Chapter Sixty One
Foreign Currency
0o0
"Oh," grunted Astoria, scrambling to normalize—to minimize the moment. Of all the people Belladonna could have picked to pass along a message! Why in the world had she selected Pansy?
Returning the glass to Draco's hand, Astoria moved toward the door. A strange and reactionary calm seemed to be controlling her limbs, hiding any visible signs of alarm. How much of that had Pansy just seen?
Enough, Astoria mind answered, unwilling to allow for any peace. Draco was Pansy's childhood obsession: her eyes were trained to spot a foreign slip of the hand, a brush against his shoulder—anything to indicate the presence of a threat. Surely Pansy had noticed that Draco talked about Astoria more than he should a long time ago; had perhaps even picked up on his habit of occasionally watching her?
Realistically, if any tentative peace existed between Pansy and Astoria, it was almost completely owed to the fact that Astoria rarely displayed an active interest in anything Draco said or did. Now, for the first time, Astoria had been caught dangling herself like red-bottomed bait. It was a trivial difference to be sure, but one that she was certain would not be overlooked.
Astoria flattened herself out and slipped sideways through the doorway (Pansy refused to move), burning under the ferocity of her glare.
The living room was just as it had been and Belladonna was still nowhere to be seen. Pushing up onto her tiptoes, Astoria searched for her aunt in vain. She was not on any of the yellow couches or loitering about near the tea service. Where else was there? The vaulted front hall?
On the other side of the tea service, the air was charged with a gust of fresh storm. Wet foot prints marked the marble floor, leading from the open veranda doors to the first floor lavatory. Astoria could hear Tippy's booming, rain-soaked hysterics echoing off the tiles on the other side, punctuated by Cassandra's frantic apologies. Meanwhile, in the far corner and keeping her distance from the sopping wet Sisters, Belladonna was conversing with Seraphina Zabini.
Spying covertly, Astoria stopped to pour out a measure of Earl Gray into a teacup. Anything to mask the scent of four gin-fizzes...
The only thing that could possibly make her aunt's duo look less inviting was the presence of Blaise, who was, of course, lingering at his mother's elbow like a smug cat. Blaise locked eyes with Astoria the moment she struck out to cross the hall and a cruel smirk tugged at his lips. What now?
"Your niece," murmured Seraphina warningly, announcing Astoria's presence before she could sneak up from behind.
Belladonna shot an unprepared glance over her shoulder. "Darling!" she exclaimed in a tone of forced politeness. "I thought I'd lost you. Have you said hello to Mrs. Rowle?"
"No, not yet," Astoria admitted warily, disliking her new company almost as much as Belladonna's tone. The combination of her aunt's surprise and Blaise's leer was enough to keep her from saying anything more. It was clear that her aunt had not been expecting her.
"Pansy said you were looking for me," Astoria tested, studying her aunt's reaction.
"Did she?" Belladonna mused disinterestedly. "How curious."
Astoria took this in, her intuition promptly suggesting Blaise as the primary candidate for treachery. Could he have sent Pansy after Astoria? No one else had known where she was. But why would he bother to put so much energy into something so unnecessary?
"I'm sure she was just trying to break up Astoria and Draco," chuckled Blaise, gleefully confirming Astoria's suspicions. "Pansy's terribly insecure about that sort of thing—she's always been mad about that boy."
Belladonna blinked. Her bored gaze flared to alertness again, registering something queer in Blaise's wording.
"She needn't have bothered," Astoria snapped coldly. "Draco and Kitty were only catching me up on my gossip."
"But Kitty's in the loo," Blaise pointed out. His grin widened as he indicated the door behind which Tippy was flustering.
"I think she wanted to help Pansy dry off," Astoria shot back, prepared to throttle Blaise by his necktie if he tried to say anything misleading in front of Belladonna.
"That nearly fifteen minutes ago, though, wasn't it?" insisted Blaise, his voice taking on an airy, insinuating quality. "What can you two have been doing since then?"
"Really, Blaise!" interrupted Seraphina. She let out a sparkling laugh that sounded like a glass breaking. "It sounds as though you're implying something indecent..."
