Chapter Twenty Two
The Garden Party Pt. One
0o0
Astoria spent much of the next morning fighting off a terrible case of the doldrums. Tracey's visit had left her exhausted, but—even worse—it had also caused her to reflect more seriously upon her own lack of enthusiasm. As a result, she grew more and more restless and gloomy as the day progressed. Adding to this sense of despondency was the fact that Belladonna had spent the entire morning being uncharacteristically absent.
It was a queer and unexpected reaction to what might have otherwise been a lucky break—Astoria had originally dreaded her aunt's corrective presence, certain that she would view her date with Cormac as an opportunity to unleash a million reminders about conduct. But as things stood, Belladonna could not be bothered: she had plans to leave for France later in the afternoon, and from what Astoria could tell, she intended to stay there for the entirety of New Years eve and the following day. She had not so much as spoken to her niece, let alone seized the opportunity to dress her and—although Astoria would have sooner died than admitted it out loud—the divergence from their normal pattern was disheartening.
When Belladonna finally did summon Astoria, it was only for a hasty lunch and a run down of scheduling, conducted with forceful zest over salads in the dining room. Her main focus seemed to be on George, who had written to tell Astoria that he would be collecting her at three o'clock and escorting her to the party from there.
"Do not allow him to be comfortably late," Belladonna scolded, coldly predicting negligence. "If he arrives any later than three o'clock, you must do your best to scold him in a way that punishes him personally. I know you're capable. You'll think of a way."
Astoria nodded halfheartedly, toying with the dandelion greens and chicken that Bonky had served. She had already determined not to say a word to her father, even if he forgot about her entirely. It was miserable enough to be at odds with Daphne. She did not want to upset her father, too.
After extracting a few hasty promises and suggesting for the fifth time Astoria consider spending the night at her father's house (Belladonna did not seem particularly keen to leave her home alone) she called for Bonky. She was in her cloak and through the floo in record time—on her way to her own party with barely a glance over her imperious shoulder at her wayward niece.
Astoria watched until the green flames that had swallowed her aunt slowly guttered and shrunk back into a smoldering orange flicker. Her promise to stay with her father—which had been as light as air in the first place—dissipated almost immediately. Unbeknownst to Belladonna, Daphne had not sent her so much as a Christmas card. The last thing Astoria wanted to do was invade her personal space on a whim.
For the next hour she lounged in the tub. Listening to the soft hiss of the radiator under the frozen window pane, she contemplated her own lousy prospects for the evening. Perhaps the best thing to do was to fake a headache? Spending the night submerged in water reading paperbacks was the only course of action that seemed likely to bring her any enjoyment. But in the end, her promise to Parvati Patil pulled her out of the bathwater and sent her ambling toward her closet.
Tracey had borrowed Astoria's best white dress, so she turned her eyes toward the ivory colored one that Tracey had dismissed.
It did not look much better on her body than it did on the hanger. Alarmed, Astoria tried on various necklaces in an attempt to make the fabric come to life. When that failed she added a bright headband. Then, admitting defeat, she gave up and sat, staring at her pale, despondent face in the mirror.
The clock downstairs chimed two: only an hour left to make herself presentable or she would have to fake an injury.
The white dress is not your only option, Astoria realized, heartened by the sound of the clock bell. There was no rule that said only men were allowed to wear black... She simply would not wear white.
Astoria opened her closet and had a fresh look. There was a short, black dress near the back that had never been worn. Even on the hanger, it reeked of her aunt's taste in clothing: well tailored, dark and faintly no-nonsense. She exchanged the white dress for the black one and studied the change of effect that this new color and fit had wrought.
Her first instinct was to be thankful that Belladonna had left early. Because, while the garment had surely been purchased by her aunt, it looked quite different on her body than it had hanging in the closet. Flat, the dress reminded Astoria of the sort of thing that a stylish lawyer might wear to a function—but stretched over human curves, it seemed to take on a new and mischievous life.
It was short, perhaps too short for a girl of fourteen to wear on a date, but it was polished, simple and it drew the eye without begging for attention. The top only dipped low enough to elegantly display her collar bone, but the dress worked a subtle villainy at her hips, hugging her waist trimly before sloping downward like a loving caress.
Astoria chuckled. She pulled off the headband and pinched some volume back into her hair. Better. This was the sort of outfit that a person who had tricked their way into a party might actually wear.
Pleased and hesitant to add anything else that might ruin the effect, Astoria pulled on a pair of matching heels and was fully prepared to wait for her father in the living room when her eye caught the corner of an old leather jewelry box hidden beneath a stack of rune dictionaries.
It was the heirloom necklace that Belladonna had given her for Christmas the year she had started school. Astoria flicked the latch and stared at the diamond and ruby treasure inside. The sun struck each gem like a bell; each stone glowed against the black velvet lining of the box.
It was the sort of expensive statement piece that Astoria's life presently gave her no reason to wear. She was not getting married, nor had she been elected into magical parliament... and yet.
Astoria undid the clasp and pulled the rope of jewels around her neck, taking care not to look into the mirror until she had refastened it. The hook was wrought in the image of a tiny Lestrange family seal—goblin work, no doubt. She turned the seal around so that it was entirely obscured by her hair. Then she glanced toward the looking glass.
