Chapter Twenty Nine
Fish Hooks and Gimlets
0o0
All next week the weather was almost unbearably hot. Astoria slept a lot during the afternoons, leaving her attic windows open to tempt the non-existent breeze. Wearing nothing but her underwear or a favorite slip, she moved about as if in a dream; half asleep, in-tune with the drone crickets that lived in the garden below. Even Belladonna, normally the epitome of all that was cool and collected, seemed to be struggling to appear unfazed by the spike in temperatures.
"I'd drink another," Belladonna remarked one afternoon as Astoria joined her on the patio, "but I'm afraid I'll wither up and turn to dust." She gesticulated with her empty highball glass and sighed.
"It's awful, isn't it?"Astoria agreed, squinting through the dewy haze. "Like trying breathe underwater..."
"What a poetic notion," mused Belladonna grimly. "Life inside a fish tank..."
"We should go somewhere," Astoria pleaded, shooting her aunt a desperate look over the top of the magazine she was absently fanning herself with. "The beach, or even the lakes—I don't care, wherever you want. Just, please, somewhere with a breeze!"
"Perhaps later in the month," returned Belladonna evasively. She stooped forward, seized a glass pitcher and poured herself another round of whatever it was that she was afraid would cause her to turn to dust.
"Why not now?" Astoria faltered, wary of such a refusal. It was very clear that Belladonna was as much in her own personal hell as she was.
Belladonna took a pensive sip from her drink, eyes fixed on the distant roses.
"Because the Yaxleys are arriving on Thursday," she answered at last, still not meeting Astoria's eye, "and I'd rather be in town."
This was very bad news indeed. To the casual eavesdropper, it might only sound as though Belladonna wished to visit with old friends. But Astoria knew better. Despite the fact that it had been years since she had personally laid eyes on any member of the Yaxley family, Astoria knew that they were never far from her aunt's mind.
"So?" Astoria chattered feebly. "You don't like them and they don't like us. Why fraternize with the enemy?"
Astoria might normally have had doubts about using such unnecessarily dramatic language in front of her aunt—but when it came to the Yaxleys, the term 'enemy' was apt. As far as Belladonna was concerned, it was soft.
Belladonna's feud with the Yaxleys was only about decade old, but the relative newness of the dispute did nothing to rob it of any potency. The specifics of the fight revolved around the Lestrange family entail—a document that Belladonna had memorized so well that it was as much a part of her now as the marrow in her own bones. The purpose of this legal document (which her Aunt had employed several lawyers to go over with a fine-toothed comb—to no avail) was to stipulate the fate of the family fortune and that fate was this: the bulk of the Lestrange estate was meant to passed on to the oldest male in line after the current head of household died.
At the moment, the obvious problem that such an arrangement posed was not yet pressing—both of Belladonna's brothers (Rodulphus and Rabastan) were still alive in Azkaban. But one day (and possibly one day soon) they would die, leaving Astoria and Belladonna, both females, in the lurch. This was were the Yaxleys came in. Though only distantly related, they were still technically Astoria's nearest male blood relatives on her maternal side. And from a legal standpoint, this meant that they also stood to inherit almost all of Belladonna's childhood fortune (to say nothing of several ancestral properties). It was a robbery that her aunt did not intend to endure.
"Keeping the Yaxleys at a distance does us no good, Astoria," Belladonna murmured tartly, lips pursed near the brim of her drink. "Especially now—with you nearly of age..."
Astoria picked up on her aunt's meaning at once and her stomach fluttered uncomfortably. There was one more twist in the Battle Of The Inheritance, one that worked in Belladonna's favor: the birth of a new male heir. More Lestranges. Theirs.
Belladonna—widowed four times over and now in her late thirties—was very unlikely to mother any children. Astoria, on the other hand, was still young, still entirely capable of producing direct descendant sons...
The resulting conundrum had three obvious outcomes, each involving Astoria in some way: she might marry and produce a pure-blooded male heir, thereby reclaiming control over the Lestrange fortune until her son came of age; she might prove to be infertile or else give birth to a pack of girls, thereby turning the estate over to the Yaxleys by default; or—worst of all—she might meet an untimely demise, dashing Belladonna's hopes of reclaiming her childhood home forever.
All in all, it was an entirely ludicrous state of affairs—and one so thoroughly governed by luck and circumstance that, in the end, the outcome was anybody's guess. As a general rule, Astoria spent as little time thinking over the matter as possible.
"What would we even say to them?" wondered Astoria, beginning to feel desperately awkward at the thought. Did Belladonna really expect her to entertain strangers who probably wished she was dead?
"You will be polite and charming," answered Belladonna curtly, "and I will do my best not to spit venom at them between the dinner courses."
Astoria continued to fan herself with her magazine, but a fresh clamminess that had nothing to do with the heat was beginning to make her skin prickle.
"Why charming?" Astoria frowned. "What does it matter if they like me or not? Won't they still want to throw me off the roof?"
"Perhaps," Belladonna allowed. She put her glass down with a heavy sigh, "Or perhaps a more tentative peace could be bought..."
"What do you mean?" persisted Astoria at once. The clamminess chilled to dread.
"I've been thinking... but I had not meant to talk to you about this just yet," Belladonna admitted doubtfully. "It's hot out—too hot for me to expect any show of cunning from you. Later. After dinner, maybe..."
"What do you mean?" Astoria repeated, this time more shrilly.
Belladonna's jaw ticked and her fingertips darted toward her temples as though she meant to ward off a headache. Astoria opened her mouth to speak again, but she was silenced by a flick of her aunt's hand. Wordlessly, Belladonna reached for the tray near the center of the table. With practiced grace, she flipped over one of the thick glasses, filled it and passed it to her as an offering.
Astoria was secretly flattered, but not so flattered that she could not see this offer for what it was—a bribe, a subtle manipulation. I'll level with you like an adult, the the drink seemed to suggest, but if you disappoint me, I will not waste my time again.
"You know what is at stake?" Belladonna asked, sitting back in her chair and crossing her legs once more, surveying Astoria like a talented artist's most disappointing painting.