Clearly, the memory of Astoria's rogue hand-fan had not yet been forgotten.
"I'm sure Astoria's behavior was perfectly appropriate, thank you," interjected Belladonna coldly. "I know she wouldn't want any stories about her difficult mouth being passed along to the Malfoys..."
"Oh, never!" agreed Blaise, all cruel delight, enjoying the way he had subtly taken control of the conversation. "But, of course, that would never happen would it, Astoria? The poor fop would probably let you strangle him without a peep."
"Really?" breathed Seraphina incredulously. "How strange! I've always observed the youngest Malfoy to be quite a bit like his father. Very—" she searched for the right phrase, "—self preserving."
"Oh, mother, he typically is," drawled Blaise, drinking in Astoria's discomfort. "But, see, the trouble is, he absolutely adores Astoria. I don't even think he wants to—it's more that he can't help himself. He'd never tattle on you, would he, Greengrass?"
"You sound like an idiot," Astoria snapped, conscious of the way that Belladonna's eyes were trained on her like a hawk.
"So humble!" Blaise chuckled leeringly. "You really are too good."
"Only because I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Astoria sneered, swearing freely in the hopes of shutting the conversation down. "Telling stories to entertain mommy? Is that what this is?"
Seraphina inhaled, filling her chest with air; a posture that revealed a hint of the dragon-like nature hidden beneath her lovely features and splendid fashion sense. It took almost all of Astoria's grit not to flinch.
"Astoria," Belladonna's voice cracked out warningly.
"Nah," sneered Blaise, his amusement taking on an edge. "I'm only suggesting that it's no mystery why Pansy keeps an eye on you—not when her favorite boy is so determined to follow you around like a love-sick puppy. You can't even deny it."
"I really can," Astoria sneered, terribly aware of how tight Belladonna's gaze had become.
"Say, doesn't your dad work for the Malfoys now?" Blaise continued softly, eyes narrowing until they were nothing more than toffee-colored lines. "Do they pay you too—to place play nice with him, I mean?"
"That'll be about enough," ordered Belladonna, her voice ringing with such authority that even Blaise didn't dare contradict her. "Come, Astoria. It's time to say our goodbyes to Mrs. Rowle."
So angry she could spit, Astoria pivoted to troop off after her aunt. How had that just happened? Astoria had been so busy keeping an eye out for adult awkwardness that her classmates' behavior had barely even occurred to her. Who in the name of Merlin's balls did Blaise think he was?
It was a distraction that she could not shake off. Moments later, when Astoria fell into a short curtsy for Mrs. Rowle, her head was still reeling.
There was no real damage done, she reminded herself. It was just a bit of foolish gossip...
Still, there could be no denying the fact that Blaise's speech would make things deucedly awkward for her when she got home. It was one thing to be fifteen and squirrelly about school-age crushes—that much anyone could forgive. But Belladonna and Lucius's Battle Of The Wits seemed capable of escalating this particular rumor to a level of discomfort.
Belladonna was already desperate enough to ask Astoria to spy on her own father, after all. What would happen if she took it into her head to obsess over what Blaise had said? Would she view Astoria's concealment as an act of treachery? Or worse, would she treat it as an opening for a promising coup? Belladonna loathed Lucius, but Astoria did not believe that it was beneath her dignity to dig for gold in his garden. Quite the opposite, in fact—Belladonna might cherish the opportunity even more because of the strength of her dislike.
Smiling robotically, Astoria watched her aunt say both of their goodbyes to Mrs. Rowle. Her interest in Thorfinn Rowle had officially slipped down the totem of her priorities to the point of non-existence. Fred and George would be so disappointed...
Astoria came-to with a snap, suddenly aware that both women were staring at her expectantly. Had they been talking to her?
"Yes, Mrs. Rowle," Astoria agreed, hoping this would suffice.
The guess was good enough. Mrs. Rowle smiled evenly and Astoria allowed herself to fall back into absorption.
She was just going to have to lie—cleverly and quickly. There was no other option. If Astoria didn't act fast, she would run the risk of being deployed by her aunt as some kind of sexed-up double agent.