She felt her facial muscles twitch. In the reflective surface before her, Astoria saw herself smirk.
0o0
"Darling!" called George by way of a hasty greeting two hours later, launching himself out of the living room fireplace. "I'm running so abominably late! I was in a meeting that dragged on for ages!"
Astoria looked up from a collection of bird sketches that she had found on a nearby shelf and eyed the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly four o'clock. By Belladonna's standards, this probably merited two separate punishments, but she bounded to her feet eagerly.
"Hello, dad! Don't worry—I was late getting dressed."
Afraid of harming the bird sketches (which were surely the amateur work of one of Belladonna's long-dead husbands) Astoria stuffed the book between the couch cushions and moved forward to hug her father fondly.
A small, niggling part of her wanted to ask who had called him into a meeting on a holiday, but she stopped herself just in time. The only thing worse than being lied to was having to watch her father fabricate an awkward answer.
"You look marvelous!" said George. He pulled out of their embrace and cast an appraising look at Astoria's necklace. "If I'm not careful, someone will steal you away!"
Someone had already stolen Astoria away: Belladonna, and she had done it years ago. Still, Astoria smiled encouragingly, determined not to make any waves. It was months since she'd last seen her father and goading him struck her as a terrible waste of an opportunity.
"Come, come!" said George rummaging about for the snuff box of floo powder. He found it next to an antique portrait of a stern looking witch in a beret. "We were supposed to have arrived an hour ago."
They stepped out of the fireplace together into a wide and well-lit parlor. The check-room nearby was already bursting with cloaks and the dull murmur of not-so-distant voices belied a crowd. Astoria felt their lateness afresh and blushed. They were not the only latecomers, however; a few feet across the mahogany parquet floor, Ernie Macmillan and his father were shucking off hats and robes.
"I'll take your cloak," said George, spotting Mr. Macmillan. "Go find your friends."
Realizing that this was probably a ploy to catch Ernie's dad in a conversation, Astoria did as George suggested: she started off toward the nearest double doors without waiting.
These doors opened onto a wide hall containing many green couches in matching velvet. Various guests lounged about, conversing across mahogany tables—all of which all seemed to sport a pamphlet for the MacLaggen potion line and at least one piece of scrimshaw.
Faintly repulsed the self-promoting pamphlets and seeing no one that she knew, Astoria continued onward through a set of wide french doors.
A surprising glare of late winter sunlight shocked her into momentary silence on the other side. The mystery of the garden party was finally solved: between the long hall that she had just walked through and another wing of the house stretched a massive glass conservatory. The last golden rays of a December sunset fell through the transparent ceiling, setting the glass rooms on fire. Astoria glanced up through the blossoms of a nearby orange tree and blinked, very nearly blinded by a haze of orange radiance.
All around, a cacophony of guests mingled between flowering shrubs and trees of a dazzling variety. Beneath the stunning and unexpected foliage, tables draped with white table-cloths boasted a wide array of appetizers and drinks. While many of the guests had undoubtedly come to celebrate Mr. McLaggen's success, a quick glance confirmed that Giambattista Valli's presence had not been forgotten. Many of the older, better dressed wives seemed to be sporting his line.
A tower of pre-poured champagne loomed nearby. Astoria plucked up a flute and admired the scenery, happy to forgo the task of convincing a bartender that she was of age.
With a resinous hum, a string quartet began to play, although half the sound was lost amidst a suffocating display of tropical plants. Astoria headed in the opposite direction, hoping to postpone the task of greeting McLaggen by getting lost in their enchanted garden of flowering trees.
The conservatory was vast and ideally suited to this purpose: each new room seemed to supply a different wonder. False snow fell warmly in the next greenhouse, raining softly down between the low hanging boughs of plum and apple trees. If Mr. Mclaggen himself was devoid of good personal taste (and something about the room of scrimshaw indicated that he was) someone—his party planner, if she had to bet—had certainly compensated.
"Astoria!" called a familiar voice.
Astoria pivoted, trying to sip her champagne and clear the dry snow out of her eyes at the same time.
Tracey Davis was waving at her from beneath a plum tree, wearing the dress that Astoria had loaned her and smiling very prettily.
Beside her, clutching a tumbler of brown liquid and looking very bored, stood Blaise Zabini and another boy that Astoria did not recognize. Slightly older with dark skin and even darker hair, he lingered behind Blaise's shoulder like an awkward afterthought.
"I told you everybody would come!" exclaimed Tracey the minute Astoria joined them under under their tree branch.
"The only thing anybody wants to talk about is Sirius Black," complained Blaise smoothly, sipping what Astoria suspected was stolen scotch.
"I don't know," mused Astoria gazing up at the purple blossoms overhead. "I'm more impressed than I thought I would be. McLaggen better hold onto his party planner—did you walk though that horrible green hall of scrimshaw?"
Blaise laughed cruelly and finished the last of his scotch. "Really! McLaggen would have done better to bring his guests in over the bloody lawn. I know I'd die before I let one person set foot in that entry-room."
Astoria copied Blaise and drained her champagne. Anxious to avoid conversing with him any further, she switched her attention onto the boy she had never seen before.