"Yes," Astoria admitted. Awkwardly, she brought her glass to her lips; a dash of Juniper-laced fire lashed her mouth and sent fumes through both nostrils. "Is this just gin?" she spluttered, fighting the urge to spit her mouthful back out.
"We are speaking of our ancestral fortune, Astoria," Belladonna cautioned, nostrils flaring dangerously. "The subject is not to be taken lightly. I won't tolerate any manipulation on your part—this isn't an opportunity for your jolly Gryffindor antics."
Astoria stared.
"And no," Belladonna continued waspishly. "It is not just gin. I am not a heathen."
"Sorry," snorted Astoria. Locating a cucumber in her glass, she fished it out with her fingers.. "My mistake..."
"Yes," agreed Belladonna, plainly choosing to willfully misunderstand her. "It is your mistake indeed if you think we can sit idly by or else flee the country whenever the Yaxleys come to visit! There is no sense in it!"
Astoria could not remember the last time she had seen Belladonna look so strained. The tension did nothing to enhance her usual air of silent, deadly prowess—instead, it made her look rather cornered and desperate.
"One thing is certain—" continued Belladonna evenly, "—neither of us will ever reclaim our birthright if you do not eventually marry. Thus far, you have done everything in your power to make yourself as unsuitable to this purpose as possible. Don't bother to deny it."
Astoria's mouth suddenly felt very dry. She took another sip of the gin and regretted her decision immediately.
"That being said, you are not hopeless, darling," Belladonna sighed. "You're quite good looking—a blessing from above, as it were. And your bloodline—though it boasts its fair share of idiots on your father's side—is nothing short of unimpeachable. You could be something of a commodity, if we were to present you carefully."
Astoria had never heard her aunt speak this way. Truthfully, the honesty was refreshing. Still, it was hard to resist the notion that what her aunt meant by 'presented carefully' was really 'presented silently'.
"I can only follow your line of thinking so far," admitted Astoria at last, deciding to abstain from judgement until she had heard her aunt out entirely. It was something of a heartless topic, certainly—but hiding from heartless things did not make them go away. "We can plot and scheme all we like until I come of age, but the fact still remains..." She cleared her throat. "Even if I do have children someday, I can't promise that they'll be boys."
"No. You can't," agreed Belladonna gravely, sucking in a breath."Of course, if you were to marry the youngest Yaxley, it would not matter whether you had boys or girls or chickens..."
With a sickening swoop, Astoria suddenly understood the source of Belladonna's agitation.
"Ugh!" she snapped, repulsed. "The youngest Yaxley has to be nearly thirty! And they hate us!"
"It is rather like matching a Montague with a Capulet, to be sure," agreed Belladonna bitterly. "And there is really no way to be certain that they would even agree to the match. You are still very young. Your marriage could not be expected to happen for many years to come. There's every chance Yaxley's boy might choose someone else before then."
"Auntie!" exclaimed Astoria, panic propelling her to her feet. "I won't be shipped off to live with some leering sycophant just so that you can live in a nicer house!"
There was a moment of quaking silence. Astoria stood her ground as fiercely as she dared, but a tremor of very real fear was rippling through her body like an earthquake.
"Every time I think we might finally understand each other, you go ahead and prove what a child you still are," returned Belladonna coldly.
Conscious of the fact that her aunt was offended, Astoria took a step backward. Her fingers scrabbled anxiously against the glossy magazine still rolled up in her hand.
"You think I am only thinking of myself?" Belladonna went on sharply. "What about you? What about your future, Astoria? There is only so much I can do to provide for you! Someday, I will be dead and you will be penniless on the streets!"
"They call them jobs!" Astoria retorted angrily, backtracking slightly. "I was thinking of perhaps getting one!"
"Marriage is a job," sneered Belladonna.
"Yes, but it's not the only job!" Astoria threw her magazine down on the table. It slipped over the edge and made a surprising amount of noise when it collided with the patio stones.
"Do you want to be robbed of your inheritance, you foolish girl?" Belladonna trilled. "Everything is already set for dinner on Thursday. All I ask is that you dress nicely and make every attempt at civility, nothing more!"
Belladonna turned to stare at the rose bushes again; to Astoria's surprise, a faint blush stained her cheeks.
"Think of it as dropping a hook in the water," her aunt continued mercilessly. "I only want to see what we might catch. I'm not selling you off, for Merlin's sake!"
Wordlessly, Astoria excused herself and made the long trek upstairs to her room in silence. The moment she closed her bedroom door behind her, however, she felt her breath catch in her chest. Panic and a strained desire to resist held her in an iron-fast grip.
The room was suddenly too hot; the air oppressive. Her gin was a tempting escape, but Astoria could see that it would do nothing for her. It was only a means of masking her real desire—to escape from the scenario that Belladonna was, no doubt, working very hard to bring about at that very moment. Without a second thought, she strode over to the window and emptied the gin into the bushes below. Nobody went toe to toe with Belladonna drunk and escaped with their dignity in tact.
Motionless and be-dewed with sweat, she closed her eyes against the non-existent breeze. The sound of bees droning in the grass below was very calming. After a long moment, her thoughts begin to collect themselves.
This is simple, Astoria reassured herself. Like a chess game with Theodore. Your aunt wants something to happen and you don't. What is your next move?
It was the twentieth century, after all. Nobody could force her into a planned marriage. Astoria opened her eyes.
Except that's not totally true, cautioned a niggling little voice in her ear. There are all sorts of ways to be manipulated. The Imperius curse, or a love potion...
But surely Belladonna was not capable of betraying her so cruelly? And even if she was, what then? There didn't seem to be much of a point in securing a family fortune for someone who was cursed out of their right mind. Still, Astoria knew in her heart that it would be unwise to tempt her. Belladonna had a terrible way of rationalizing away her worst actions: suppose she imagined the match to be for Astoria's own good?
No, the best way of putting the matter out of her aunt's mind forever was also the simplest one—she would have to make sure that the youngest Yaxley took no interest in her. Any further meddling on her aunt's part would prove pointless if the boy himself thought Astoria was a disagreeable idiot. A rolling hot mess. A nag. A muggle-lover. Belladonna's investment in her future was the lesser of two evils; the most immediate and horrific threat was Yaxley himself. She did not know the Yaxleys well, but she was good at reading people. Surely she would be come up with something on the spot?