Fucking Blaise.
Astoria was always so careful about the way she discussed the Malfoys in front of her aunt, to the point of cradling the subject like a live bombshell. All of that effort! Years of care, now dashed to pieces by a little wanker who thought he had a God-given right to run his idiot mouth!
Astoria clenched her fists as she dropped into a final curtsey, clinging to her anger—so much cleaner and easier to deal with than her anxiety.
Tracey might still be willing to make Blaise's excuses, but Astoria was officially without sympathy. He had managed to make an enemy out of her, at long last. And if it was a fight Blaise Zabini wanted, she'd bloody well give him a war before they were through...
0o0
Belladonna's front hall was oppressively quiet upon re-entry; a blunt contrast to the Rowles breezy, vaulted chambers. Astoria lingered awkwardly near the hearth as Belladonna swept forward, overturning the letter opener to check the hall table for her afternoon post.
"I'm sorry if I disappointed you today," Astoria finally ventured, pulling off her gloves. Belladonna's silence was making her nervous. It seemed wiser to do something with her restless fingers...
"Are you?" returned Belladonna stonily, flicking through a pile of bills with shaky, irritated energy. "Why would that be, I wonder? Could it be because you behaved horribly?"
"It wasn't as bad as that!" Astoria argued, blushing slightly.
"I'm beginning to wonder if it's possible to bring you anywhere," Belladonna mused in a raw voice, nostrils flaring. "You're a regular pit-bull in a play park..."
"I am sorry about the end. With the Zabinis," Astoria admitted shakily.
"Yes, what did you do to provoke Seraphina?" demanded Belladonna, dropping the mail at last. "I wasn't aware that you two even socialized—apparently I was mistaken."
"I hit her son," explained Astoria quickly. "At the Third Task. She saw me do it."
Belladonna blinked balefully. This was clearly not what she had been expecting but her tongue did not remain tied for long.
"And why would you have done something so stupid?" she snapped disbelievingly. "In public, no less? Good God, are you addled?"
"You've met them, have't you!" Astoria snorted. "As if you've never wanted to bash Seraphina's head in!"
Belladonna made a violent gesture with both of her hands and then froze. She began to fish about in her robes and Astoria half wondered if she was reaching for her wand. Next moment however, the object of her desires—rather under-whelmingly—turned out to be a rattling tin full of powdery tablets. Popping what was either a mint or a hit of arsenic into her mouth, Belladonna sucked in her cheeks and continued.
"I know that I've made no secret of my distaste for that woman!" she sneered. "But if I've led you believe that the same behavior is acceptable from you, then I've been sorely mistaken! You are a separate matter entirely, Astoria. You are far too young to be taking on powerful enemies!"
"He tried to touch me!" Astoria snarled, desperate to appeal to her aunt's better judgement before it was lost to a tantrum. "I smacked him with a hand-fan! It was nothing."
"And did you see Mrs. Rowle's niece smacking people with hand-fans today?" growled Belladonna murderously. "No, you did not! Because it's bloody uncivil!"
"Like you're one to talk!" Astoria yelled back nasally. "And anyway, it's not my fault that Blaise is such an impossible rat! Did you know he hooked up with Tracey that same day and then dumped her for fun?"
"Of course he did!" hissed Belladonna furiously, close to loosing her mind. "That is what teenage boys do!"
"No, it's not!" Astoria exploded, tearing at her hair in frustration. "He only did it to get back at me! He's not some unbalanced ball of hormones, Auntie, he's a bloody psychopath!"
"Astoria, really," Belladonna scoffed. "All of this hysterical shrilling is setting my nerves on edge..."
"Don't talk about your nerves like you're Beatrice!" Astoria spat. "Blaise has never really liked me—probably because of his mum—and it's only gotten worse. That bit about Malfoy was a lie, in case you were wondering..."
"Was it?" Belladonna returned cuttingly, eyes flashing with poorly concealed anger. "My, my. Seraphina's got quite a brilliant little fantasist on her hands."
"He only said it because he knew you'd act this way!" Astoria snarled, thankful for the ironclad coincidence. "Blaise must have found out that dad was working for Lucius and sprinted straight to treachery..."