"Oh, Astoria, this is..." began Tracey, indicating the third member of their party and blanching.
"His name is Vincent," drawled Blaise. "Of course, that's all we know about him. He doesn't seem to be able to speak any English—not that it's stopped him from nattering on in Italian."
Astoria held out her hand and Vincent shook it, gazing at her shyly from under his long eyelashes.
Her heart immediately went out to him. He'd had the poor luck of stumbling into Blaise and Tracey right off the bat.
"Where's your date, Greengrass?" continued Blaise. "Shouldn't you be draped across a bench with McLaggen somewhere?"
"I've no idea where he is," said Astoria nervously, standing on tip-toe to see if he was near at hand. "I've only just gotten here."
She spotted the back of Lucius Malfoy's head near a room filled with giant rhododendrons and resisted the urge to duck.
"You must be dying to see him," leered Blaise, arching an eyebrow. "He was with his father by the string quartet the last I saw. They were requesting sea shanties..."
Zabini was plainly committed to his devil-may-care act, but his desire to laugh was also apparent.
"You look fantastic, Astoria," observed Tracey. "I can't believe you wore black. You look like a Countess."
"A Countess who fills the void in her life by doing things like sending her oldest daughter to fat camp," amended Blaise snidely, but he too seemed to approve of the look because he didn't offer any further insults.
"I think not so mean," ventured Vincent in a heavy accent. "Pretty."
Astoria smiled at him thankfully, but found herself distracted. Unbidden, her eyes floated back toward the doorway where Mr. Malfoy was standing. Draco was leaning against the same door frame by his father's elbow, committing half of his attention to Lucius's conversation and half to his friend, Montague from the Slytherin quidditch team. Astoria looked away, afraid that he would catch her spying.
"Oh, look," exclaimed Tracey almost immediately. "Malfoy is coming over and he's got Montague with him."
Only Blaise seemed remotely pleased by this news. Astoria made to take another nervous sip of champagne and realized that her glass was empty.
"Zabini!" called Montague, clapping Blaise on the back. He pointed at the empty glass. "Where'd you find that? All I've spotted is wine."
Draco leaned against the plum tree next to Blaise and Astoria felt his eyes slide coldly onto her. "Broken away from McLaggen at last, have you?" he sneered.
"It was hard to do," returned Astoria in a voice that was equally as cold. "He's so fascinating. I just lose track of the time when I'm talking to him!"
"What, have you sent him off looking for a broom cupboard?" snapped Malfoy, his sneer deepening into a scowl. "Why don't you do us all a favor and go find him now. Spares us the trouble of having to look at him, you see."
"I'll do that," supplied Astoria tartly, preparing to swivel.
"I thought you are just now arrived?" frowned Vincent, glancing between Draco and Astoria in confusion.
Draco made a faint sound of annoyance, irritated by Vincent's poor grasp of the English language and his desire to interrupt.
"Why were you so late, Astoria?" frowned Tracey. "I was starting to think you'd changed your mind about coming."
"My father didn't pick me up until four," admitted Astoria, ignoring Draco. "What time is it now? I really should go find Cormac. He's probably spotted my father and assumed that I'm hiding in the bushes to be coy."
"Wouldn't that be a merry game?" snorted Blaise.
"I'll take your glass if you don't want him to think that you went to the bar first," offered Tracey.
"Don't worry about it," Astoria sighed grimly. "I'll be stopping for a refill on my way."
Tracey tired unsuccessfully to hide her look of amusement.
"Vincent?" Astoria added as an afterthought, peering through the nearest glass wall. "Why don't you come along?"
"Me?" gestured Vincent, pointing at his chest and looking surprised.
"Yes," confirmed Astoria, privately convinced that it was borderline cruel to leave Vincent alone with a pack of Slytherins (particularly ones who had nothing to do and had unfettered access to a bar). "Walk with me."
It only occurred to her after she had led Vincent into the crowd of people that having a second person along might come in handy. Perhaps she would not have to face Cormac or his family alone? She snagged a second glass of champagne almost cheerfully and handed one to Vincent. Stay with me. Please.
"You come for Cormac?" asked Vincent. After a strained pause, Astoria finally understood what he had said and nodded.
"I know him from school," she explained. "Do you know him?"
"Little," said Vincent, holding up two fingers to express a minute measurement.
"Your first language is Italian?" Astoria asked. Despite the awkward rhythm of their conversation, she was desperate to communicate with him.
"First Italian. Then French. Some German. Not so good English," listed Vincent, plainly relived to find that he was no longer being ignored.
"French?" returned Astoria, perking up. "Oui? Je peux parler français."
"You speak French?" brightened Vincent, switching languages at once. "I should have started with it. The English do not know Italian as a rule?"
"I'm sure some do," mused Astoria. Her thoughts immediately turned toward Blaise, whose mother was very Italian. He had certainly picked out Vincent's Italian accent quickly enough. In fact, it would not stun her at all to learn that Blaise was perfectly capable of understanding Vincent; forcing a foreigner to speak in lurching English for no reason seemed exactly like the sort of thing he might do for fun.