Only one thing seemed certain to Astoria as she lay in bed much later, unable to shake a feeling of deep foreboding; she was going to have to convince Yaxley to loathe her. And if, by some miracle, she managed to undermine Belladonna under her own nose? Either way, the fallout seemed likely to be very ugly indeed.
0o0
The heat wave did not let up all week and Astoria grew increasingly moody as Thursday approached. Actively keeping to her room despite its sauna-like conditions, she refused every meal except breakfast in order to avoid having to sit next to her aunt, privately afraid of accidentally exposing her planned rebellion with a sloppy look or comment.
Meanwhile, Tracey (as sweet and tone-deaf as ever) continued to send her daily letters, all of which urged Astoria to invite her to the beach or to make plans to travel into London with her. Unable to muster a happy word, Astoria ignored every note and with each day that passed, the stack of un-returned postage on her dresser grew taller. Theodore, on the other hand, unhindered by the need to write before visiting, was rapidly voicing more and more annoyance.
"Greengrass, I can't breathe up here!" he complained on Wednesday afternoon. Sprawled out on Astoria's bedroom carpet, he looked a bit like a wilting, wool-swaddled daisy. "I can literally see the air! D'you know how hot that is? Why can't we sit on the lawn like sane people?"
"I'm staying here," snapped Astoria. "You can leave, if you're so unhappy."
Theodore sighed his exasperation, but refrained from peeling himself up off of the floor.
"Fine," he groused. "We'll just continue to suffer then, shall we?. You know, I've never met a girl so fond of suffering. Shouldn't you be running about in a sundress, giddy to be on break?"
"No," Astoria insisted stonily. "I'm keen to sit here and stew..."
Theodore smirked despite himself. Silently, he stuck his foot under her bed and kicked out a dustball.
"Still not letting the house elf up to clean up, I see," he remarked, pushing the dust back under her bed. "You know, everyone thinks you're really sweet but you're actually kind of gross, aren't you?"
Astoria swatted at him, too tense to crack a grin.
0o0
Thursday morning dawned as hot as Wednesday, bringing with it a fervent regret on Astoria's part about not having confessed her current woes to Theodore. Several times she'd hinted at the subject, but she had refused to provide him with any explicit details. Too embarrassing. Now, the more Astoria thought about it, the more she began to wonder if confessing might have meant a way to include him in their dinner somehow. What a difference just one friendly face would make! But her aunt's reaction when she casually mentioned the idea was more than enough to discourage her from writing to Theo at the last minute.
"Why on Earth would you want Theodore Nott hanging on?" Belladonna wondered suspiciously. "The whole point of this meal is to make us seem desirable and respectable! Although, I suppose I could always have seated you next to the poor boy." She laughed cruelly. "Nothing could make you look better than that."
"I only thought it might be nice to have someone to talk to!" Astoria grumbled bitterly. "I don't know the Yaxleys, you know. I can't even remember what they look like."
"The Smiths will also be there, " returned Belladonna impatiently, waving away her misgivings. "Manasseh and his son. What's his name—Zacharias? I give you full leave to talk to either of them as much as you like. Provided you do not use them as a springboard for some contrived unpleasantness, of course."
This hint of awareness on her aunt's part did nothing to make Astoria feel any better about the dinner looming ahead of her.
Zacharias was a Hufflepuff boy in Astoria's year at Hogwarts, but she had always found him to be very pompous. Even worse, he ran in a circle that she could not stand: more than once she had spotted him in the halls with Anthony Goldstein. It was hard to suppose that his father would be any better.
At five o'clock, Astoria dressed for dinner. She chose a pale blue dress that fell about her chest in a loose and unflattering manner, brushed out half of her hair and left her face bare. Belladonna vetoed the look the moment she reached the foyer.
"For Merlin's sake! Who do you think you're fooling?" Belladonna laughed exasperatedly as Astoria climbed the stairs a second time, clutching the banister hard. "You're a lady, not a circus tent! You'll never be more thin than you are right now. Show off your waist! Put on the lilac satin and be quick about it!"
Astoria did as she was told, cursing the buttery softness of the dress's fabric as she slid it on over her head and adjusted the thin straps at her shoulders. The skirt fluttered ethereally like a second skin where it ended at her thighs; the cut dipped low enough in the back to show off the skin below her shoulder blades. It was a lovely garment. Belladonna had chosen her weapon wisely.
"Your hair!" Belladonna fussed when she returned, noticing the loose and untouched tendrils hanging around Astoria's ears. "You couldn't have pinned it? But it doesn't matter now—we're going to be late!"
She tossed a handful of floo powder into the fire. Already surrounded by eighty degree air, both ladies reflexively recoiled from the flames.
"Stop slouching!" Belladonna hissed, tapping Astoria's back as they stepped out of the fire into entrance hall of the country club.
"There are worse things than being unattractive!" Astoria sneered.
"Slouching doesn't make you look ugly, it makes you look fearful," Belladonna corrected, scanning the hall.
Resentfully, Astoria stood up straighter.
"Why don't I just sit with my legs apart?" she suggested under her breath. "Is that the kind of appealing confidence that you're looking for?"
Belladonna raised her eyes toward the ceiling. "That is not appealing confidence, darling. That is crassness incarnate, although I suppose it would still be easier to work with than your attitude."
Astoria and her aunt glared at each other across the polished hostess's table. Behind them, a great deal of noise seemed to be emanating from the sunlit lawn. Most of the lobby's french doors had been left open to cool the room, allowing a multitude of voices to trickle in.
"What's going on outside?" Astoria wondered, craning about to get a look past the drapery.
"Our annual polo match," declared the host, pushing in behind the table. He wore a white jacket and a smile so overly helpful that it crossed the line toward suspicious. "For charity, of course."
Belladonna inquired after the Smiths and the Yaxleys, but neither party had arrived. Having left home several minutes early, they were now obliged to wait.
"I'm going to the bathroom," Astoria announced.
