.: "Take the job," Charles urges me, and I glare at him. "This isn't a fun secret," I tell him, and he shakes his head. "No, it isn't," he agrees, "and it doesn't have to be one anymore, so take the goddamn fucking job, would you?"
7:02 a.m.: I climb back into bed with Elizabeth as she's stirring, stretching her arms overhead with a yawn. "Did you take the job?" she asks me, slipping her legs through mine and resting her head against my chest. I sigh, my arms folding around her. "Am I really this predictable?" I demand. "Some things just make sense," she says with a shrug, "like you being an Auror and paying Bennet back for all those times he very thoughtfully didn't let you get killed. That, and the stars predicted it," she notes gravely, and then laughs as I throw her onto her back, gruffly kissing my way down her torso.
12:15 p.m.: Eventually she goes to work, resolutely defending righteousness. Lord Charles and I settle down at the table for cold coffee and toast. I write to my mother, asking about little trifles like the weather, and she replies with anecdotes about life back in the castle. I tell her I'll be starting Auror training next week; she proclaims she's proud of me. Lord C, meanwhile, says nothing at all about Bennet until I ask him the only question worth posing: why him?
12:17 p.m.: "Not sure," Lord C admits, frowning. "I suppose I didn't know it was happening until it already was, and then it was too late to stop. What about you and Elizabeth?" he asks me, and I consider it, a slow warmth filling my chest at the thought that we have plans, she and I. Hours from now, days, weeks, even years; they're all part of a plan, and a simple one—one where I love her, ardently, for as long as she permits me to do so. Probably even longer, I'd guess.
12:25 p.m.: "I know what you mean," I eventually say to Charles, "about it being something you can't hold yourself back from," and I do.
12:30 p.m.: How could I have stopped myself, after all?
12:31 p.m.: I was in the middle before I even knew I had begun.
a/n: Quotes are from 'Romeo and Juliet' as well as 'Pride and Prejudice.' Dedicated to muddier waters, atelokin, plainjane108!