"I think you will find that French is more common," she continued, shaking her head. "But, honestly, you're audience was terrible. If you were hoping to make friends, you couldn't have done worse on a first try."
"I think that is probably true," admitted Vincent, frowning slightly. "Were those your friends?"
"Sort of," Astoria frowned. Tracey certainly was a friend, but she was also a treacherous companion at best.
"I didn't think so," Vincent chuckled, seeing this as permission to speak freely without the fear of insulting her. "They seem like snide assholes."
Astoria choked a little on her champagne and grinned at Vincent appreciatively.
"You used to date the blond boy?" Vincent went on, holding out a courteous arm to let her pass through into a room of low running shrubbery.
Astoria nearly choked again, this time less delightedly.
"There you are!" called out a loud voice. Astoria and Vincent both jumped. Cormac was working his way past a throng of old ladies and the look on his face was so preposterously jaunty that it verged on imbecilic.
"I was looking for you! Your father said you'd gotten lost. Oh!" Cormac exclaimed. "I see you've found Vincent! How's the party, Vinnie?"
Cormac clapped Vincent on the back so hard that even Astoria winced.
"Good party," said Vincent in his broken English, eyeing Cormac rather hatefully.
"He's not much of a conversationalist, ol' Vinnie, but he's a nice bloke!" delcared Cormac dismissively. He tossed an arm around Astoria's shoulders and made to pull her back toward wherever it was that he had come from. "This way—our fathers are holding down the bar!"
"Are you coming?" Astoria asked Vincent hopefully, switching back to French in order to include him.
Vincent shook his head, smiling wryly. He responded alike so that McLaggen would not be able to comprehend him. "When I said that I knew your date only a little, I'm afraid that was by choice."
Cormac frowned, unable to follow their conversation. Astoria bit her lip and nodded. She heartily wished that Vincent would tag along, but she was not yet ready to beg: she had made her own bed and now it was time to lie in it. After all, it would be unkind to subject another person to the same horror that she was being steered toward.
"You speak Italian?" Cormac demanded robustly, obviously surprised.
"French," Astoria squinted, half convinced that he was joking. Surely anyone with a greenhouse the size of a public monument had had a tutor as a child?
"Oh, that's right. You spend holidays there," mused Cormac disinterestedly. He swapped her empty glass of wine for a full one. "If my father asks, tell him that's your first drink."
"I'll do that," promised Astoria stoutly, suspecting that this was already an unnecessary precaution. George was not the type to chastise under any circumstances and, sure enough, by the time they reached the bar it was quite obvious that both Mr. McLaggen and her father were well on their way toward a state of merrily intoxicated obliviousness.
"Cormac!" roared Mr. McLaggen excitedly, waving them over. "And look who you've brought with you! She's a peach, George!"
Mr. McLaggen made an odd twisting motion next to Astoria's cheek, as though he had half a mind to squeeze her face. He smacked his son on the back in the exact same fashion that Cormac had thumped Vincent.
"She is, isn't she?" declared Cormac fondly, gazing at her in a way that felt uncomfortably propitiatory.
"We've just seen Bertie," said Mr. McLaggen, making room for his son to stand next to him, "and he's had word from the head of the commission—"
Astoria immediately found their conversation hard to follow and the McLaggens' all consuming interest in Potion-Politics soon forced her to pretend that she was paying attention. More often than not, her thoughts slipped away from their dialogue and bent themselves upon more distant details: she admired a particularly good pant suit on a woman who approached for a gin and tonic (a Giambattista Valli in white with a mint green trim); she laughed automatically at her father's witty observations (why was it that men never wore pale green, as a rule?); but mostly she stared listlessly.
When Cormac attempted to drape his arm across her shoulder again, Astoria finally created an opportunity to escape. She finished off her third glass of champagne and excused herself to find the restroom.
This proved harder than she'd imagined—the greenhouse was vast and the crowd was dense. After several minutes of aimlessly searching, she concluded that were no facilities inside the conservatory and re-entered the house. When she reemerged from the bathroom she felt slightly better, but every muscle in her face still ached from the strain of pretending to be amused.
Sunset was beginning to considerably alter the light in the garden. Pale fairy lights glimmered softly in the overhanging foliage and a golden glow emanated from the base of several tree trunks.
In no rush to get back to her father and the McLaggens, Astoria took her time walking. She stopped to eat a bruschetta-topped piece of toast; then she admired the blooms of an ancient lilac. When she passed the table of refilling champagne glasses, she took another, wondering if it was at all advisable to keep drinking.
Then, as she neared a monstrous fountain, several things happened at once: first somebody darted out and seized her from behind; next a set of hands clapped over her face, obscuring her vision.
"Astoria!" Tracey's high pitched soprano squealed in her ear."There you are!"
Startled, Astoria wriggled free and Tracey's excited, slightly intoxicated face came into focus.
Behind her, Blaise, Montague and Draco were all sitting on the edge of the fountain that Tracey had jumped off of. Framed against the backdrop of a few magically lit banana trees, they had never looked more querulously ridiculous.
Blaise broke into a cruel smirk.
"Oh look, it's Astoria," he leered to no one in particular, "and she's managed to lose McLaggen. Again."