Belladonna did not seem to like the idea of losing sight of her niece, but even she could hardly argue against the threat of bodily functions. Astoria crossed the parquet floor and turned at the the corner, heading down the long hallway that she knew led to the restrooms.
In truth, Astoria did not actually need to use facilities; she had only wanted a moment by herself in private. Breathing heavily, she sank down onto one of the couches near the bathroom doors and tapped her high heeled feet against the marble floor nervously. The room—spotless and lit by a dim golden light—smelled of lavender and fresh towels. None of the sinks dripped and the air was pleasantly cool in comparison to the climate of her bedroom at home.
For one wild moment, Astoria wondered what it would be like to be bathroom attendant. Just a normal person, holding out hand towels to club guests, lingering behind doors unseen. She'd have have gladly stayed hidden in this room all day if her aunt would only let her. What was the point of being financially fortunate—of being a paying club member waiting on dinner—if circumstances made it impossible for her to enjoy any of her luck? She got up and washed her hands, letting the cool tap water lap against her wrists before going back to find her aunt.
Belladonna was no longer alone in the lobby when she returned. On one side, Astoria spotted the willowy bend of Zacharias's profile and a tall, haughty looking man next to him that she assumed must be his father, Manasseh. On her other side, two even less welcome faces lingered.
Yaxley senior was dressed all in black; a stout, thickly built man with sandy blonde hair and a very unkind face. His son, while slimmer, shared both his brutal facial features and his rigid posture. Not a promising sight.
"Let's have a drink, shall we?" suggested Manasseh, shooting Mr. Yaxley a dodgy and uncomfortable look. "They won't be serving dinner on the terrace for another hour or so. Not until this bloody polo business finishes up."
"We'll decide when Belladonna's girl finally finds her way back," returned Mr. Yaxley, consulting his pocket watch. "I had not planned on staying at the club so long."
Even from a distance, it was clear that Mr. Yaxley did not seem particularly keen to linger over a leisurely drink.
"Well, I don't fancy standing!" Manasseh grumbled under his breath, but the shadow of Mr. Yaxley's presence seemed to prevent him from pressing his case further.
Astoria continued to stride toward them, filled with renewed hope. If the Yaxleys did not want to stay until the polo match ended, then she might not end up having to eat with them at all.
"Astoria, darling," called Belladonna, catching sight of her and pulling her closer. "We've been told there might be a bit of a wait due to the sport on the lawn."
Astoria felt both of the Yaxley men turn to regard her shrewdly.
"We've all been put off our dinner, you mean?" grumbled Manasseh Smith. He turned toward Yaxley again. "Well, if it comes to it, you might pop by tomorrow around noon and we can discuss business then, Alistair?"
"Astoria, perhaps you don't remember," interrupted Belladonna, turning her shoulders so that she was forced to present herself to both of the Yaxleys face first, "this is Alistair Yaxley and his son Roland. I know it's been quite some time since you last met."
Astoria dipped her head respectfully and then stared plaintively at Roland's face. At the very worst, she supposed Roland would find her unswerving gaze rude—and that she could certainly live with.
Even staring boldly, there wasn't much to learn. Roland's manner of dress was very no-nonsense, but for all of his simplicity, his clothing was also very obviously expensive and rather carefully styled. Even more foreboding, for a person who was probably only in his late twenties, Astoria could not help but sense that he seemed like the type of man who worshiped rules: rules as a means of making others do as he wished, rules for maintaining order. He certainly looked like a great fan of oppressive atmospheres—indeed, if he was capable of any fun, she suspected that he had it very much in private.
Alistair turned his gaze away from Astoria and raised an eyebrow at his son. "Perhaps one drink, then," he conceded brusquely. "We might find a breeze somewhere."
Outside, the better lawn had been given over to the polo match. A smattering of tables stood scattered about near the terrace, occupied by smartly dressed men and women in large hats who were trying to talk over the gentle percussion of hooves.
Manasseh claimed an empty table and somebody ordered a round of gin gimlets; Astoria was a little surprised when the waiter returned with one for her as well. Certain that Belladonna would want her to appear as mature as possible (being denied liquor at a private function seemed very unsuited to this purpose) she accepted the drink but left it untouched in her hand.
At first, Manasseh Smith did most of the talking, his courage plainly re-bolstered by the gin. He had come on business—that much was clear—and although Alistair deigned to answer each of Manasseh's questions, his replies were brief. Belladonna took a seat and fell at once into the attitude of supreme boredom; her eyes wandered off toward the thundering horses, content that neither she nor Astoria should speak.
"Well, you know all about that, don't you, Alistair?" chuckled Manasseh. "You're in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement! Has Roland made commission yet?"
Astoria eyes ticked across the table toward Roland. With a jolt, she realized that his gaze was already fixed on her face; his expression detached, calm and thoroughly unreadable. Roland answered Manasseh as briefly as his father had done and Astoria found herself seized by a sudden, violent desire to kick to him beneath the table—anything to make him startle or falter.
"Of course, Dolores is pushing the new reforms as hard as she can," rejoined Alistair and this time Astoria jolted for an entirely different reason.
"Dolores Umbridge?" she wondered, finally speaking up.
Alistair Yaxley's eyelashes fluttered. Perhaps forgotten that she could speak?
"Yes," he confirmed dubiously. "You know her?"
Belladonna's eyes narrowed. Once upon a time, Dolores Umbridge had taught weekly archery lessons at Tippy Tippman's finishing school—at least, she had until Astoria shot her clean through the hand with an arrow.
"Only a little," Astoria muttered, trying not to turn red under Alistair's marrow-rendering scrutiny. "She used to teach archery in the summer. Actually, I wasn't very fond of her..."
Belladonna's glare could have cut diamonds.
"Well," sniffed Alistair dismissively, "that's no surprise. I can't think of anybody who is. A well disguised upstart. Her father was a janitor. He used to sweep floors at the Ministry—although Dolores certainly denies it. Still, a brilliant mind for order. The woman certainly knows how to cultivate an atmosphere of fear."
"I didn't know she'd taught," commented Roland, perhaps amused by the notion.
"Yes," Belladonna confirmed brusquely, plainly anxious to change the subject. "She used to take out etiquette courses for Tippy Tipman."
"That doesn't surprise me," admitted Roland, smirking to himself. "Old maids are always so keen to train up the next generation. What did you say she instructed you in?"
Astoria opened her mouth to answer and then froze. At a table several places away across the lawn, The Malfoys were also watching the match. A whole party of them was there: Draco, his mother and father. Also Vincent Crabbe and a woman so big-boned that Astoria assumed she could only be Crabbe's mother...
"I'm sorry?" Astoria faltered, tearing her eyes away.
"Roland was just asking what subject Dolores instructed you in," Belladonna reminded her sharply. A hint of a warning colored her tone black.
"Archery," Astoria supplied. "That was my primary focus."
"Ah." Alistair sniffed, perhaps feeling that Archery was a bit of poor choice for a young woman's etiquette major. "What a trivial right of passage it is for girls, etiquette courses. I couldn't imagine. But my sister was very fond of dancing—I suspect Tippy's school did a lot for her in that regard. You focused on athletics, then? What was your second subject? I suppose it was faintly less dangerous?"
"Fencing," returned Astoria flatly.
Belladonna grit her teeth.
"Why do etiquette schools teach sports at all?" wondered Zacharias, who was being overlooked and plainly resented it. "Aren't archery and fencing just dressed up medieval muggle ways of killing people?"
"For the fitness," clipped Astoria, allowing herself a rogue grin. "Everyone knows that witches and wizards don't need swords or arrows to kill people."
"I for one don't think I like the idea of a pack of girls being trained how to shoot me," Zacharias snapped back.
Manasseh chortled uncomfortably. Roland raised an eyebrow and turned to watch the horses. "I wonder who's winning."
"Why don't you take my boy and Astoria and find out?" suggested Manasseh, obviously hoping for a minute alone with Alistair.
Belladonna was clearly uncomfortable with this arrangement, but it was the moment Astoria had been hoping for. Roland made a sign of assent and stood up. Astoria shot out of her seat before Belladonna could come up with a reason to make her stay.
The three of them set off across the grass in silence.
"Do you know the rules of polo?" Roland asked when they reached the field.
"No," Astoria grunted gracelessly. "I prefer games with loose rules."
"Why does that not surprise me?" returned Roland smugly. He pointed toward the charging horses. "It's a simple game, established by the line of the ball. Of course, when the muggles play, there is only one kind of ball. Our version is better."
Astoria glanced at the galloping horses, consciously aware that Draco was peering over at them from his family's table. Out of he corner of her eye, she watched him whisper something to Crabbe.
A sudden commotion on the field drew her eyes back toward the grass. One of the players had hit the pony next to him with his mallet; a time out was called. Savoring the break in play, Roland launched into a detailed explanation of the differences between muggle and wizarding polo. Astoria nodded along, fantasizing about the most ignorant response possible.
"You seem to know a lot about muggle sports," she suggested slyly. "I love muggle sports."
"As I've just explained, polo is not a muggle sport," retorted Roland brusquely. "We had our version long before the muggles had theirs. We rode dragons. Of course, the International Statute of Secrecy put an end to that sort of things..."
"Oh." Astoria finally took a sip of her drink, taking care to crunch her ice as loudly as she could. "That's a pity. I think living openly with muggles would be fun."
"Fun, perhaps," sniffed Roland stiffly, "but certainly not in the interest of wizard-kind."
"We've got a mad groundskeeper at Hogwarts," volunteered Zacharias, quite literally out of the blue. "He smuggled a dragon into his hut when he was drunk one night. Rumor has it the thing gave him the slip."
Roland snorted.
Astoria seized the unexpected topic change with savor: "He's a Professor too," she explained. "One of my favorites."
"Mental," scoffed Zacharias. "That man let a student get mauled."
"You're talking about Rubeus Hagrid?" realized Yaxley. "He was very lucky to keep his job after that nonsense last year. Lucius in particular was quite upset about the direction the affair took at the end."
"It's always such a thrill when a student gets attacked, though," Astoria lamented happily.
Yaxley drained his glass and turned about. Denied the opportunity of saying more, Astoria pivoted with Zacharias to follow him back toward their table.
"Will you excuse me?" she murmured at the edge of the terrace, hoping to prolong her return. "I think I've left a bracelet inside."
"You'll miss the throw in," cautioned Roland. He pointed in the direction of the referee, who was preparing to toss the ball back onto the grass.
Astoria shot him a look of exaggerated disappointment and slipped into the lobby through the thickly draped french doors.
"I'd suggest a throw out," someone jeered.
Astoria's eyes swept the room. Predictably, Draco Malfoy was leaning against the wall by an alcove window. Behind him, Crabbe was still busy peering out at the sunlit lawn through a slit in the curtains.
"What could you possibly be doing with the Yaxleys and Zacharias Smith?" demanded Draco snidely. "That's got to be the queerest combination for dinner that anyone's ever imagined."
It was, but Astoria felt no desire to admit it.
"Aren't you supposed to be in Italy?" she asked, subconsciously drifting toward the window the boys were spying out of.
"Father had to come back for the weekend on business." Draco shrugged. His lazy gaze drifted back to the slit in the curtains and narrowed. "How old is Yaxley, anyway? At first I thought he must be your father but then I recognized him."
"Twenty seven, maybe?" Astoria guessed. "Twenty six?"
In truth, Astoria did not know Roland's exact age. She suspected that he was actually closer to thirty than twenty five, but she also had an idea that aging him down was the way to goad Malfoy the most. On the few occasions Draco was likely to to have met him, Roland had probably treated him like a little schoolboy.
"Know him well, do you?" sneered Draco, his tone hardening. "Only it would be sort of creepy for him to be escorting you in public if you didn't, wouldn't it?"
"We've only met twice," Astoria confessed. "All I know is that he's fond of obscure sports history and rules."
Malfoy's sneer deepened. "Stimulating."
"Yeah," agreed Astoria, trying very hard not to smirk. "Did you know that ponies can only play for two Chukkers per match?"
Malfoy narrowed his eyes. Astoria leaned against the other side of the curtain and peered at him merrily.