"What did you do with him?" giggled Tracey, pulling Astoria's arm so that she would follow.
"His father seemed determined to have him for a cocktail," muttered Astoria. "I thought I'd leave them to it."
"Reasonable," snorted Blaise. "Although the way you say it makes it sound as though McLaggen plans on consuming his son..."
Draco laughed unpleasantly.
"If only," Astoria lamented darkly.
"That's my mother going past," Blaise announced, standing up and brushing down his pants. "She won't notice if we go to the bar now. Come with me, Davis—your parents aren't here, so you can carry drinks. What do you want, Draco?"
Draco held up his glass to indicate that he wanted another of whatever it was he was already holding.
"Do you want anything, Astoria?" asked Tracey, elated to be playing waitress for Blaise.
Astoria shook her head. "I'm sticking with champagne."
"Why?" sneered Draco irritably. "Afraid you'll embarrass yourself in front of your date?"
"Liquor stunts my ability to charm," returned Astoria, taking a savage pleasure in the knowledge that she was bothering him. "I came here with a purpose."
Tracey guffawed and tumbled unsteadily after Blaise.
"Booze doesn't stunt anyone's ability to charm," argued Montague. "Look at Flint! He's half in the bag every chance he can get now that he's seventeen and he's always getting into girls pants."
"Is he though?" wondered Astoria doubtfully. "I mean, really?"
"He's a quidditch captain, isn't he?" retorted Montague defensively.
Draco snorted in a way that seemed to express that he shared a touch of Astoria's doubt.
"So is Oliver Wood," Astoria countered, running her fingers over the foreign bark of the banana tree. "Between the way he holds a broomstick and the amount of time he spends in the boys locker room, though, I'm half convinced he's never thought about a girl in his life."
Draco and Montague both laughed out loud, keen to savor any dig aimed at Slytherin's primary quidditch rival.
Astoria peeked at them over a flat palm leaf and smirked. She privately enjoying the hint of a verbal spar in the air—she certainly preferred it to her father's chummy jokes...
"You just don't know, because Marcus has never fancied you," sneered Montague, recovering. "What's that one trick he's always going on about? You know the one, Malfoy—you must have heard him talk about it at practice. The one he swears by?"
"What—you mean the neck thing?" drawled Malfoy, forgetting his annoyance with Astoria just long enough to be properly amused.
"The neck thing!" hooted Montague joyfully.
"What neck thing?" Astoria echoed, thoroughly lost.
"Flint's mad about it!" wheezed Montague. "Anytime he hears a bloke going on about a girl, he starts in on the neck thing! He says it's his magic ticket."
"What is it, exactly?" asked Astoria, as intrigued as she was doubtful.
"That would be telling," jeered Montague. "It's like voodoo for woman."
Still snickering derisively, Draco stood up and dumped the ice from his glass into the magical fountain. Astoria repressed a smile, privately chuffed. This fit with her image of Marcus perfectly—he seemed like just the type of boy who would loudly promote bad dating advice with the passion of a seasoned prophet.
"You couldn't even tell her if you wanted to, Montague," Malfoy scoffed, turning his snide, delighted face toward her. "No one has ever been able to figure out what the hell Flint is talking about because there must be sixteen steps involved."
"The steps!" moaned Montague. "Sixteen painstakingly detailed steps involving a slow stroking of the neck."
"Huh," Astoria chortled, sipping her champagne. "Sounds like a real winner."
Montague looked as though he was on the verge of saying something, but then he spied Malfoy's empty drink and hesitated.
"Did Zabini ask me what I wanted from the bar?" he demanded roughly.
Malfoy shrugged carelessly.
"He didn't, did he?" rambled Montague, obviously annoyed. "He just took his date and ran."
Without warning, Montague struck out and paved a path through a patch of banana trees in the direction that Blaise had gone.
Malfoy's pale grey eyes slid onto Astoria and they immediately returned to the state of his earlier coldness.
"Better hurry off," sneered Draco. "No one's ever seen McLaggen Senior hold onto a cocktail for more then five minutes. They've probably already sent out a search party for you."
"An entire search party? Just for me?" quirked Astoria aggravatingly, suddenly alive to a new and fluid tension in her limbs. It was the same force that had compelled her not to correct Malfoy's assumption about her lateness earlier (she certainly had not been wrapped up with Cormac). In fact, now that she was alone with Draco, her desire to lash out at him only seemed to be mounting.
"That's McLaggen's style, isn't it?" sneered Draco, flushing slightly under his mask of haughty indifference.
"What—oblivious and dramatic? Probably," Astoria admitted, draining the last of her champagne. She put the glass down on the fountain and made a mental note not to drink anything else until she had eaten. "I suppose that means it would be optimistic to expect a full sixteen steps of seduction from him?"
Malfoy's lip curled in disgust.
"Maybe five steps?" Astoria suggested cruelly.
Every twitch of Malfoy's face seemed to be awakening a vague urge to punish within her; he was the only one holding her accountable for appearing in public with Cormac. Why couldn't he let it be?
Rationally, though, Astoria knew that her anger would not be able to withstand an ounce of introspection—it would turn on her the moment she inspected it too closely. It was her own fault that she was stuck with Cormac, but the four glasses of sparkling wine she had consumed dulled this logic and made Draco's accusatory stare seem like the perfect scapegoat.