"Of course, I got confused when he first starting talking about Chukkers," she continued. "I thought he was making a crack about chucking me out into the field to end my misery."
Draco let out a single, humorless laugh.
"Your father works with him?" he guessed, more willing to understand the connection now that he no longer felt the need to be quite as hostile.
"No," Astoria sighed. "He's a dreaded cousin."
This seemed to cheer Draco considerably.
"It's distant, of course," Astoria added, "otherwise I imagine I might see him more often."
"He's here for your aunt, then?"
"Oh, no." Astoria laughed, suddenly glad to have run into Draco and Crabbe as they gave her a reason to linger. "My aunt and Alistair loathe each other."
Draco cocked an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Who knows?" Astoria shrugged. "There's this great story, though—from just after the war, I think. Alistair and Belladonna were both fighting over an heirloom. My aunt finally caved and sent it to him—but not without charming it into a portkey first. He ended up in the middle of the Atlantic ocean."
"Did he live?" grunted Crabbe. His puzzled face pinched.
"Obviously," snapped Malfoy impatiently. "They're both here, aren't they?"
"Still, it's a good thing Alistair got dressed before he tackled his post that morning," mused Astoria. "He'd probably have drowned without a wand..."
Malfoy, who had a soft spot for all relatively scandalous family history, laughed unpleasantly.
"Then why are they watching polo together?" demanded Crabbe, still struggling to understand.
"Why do some people enjoy being hit?" Astoria queried. "I think they just like to fight with each other."
Astoria shot a glance through the curtain gap. Outside, Alistair and Roland had both risen from their seats.
"It looks like they're leaving."Astoria quickly stepped away from the window. "If I don't go say goodbye my aunt will lock me in the attic."
She stepped around Draco—who seemed a touch surprised and perhaps even a little disappointed by the abruptness of her sudden exit—and hurried back out onto the terrace.
"Tomorrow, then, Alistair?" pressed Manasseh, standing up as well to shake hands with Mr. Yaxley.
"Yes, yes," agreed Alistair distractedly. "A pleasure as always, Belladonna," he added, nodding at Astoria's aunt. "It's been too long. I was starting to think you didn't go out out until the sun set..."
Belladonna ignored him; her cold, displeased eyes were fixed on Astoria. Roland must have mentioned at least some part of what she had been jabbering on about by the horses...
Astoria curtsied slightly to both of the Yaxley men, smiling roses. Belladonna finished her drink in silence. Then, without so much as a word, she summoned Astoria to the floo, effectively abandoning the Smiths to a solitary dinner.
The sun was just beginning to set when stepped back into the dim entryway of Belladonna's house.
Belladonna pulled off her light summer cloak and handed it Bonky. Her face was a furious milky white. In the gathering darkness, Astoria felt her first pang of regret.
"What?" she demanded feebly.
Astoria hadn't bothered with a cloak at all—now she really wished she had, if only to have something to do with her hands. She found herself fidgeting vulnerably instead.
"Go to bed," returned Belladonna coldly, not even bothering to look at her.
"It's eight o'clock," Astoria persisted. "I don't want to go to bed."
"Well, I don't want to look at you," snapped Belladonna. She took a cigarette from the case on the hall table and lit it; the ember glowed a fiery orange in the shadows. "I don't know what you said while you were off gazing at horses," she continued, exhaling, "but it was enough for Yaxley's little beast to provide the table with several snide jokes."
In the half light, the table lilies glowed almost purple. The effect, far from peaceful, struck Astoria as slightly melancholy. Surely Bonky had not been expecting them for at least another hour at least, but couldn't he have remembered to turn on the lamps?
"It was nothing," Astoria argued. "I only said—that is to say, I suggested—that he knew an awful lot about muggle sports..."
"I told you to be charming!" yelled Belladonna. "Why bring up muggles at all? Don't you understand that you've given them just what they wanted? That they came with the intent of judging you to be unequal? And you—you've done nothing but fuel that fire! Once again, you prove that everything must be a struggle—that you will attempt to thwart even the most common sense over the slightest provocation!"
Astoria said nothing. She could not bring herself to be properly sorry, but her reluctance to repent did not prevent her from feeling ashamed.
"We'll discuss it in the morning," Belladonna concluded hollowly. "Just... go to your room."
Astoria silently climbed the carpeted stairs. Just outside her bedroom, she stopped to gaze out of the windows that faced the gravel driveway. The floor under her feet was bare here, but she sank to the ground anyway. For a long while she sat without moving. When the hall became so dark that Astoria could no longer make out the detail in a small garden painting on the wall, she got up and went to bed.
0o0
The heat finally broke as they entered the month of July. A distant wind picked up, tickling the tops of the humid trees and all of a sudden the outdoors became bearable again.
One morning a few days later, Astoria awoke to a haze of warm, blustery sunshine and found two letters waiting for her. The first was from Fred Weasley, sent the night before. Astoria opened it eagerly.
Astoria,
How's the heat been treating you? Terrible I suppose? I wouldn't know anything about it—George and I have barely left our room all of break. Before you go feeling sorry for us, though, you'll have to have at look at we've come up with! There's fake wands and some kind of fantastic toffee that made George's mouth swell like a cantaloupe before I managed to put it right. Fantastic! Are you going to the Quidditch World Cup? Dad's managed to get tickets off of his friend, Ludo. We'll all be going after all!
P.S. I'll send you one of the new order forms in a couple of days.
-Fred.
Astoria laughed and turned over the second envelope. To her surprise it had also come from the twins' house and it dated that very morning.
Astoria,
Mum has burned the order forms and confiscated the box of wands. To make matter worse, most of the Ton Tongue Toffee was taken by dad yesterday after we went to pick up Harry (I'll explain later) so we can't send you any of that either.
Bit of a grim morning, to say the least. Fred is beside himself but I am doing best to rally. Tickets to the cup are still a go, though. Why haven't you written back?
-George.
Chuckling under her breath, Astoria scrawled out a quick reply on the back of George's letter to confirm her tickets.