"I think you'll be lucky if he falls on you drunk without missing," spat Draco jerkily. His face twisted oddly at this visual.
"I think that actually has a higher rate of success than the neck thing," jeered Astoria snidely.
"Go back to your boxy date, then!" Malfoy sneered. He narrowed his eyes as though he had never seen her properly before. "Get manhandled, if that's what you want!"
"He really is boxy, isn't he?" Astoria cackled.
"Why come with him at all, then?" Malfoy snapped. The dull flush in his cheeks was growing even more pronounced. "You could have just come with your father and hung around with Davis!"
"But I didn't," supplied Astoria tartly.
"Yeah," leered Malfoy nastily, "because you wanted McLaggen to parade you in front of his guests."
"Are you kidding?" snapped Astoria, no longer even abstractly amused.
"It's not just McLaggen who knows Giambattista, you know,"continued Malfoy bitterly. "My mother must have talked to him for an hour when we arrived. You could have found someone else to introduce you!"
Astoria was dangerously close to hitting Draco. There was something oddly vulnerable about his face when he was worked up and, somehow, the visible manifestation of his discomfort only made her angrier.
"Are you impressed by his father's madhouse out here?" he jeered. "My father has a greenhouse too, only he's never tried to shove a circus in it. If you ask me, McLaggen's whole family belongs in a bloody zoo!"
"I did not secretly want McLaggen to parade me anywhere," Astoria scoffed.
"Didn't you, though?" Malfoy sneered. "For all I know, you're probably itching to get back to Hogwarts right now so you can give Marcus a shot!"
"Marcus?" Astoria laughed, eyes sparkling. "You think that's what I like?"
Her anger was beginning to distill into a more clear-headed type of cruelty. It was sharp and wield-able now—like a knife.
"Probably," spat Malfoy, oblivious to the danger that was curling itself up in front of him like a snake.
"That's not what what I like," insisted Astoria. Her voice was lethally soft—almost toying—and altogether unfamiliar to her own ears.
Malfoy's eyes flickered and she knew that he had finally noticed something in her look that disarmed him. Astoria stared back unblinkingly.
"What then?" Draco bit out at last, blinking twitchily. He clearly hated himself for asking, but he seemed to be unable to resist doing so.
"You want me to teach you how to seduce someone, Draco?" Astoria taunted, tugging playfully on his tie.
The tie was silk—the color of the ocean at midnight and fastened by a silver tie clip.
"That's not what I said," snapped Malfoy, suddenly very red and flustered. Still, he followed the pressure on his shirt front and shifted toward her instinctively.
"I can show you if you like," Astoria grinned, not entirely sure what she was doing, only knowing that it somehow restored her with a sense of the upper hand.
"Show me what?" asked Malfoy tightly. The sneer on his face was no longer genuine—it was stuck at an odd angle.
"Give me your hand," Astoria murmured, reaching for his arm.
More tightly still: "What?"
Malfoy's arm twitched back hesitantly, but Astoria tugged on his wrist; softly, he let her pull his hand toward her waist.
"I don't know about sixteen steps," said Astoria, placing her hand over his and sliding it lower until he was grasping her hip, "but if I was a boy, this is what I would do."
Draco let out a nasal scoff, but when Astoria reached for his other hand he offered no resistance. Mutely, she pulled his right hand forward until his fingers brushed the nape of her neck, his thumb near the hollow of her throat.
"I guess in the real world, this is probably when you would have to kiss her," Astoria smirked, her eyes flicking up toward Malfoy's hypnotized ones. "Otherwise you might be accused of forwardness."
Draco's fingers twitched against her collarbone, making her necklace shift. His gaze, which had been lingering intensely on her face, dropped lower. Astoria pushed her shoulders back, making her body as vulnerable as possible. Tilting her head, she studied his expression as she pulled his hand lower.
Her dress was lined but she could still feel the heat of his palm. Draco's breathing hitched slightly and then redoubled; she could feel it ghosting across her cheek, soft and irregular. The sneer had slid off of his face entirely and left his features to their rare, natural state: an expression that always reminded Astoria of an unsure and faintly covetous child.
Down further still she guided him, over the soft curve of her stomach, pressing back against him lightly. Over her hip and down until both of their hands had reached the hem of her dress. Astoria let go. She had reached the limit of acceptable teasing. This was the moment in which whatever she was doing must stop.
Draco's thumb shifted of its own accord, nudging the hem of her dress, just brushing against the inside of her thigh. Suddenly both of them were staring down at his hand in fascination. A strange idea now occurred to Astoria, accompanied by a surprising lick of suspense: if she did not back away first, Draco might try to continue touching her unassisted—a concept that she found both horrifying and intriguing almost in equal measure.
"I've got two hands," said Blaise from the other side of the closest banana trees. "You could have come with me."
Astoria stepped away from Draco abruptly, faintly flustered.
"See?" she muttered lightly, brushing her hemline down with a shiver. "Leave the neck stroking to Flint."
"Isn't that what you brought Davis for?" grumbled Montague as they came into sight.
"Here you go, Draco," said Tracey merrily, offering him a glass of something golden on ice.
Draco had gone very still, perhaps trying to work whether Astoria would have actually let him up-skirt her.
"Cormac's looking for you," added Tracey, turning toward her. "He and his father are still at the bar. I told him you were by the fountain."
"Thanks for that," scowled Astoria.
"Draco?" repeated Tracey loudly, still holding out his drink. "Do you want this?"
"What?" snapped Draco distractedly before realizing his mistake. "Oh. Yeah."
"Astoria!"
This time it was McLaggen sneaking up through the banana trees. Zabini let out a snort of derision and turned toward the fountain.
"There you are, you slippery eel!" Cormac chuckled. "Sorry about that—I haven't seen my father in such a good mood since Christmas."
"Just five days ago, you mean?" wondered Malfoy snidely.
"He is having a fantastic winter!" admitted Cormac. He attempted a knowing grin, completely missing the scorn in Draco's tone.
"Ooh, Draco!" exclaimed Tracey, distracted from the process of covertly inching toward Blaise. "Your mother looks pretty!"
Astoria followed Tracey's gaze through the nearest glass wall. Beside Mr. Malfoy stood a tall, rather thin woman with hair just a shade more golden than her son's. She was wearing a black dress—the first woman apart from herself to do so—and if a first glance was anything to go by, Astoria felt certain that she was not the sort of woman who ever made anybody feel comfortable by accident. Narcissa dressed with less showy intimidation than Belladonna, but there was no denying the similarity of effect.
"Look, Astoria! She also wore black!" snickered Tracey, nudging her in the ribs. "You two are the only girls who didn't come in white."
"She's wearing Giambattista Valli," ventured Astoria quickly, anxious to prevent Tracey from highlighting any further similarities between herself and Draco's mother. "It's from the spring line—five years ago."
"How can you possibly know that?" scoffed Montague.
"It was his first runway outside of Rome," answered Astoria at once. "It was the season that made him famous."
She studied the bead-work on Mrs. Malfoy's dress through the warped glass.
"It's probably an original, too," she added somewhat covetously. "That year was never mass-produced for stores..."
"You've heard of Giambattista?" demanded Cormac. "He's here tonight!"
"Is he?" wondered Astoria, all mock surprise. (Draco scoffed loudly.)
"I can introduce you," offered Cormac.
"Only if you want to," Astoria shrugged, doing her best to conceal her fiendish enthusiasm.
"Come on," decided Cormac, throwing his arm roughly around her shoulders again. "And here—" he thrust another class of champagne into her hands, "—you aren't drinking enough."
They walked around the fountain the long way and then cut across a patch of shrubbery. Astoria would have preferred to walk the path, as the soft soil made her wobble in her heels, but she managed not to disgrace herself by tumbling head first into the verge.
"Watch out," insisted Cormac importantly, guiding her around a low and very obvious tree—the least worrisome of all the obstacles he had dragged her across.
They entered a long, wintry room that opened onto the snow-covered lawn. Astoria braced herself, expecting a chill. When none came, she understood that the area was magically protected from the elements—and very elegantly so. Low tables and white couches dotted the snow strewn lawn; tiny, fantastic lamps made out of ice illuminated every crystal in the powdery drifts.
"Mother!" called Cormac, spotting his target. He let go of Astoria at once in order to stoop down and plant a short, dry kiss on his mother's rosy cheek. "Have you met Astoria?"
Mrs. McLaggen turned her milk-maid head and smiled. Trying not to stare at the woman's ample cleavage, Astoria extended her hand, but Cormac was too fast for her.
"And this is Bertie Higgs—" Astoria's hand quavered, no longer sure who she ought to present it to. "This is Amos Diggory, and over there you have Royden Poke."
Astoria attempted to nod at each man in turn, but the effort left her slightly dizzy.
"The last two work for the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures," explained McLaggen. "Don't bother with either of them—they're terrible bores!"
Royden Poke roared merrily and Cormac slapped him on the back.
"Kidding! Got to protect my assets, Roy old boy!" McLaggen flashed her a toothy smile. "Roy works in the Spirits Division, if you know what I mean!"
"Sometimes it's even my job!" exclaimed Royden Poke, toasting Astoria with his glass of scotch.
"Last but not least," Cormac went on with a wink, "is this man talking to my lovely mother! This is Giambattista Valli! Astoria was just marveling some of your work, sir."
Giambattista was a man in hell. Everything—from the look on his face to the way he was clutching his drink—spoke of a violent desire to be elsewhere.
"Was she?" muttered Giambattista in an accent that reminded Astoria of sunshine. He didn't bother to look at either of them. In fact, he didn't seem overly keen to look at anything south of the ceiling.
"Yes, she's quite a fan if I've managed to work it out right," Cormac blustered, oblivious to the way he was annoying his audience.
"All young women are," sighed Giambattista grimly. "For the life of me, I'll never understand why. It's the curse of my profession."
Cormac paused, unsure how exactly to respond to this..
"Isn't that a good thing?" Astoria ventured, keen to prevent Cormac from starting up again. "You're interested in selling a product."