Belladonna was sitting on the patio when she descended for breakfast. Between the sky-high temperatures and her own bad mood, Belladonna had undergone a strange—almost magical—change over the last few days. Normally a cold and spiteful creature powered by sheer force of will and organized ambitiousness, she had slipped into an attitude of lazy, almost scornful, indolence. It was only noon, but Belladonna was already drinking her juice on top of champagne. She hadn't taken any calls over the past three days, much less left the house and mail was beginning to stack up on the hall table.
"Good morning," called Astoria formally, carrying her coffee outside.
"Niece," returned Belladonna crisply.
Astoria studied her aunt warily.
She was dressed in a loose-fitting caftan that drooped off one of her slim shoulders like an erotic suggestion. Her long, dark hair tumbled out of what could only be described as a turban in a series of loose, messy curls. Something about her attitude lent Belladonna the air of having only just rolled out of a lover's embrace and Astoria was struck afresh by the number of times that her aunt had managed to wed, despite her reputation for being repeatedly and intentionally widowed.
"What are you doing today, Auntie?" asked Astoria, taking a rather useless stab at small talk.
"Precisely what I am already doing," said Belladonna. The wind pushed a particularly kind puff of air at them; she closed her eyes and let out a luxurious sigh.
There was a noise inside. Bonky appeared in the doorway.
"The young mistress is having guests," Bonky croaked. "I is telling them to wait in the hallway."
Astoria startled. She had not made any plans—perhaps Theodore had turned up unannounced?
"Tell him to come out," scoffed Astoria, stretching her legs to the sun."He knows where the patio is."
Theodore appeared in the doorway a moment later. To Astoria's surprise, Tracey Davis came shuffling out behind him.
"We didn't mean to interrupt your lunch," Tracey cooed, pushing forward to eye Belladonna curiously. "I've been writing to you for weeks, Astoria. You never write back!"
"I've been busy," Astoria floundered apologetically.
Belladonna lifted her arms above her head on the deck chair and snorted.
"Well, it's no matter now." Tracey shrugged, looking wonderfully un-bothered. "I know Theo drops by all the time, so I decided it was time to hunt him down and join him. Let's do something today."
"Where?" wondered Astoria doubtfully. Belladonna, still brooding over Astoria's misconduct at the country club, was very likely to forbid her from leaving the house...
"I don't know," whined Tracey. "I'd like to go swimming, but I don't think Theo will take his shirt off..."
Astoria's guilty mind made quick work of this suggestion: there was a brook that ran though a patch of woods near the outskirts of Belladonna's lawn. It turned into a proper, deep body of water several yards beyond that. Surely her aunt wouldn't forbid her from venturing past the tree line?
"Alright," Tracey sighed. "I'd have preferred the beach, though..."
Astoria stood up, preparing to go up to her room and change when Belladonna cleared her throat. Astoria paused, certain that an ax was about to fall.
"Don't forget your coffee, darling," Belladonna called, rolling her lazy head toward them. "You wouldn't want Bonky to clear it away."
Astoria frowned. Bonky was terribly lazy. It took him so long to make their beds in the afternoon that Astoria's naps usually took place under tossed-off covers—she placed the odds of his clearing away her breakfast in a timely fashion at slim to none. Still, more to avoid an argument than anything else, she hastily reclaimed her cup of coffee.
Tracey and Theodore followed Astoria upstairs to avoid having to make conversation with Belladonna. Astoria did not blame them. Even to their untrained eyes, her aunt was clearly more dangerous than usual.
"What have you been doing all break?" demanded Tracey, throwing herself onto Astoria's bed. "Will you lend me a swimsuit, by the way? I didn't bring one."
"You still haven't returned the dress I lent you last Christmas," Astoria reminded her sternly. She tossed a pair of swimsuit bottoms onto the bed anyway and began to rummage through her drawer to find a matching top.
"You're the one who doesn't answer letters," Tracey snorted. She got up to change behind Astoria's closet door in order to avoid alarming Theodore. "You might have written to ask for it."
"My aunt and I have been at war," Astoria admitted truthfully.
"She's reading your post?" wondered Theodore, quirking an eyebrow. It was plain that such a business struck him as darkly comical.
"No," Astoria sighed. "At least, I don't think so. She's been in a foul mood like it's her business, though. Don't send me any confessions by owl."
0o0
They passed the morning on the sandy banks of the brook. Astoria and Tracey splashed about in the shallow, freezing water; Theodore, as expected, lurked about on solid ground, occasionally calling out to them when slipped over rocks and fell awkwardly—squealing and snorting—into deeper pools.
Eventually, tired out and elated to have been in the sun for so long, Astoria collapsed onto the grass. Resting her head in a patch of clover, she listened to the wind stir the trees. With her eyes closed, the rustling branches sounded just like the rush of seltzer water being poured into a glass.
Theodore, relived to have company that did not splash, laid out on his back beside her. "Your aunt really did seem peaky this morning," he admitted, ripping up clumps of grass between two merciless fingers.
"We had drinks with our cousins this week," Astoria confessed quietly. "Needless to say, I did not behave myself."
Theodore snorted. "She'll get over it. It can't have been the first time you were rude in front of company."
"Maybe," returned Astoria doubtfully, rolling over onto her back as well. Her stomach was beginning to hurt; she had not eaten any breakfast and the coffee she'd drank was starting to make her feel jittery and weak. "These were important cousins, though. Belladonna's been in an inheritance battle with them for years."
"Ah," Theodore murmured. "It's not just a matter of bad manners, then—there's thwarted greed in the mix."
Astoria had never considered the matter so succinctly.
"Come back!" called Tracey. "It starts to feel warmer—I promise!"
Astoria shivered, realizing that she had had about enough. The shock of the brook water mixed with the lazy summer heat was enough to make her feel feverish. By the time they reached the house, Astoria was feeling so faint that she barely had time to wave Tracey and Theodore through the fireplace. The moment the flames whisked them away, she made a dash to the bathroom, certain she would vomit.
Shaking and panicky, Astoria sunk down onto the tiled floor. A roll of nausea rippled through her, scattering her vision. She attempted to dry heave a couple of times, but nothing was forthcoming. What on Earth was happening to her? A flu? In the middle of summer?