"Young women are the plague," muttered Giambattista disinterestedly. His eyes flicked toward her for a half a second of analysis before returning to the ceiling. "Especially the pretty ones. There are only two types of those: the ones who are trying to get married and the ones who aspire to become alcoholic."
"Oh, Giam!" giggled Mrs. McLaggen nervously, swatting at his arm. "How repulsive!"
Astoria blushed, feeling very derailed. Royden began to laugh drunkenly.
"You think all pretty young girls want to be married or drunk?" Astoria repeated, causing Royden to snigger.
"Well, married into money or intoxicated," amended Giambattista with a shrug.
"A friend of mine once told me that it takes either a great deal of money, a great deal of style, or a great deal of wit to make someone seem important," said Astoria, thinking of Aston Mendel.
Giambattista's eyes drifted back toward her face, blank and unreadable.
"I do hope you are not trying to describe young women," he said at last, not bothering to hide his wince. "Otherwise, I suppose there is some truth in your friend's analysis."
"Well, then," said Astoria playfully, sensing that she had his attention at last, "only one of those traits is obtainable through marriage—money. Suppose I would rather be stylish and witty than drunk? You don't know me."
Giambattista blinked. Cormac sucked his cheek confusedly; Mrs. McLaggen played with her hair.
Then, with a bark that made Mrs. McLaggen jump, Giambattista began to laugh heartily. The effect transformed his face.
"Come here, girl," he cackled. "I was about to take a stroll through the grove—for God's sake, walk with me!"
Astoria moved away from McLaggen's eager squid arm and nearly collided with Vincent.
"Have you eaten, Giam?" His eyes traveled past Giambattista and settled on Astoria. "Oh, hello! I thought I might see you again."
"You've met Vincent too, I see?" remarked Giambattista, maneuvering his way around Mrs. McLaggen. "That's your best recommendation yet. He has uncommonly good taste."
"I thought you disdained my taste," teased Vincent. His soft French had more of an Italian lurch than Giambattista's English did but it was the only way he could converse with both of them at the same time.
Mindful of Vincent, Astoria switched back to French.
"You two know each other?" she wondered. A dull flush crept into her cheeks as she thought about that way the Tracey and Blaise had treated Vincent earlier.
"Vincent is my assistant," confirmed Giambattista. "Without him I would be lost. Come, let's walk the garden. That's a proper English pastime, isn't it?"
"If it is, I'm a poor native," Astoria admitted, following them both out onto the snowy path.
To Astoria's extreme displeasure, McLaggen broke into a jog to catch up. Despite the fact that he could not understand a word that they were saying, he lingered just behind Astoria's elbow.
"Mother designed this garden," he finally offered for the benefit of everyone but Vincent.
"Your mother would design a concentration camp if she thought it would win her a blue ribbon," growled Giambattista, swatting his ivory topped walking cane at a nearby rose bush.
"Sorry?" drawled Cormac. A small, patronizing smile formed at his lips. "I don't speak Italian."
"He said 'the roses look lovely in the snow'," said Astoria, repressing a grin.
"Oh, yes," remarked Cormac, who was beginning to look rather bored.
A long silence fell.
"You know what, why don't I go tell my mother that?" Cormac finally offered, plainly ready to escape. "She'll be pleased. I'll just let you stroll—there's no need to translate for me."
"You do that, boy," said Giambattista. "While you're at it, why don't you lend her your dinner jacket? The poor, naked thing must be freezing."
Cormac quirked his head in Astoria's direction.
"He says 'yes, please do'," said Astoria, carefully containing her smirk.
"You did such an eloquent job of acquitting your gender earlier," complained Giambattista the moment Cormac had left. "You really ought to examine your choice of sweetheart."
"I barely know him," Astoria admitted promptly, causing Vincent to laugh. "I heard that you were coming tonight and I was desperate."
They walked the entire path over thrice. In that space of time, Astoria learned a great deal more than she had ever hoped to about Giambattista: he was moody, messy, and slept irregularly; by Vincent's account, he was also prone to fits of self-doubt.
Little by little, parts of Vincent's story also began to emerge. He came from a very poor family, but had distinguished himself at a very early age. The year he graduated from Beauxbatons, Giambattista had attempted to hire him as a housekeeper. He now worked as an assistant tailor.
Neither of them were overly fond of the British. Giambattista regularly traveled between France and Italy and he had a small retreat in Germany, (Astoria assumed that this was why Vincent spoke such poor English) but he had not been to England in several years.
He was also extremely reluctant to receive any praise for his work—not that his humility stopped Astoria from trying.
"I'm no narcissist," he insisted, cutting Astoria's effusive compliments short. "I do enjoy vanity, though. Vanity is amusing."
By the time the clock struck ten, they were all a little dizzy from their looping stroll.
"Time to go, I think," said Giambattista. "You know how I hate to be the last one standing."
"It's not even midnight yet," ventured Vincent. "Don't you want to ring in the new year?"
"Why bother?" snorted Giambattista, decapitating another rosebud with his cane. "I hate it already."
0o0
Well. That escalated quickly.
Cormac's the worst, isn't he? Although, I freely admit: I find his inability to tell the difference between Italian and French hilarious.
As ever, reviews make me terribly happy!