After a long moment, she dragged herself back to her feet, feeling frighteningly dizzy. Her reflection in the mirror peered back at her; a ghastly greenish-white. Stunned that her skin was even capable of turning such a shade, Astoria examined herself more closely, employing an iron-tight grip on the sink to keep from sliding back to her feet.
Belladonna was arranging a new bouquet on the entryway table when Astoria stumbled back into the hall. There was a basket of fresh cuttings at her feet, still wet from the kitchen sink.
"Bed," declared Belladonna, shooting Astoria a perfectly unconcerned look over a handful of tea roses.
Astoria tried to speak but her teeth were chattering so hard that she feared for her tongue. Something was wrong—she knew she looked like death, why wasn't her aunt concerned? With a shiver, Astoria realized that Belladonna was no longer wearing her caftan. She had changed it out for a slim, well-tailored dress. She'd even brushed her hair. All and all, Belladonna was looking remarkably sober for a woman who had drank a bottle of wine for breakfast.
"I don't feel well," Astoria finally managed in a stilted voice, moving toward the banister so that she could grip it.
"I should think not," agreed Belladonna, sounding utterly relaxed. She yanked a sprig of uncooperative baby's breath from her arrangement scheme.
"I think your friend Alistair gave me the flu," Astoria pleaded, fighting against a fresh wave of stomach cramps that made her mouth water atrociously.
"No," Belladonna scoffed, taking scissors to the ends of several over-long roses. The stems split apart with an oddly flesh-like rip. "You do not have the flu."
"What?" Astoria moaned, rocking back and forth in her confusion. Something was dreadfully wrong with her—it had to be. The whole room appeared to have been colored in wrong. She could feel her heart was beginning to beat out a rhythmic response to her fear.
"Infantem silphium," her aunt informed her carelessly. "It's a potion—not a disease."
"I know it's a potion," Astoria mumbled, unable put the pieces together. "Oh God," she moaned, lurching into the banister as her head began to spin.
"To be fair, one could also call it a poison," Belladonna continued evenly, inserting a frond of fern into the place she had plucked the baby's breath from, "but it does a remarkable job as a contraceptive, and its effects last far longer than the nausea..."
"But I didn't take any!" Astoria insisted, her confusion mounting.
"Of course you did," Belladonna corrected. "You drank a full dose with your coffee this morning."
"I—" Astoria stuttered. She could not think of a single thing to say to this.
"Not to worry," Belladonna went on evenly. "I'm certain that I measured it correctly. I'm quite an adept when it comes to dosing."
"Why?" Astoria startled, bowled over by such a ruthless and unnecessary betrayal. A contraceptive? She wasn't trying to get pregnant—why would she want to be pregnant?
"Because you're unruly," snapped Belladonna, yanking out another sprig of baby's breath with unnecessary force. "That's why. If your goal is to thwart common sense then I won't play the fool any longer. Make all of the jokes about muggles that you like, niece. I won't have you getting knocked up by some common gardener just to punish me."
This was arguably the most insane thing Astoria had ever heard her aunt say. The cool calmness of her tone would have been enough to make Astoria feel sick even if the potion hadn't been doing the job so thoroughly already.
"You did it wrong," Astoria garbled, folding her hands around her waist. "I feel like I'm dying!"
"It'll be over by morning," intoned Belladonna hollowly, tossing leaves into her basket of clippings.
"You poisoned me?" Astoria whimpered.
"No, I decided to take action to save you from yourself!" Belladonna corrected. "You may wake up tomorrow morning just as foolish as you are today, but at least I can cross the fear of teenage pregnancy off of my list for many years to come."
Another flesh-like snap sent a dozen more rose stems into the basket.
"It's not permanent of course," Belladonna amended under her breath, "but it does last several years and that is longer than any spell that I know of. I'm afraid you'll just have to suffer through it."
There could be no arguing with her; the deed was already done. Astoria had finished off an entire cup of the offending coffee—just as her aunt had hoped she would. To prove just how ill she felt, she allowed Bonky to help her up the steps and into bed.
0o0
For several hours, Astoria could think of nothing but her own discomfort. Sleep refused to come and she continued to toss and turn in near agony. Gradually, however, the pain in her abdomen began to lessen and she was finally able to drop off into a hazy, sweaty sleep.
When she awoke, a pale blue light was sifting in through her window. Early dawn. Astoria sat up to test her strength. Judging herself capable, she panted her way into the bathroom and poured herself a glass of water from the tap. She drank the whole thing in one long pull, leaning gingerly against the sink to take the weight off of her unsteady legs.
Sleep had done nothing to make Astoria feel any less violated. In fact, the more she began to feel like herself again, the more her sense of resentment grew. It did not help that Belladonna had such a despicable history concerning poison: several of her husbands had died that way. As certain as Astoria was that Belladonna had not really meant to harm her, the idea that she had deceitfully tampered with her drink was still very disconcerting.
A new order had clearly been established: Astoria had reached the age at which her arguments would no longer be treated as child's play. She was clearly going to have to be more cunning about expressing her opinions in the future. Indeed, she would have to make every comment count if the punishment for such humor was going to result in a minor poisoning.
0o0
Et tu, Belladonna? Lord, this family needs therapy.
In any case, it might be a bit extreme, but birth-control-via-poisoning feels very 'Belladonna' to me. It's my opinion that Belladonna is a person who thrives on control (she did get away with several murders—and that would certainly take a calculating mind). Therefore, I don't think it is much of a stretch to assume that she would act out (or try to take matters into her own hands) if she felt that she could no longer trust Astoria to be reasonable about boys. Especially if she was afraid that Astoria's choice in men would reflect a desire to act out.
The posts coming up should be fun—the next two chapters will cover the majority of the World Cup! (A two-parter because I love events dearly.) I'm hoping to have both chapters up before the weekend and they should feature plenty of familiar Hogwarts faces. (Also some less familiar faces *ahem* The Mendels *ahem*.)
Sidebar: I decided the name Zacharias's dad after Manessah of Judah, who was the only son of Hezekiah and Hephzibah (remember Hepzibah Smith, the lady young Tom Riddle murdered for Hufflepuff's cup? Isn't that kind of kicky and related?)
As always, reviews are wonderfully fun to read!