A silence fell. Astoria's mouth went dry as her aunt surveyed her calculatingly—almost challengingly.
"Do you really think I'd ask you to throw yourself on Lucius Malfoy's son?" Belladonna finally asked, her tone as chilly as Astoria had ever heard it. "Is that what this is—fear? You look afraid, Astoria."
Yes.
"No," Astoria warbled. "I don't know. What I'm trying to tell you—and what you're deliberately not hearing—is that it wouldn't matter either way."
"I've been called many things in my life," snarled Belladonna wrathfully, "but last I checked, pimp wasn't one of them!"
Astoria's thoughts immediately summoned up the shadow of Roland Yaxley, whose very existence seemed to offer undeniable proof that Belladonna would play pimp if she thought it would do them any good.
"I know that," Astoria lied evenly. "I also know that we're backed into a corner. Desperation makes people say stupid things—I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea..."
"Which is what?" demanded Belladonna sharply. "That I would trade my only niece to Lucius Malfoy in exchange for a few years of peace—or until his son grew sick of her?"
Astoria blinked, irrationally stung by this invented fancy, even if she couldn't entirely say why.
"Has he touched you?" Belladonna sneered. "Surely you haven't been stupid enough to try to strike any deals on your own?"
"With who—Draco or his dad?" Astoria exclaimed, playing dumb on purpose to avoid telling an outright lie. What a thing to say, though. Oh, God...
Astoria's eyelashes trembled as she fought to shake away a new, and truly blazing visual—one that had much more to do with Draco's father than to do with Draco himself—certain she would never be able to entirely purge herself of its fiendish imagery.
"Is that why Lucius took on your father?" Belladonna rumbled, her tone growing steadily more wintery and accusing—a sure-fire sign that she was dipping into outright paranoia. "I almost wondered, you know..."
"How can that possibly be?" Astoria snapped, feeling green.
"There are dozens of other lawyers who work outside the ministry, Astoria!" rambled Belladonna intensely. "I'd wager your father is the only one to lose his last post by sleeping with a client's wife!"
"So?" Astoria demanded, no longer entirely sure what her aunt was getting at.
"I thought Malfoy must have hired him as an advantage against me—was I wrong?" Belladonna muttered. "Have I been duped? Was he hired because of you? How many sets of problems do we have on our hands?"
"You can't be serious!" Astoria nearly shouted, feeling that here, at least, she was allowed to put up a righteous protest. "Dad's crooked, greedy and good at what he does. He's a perfect match for Lucius! It's nothing to do with Draco—this whole discussion is mad!"
"Is it, though?" sneered Belladonna mistrustfully.
"Of course it is!" returned Astoria. "I'm spying on father for you! If I thought that the Malfoys had only hired jim on my account, don't you think I would have mentioned it?"
"Maybe not," Belladonna hissed, eyes glistening darkly. "You can be troublingly opaque about your motives at times. Don't think I haven't noticed how you skirt corners whenever that foolish boy comes up!"
Astoria blinked resentfully and Belladonna, perhaps hearing herself, seemed to thaw. She tapped the mail with her fingernails almost apologetically, boycotting eye contact.
"I need a drink," murmured Belladonna at last, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"And a reality check," Astoria grumbled bitterly, pushing her luck.
"Careful," cautioned Belladonna, "or the lady dost protest too much."
"It all amounts to nothing, Auntie," Astoria sighed. "There's no great conspiracy—it's just the son of someone you hate trying to make sure we both take the piss."
"A rotating army of boys who all supposedly loathe you," snorted Belladonna, her doubtful tone somehow implying its own set of air quotes, "and yet, hardly a week ever seems to go by without at least one of them barging into my home unannounced..."
0o0
Astoria was not sure if her aunt had really believed her, but the storm itself had passed—both figuratively and literally. The sun broke palely through the mist and, instead of continuing to argue, Astoria spent the rest of the afternoon rechecking her luggage and mulling over her catastrophic social life.
Thankfully, Belladonna would have no occasion to be in the same room as Draco or Astoria for quite some time. Without any opportunities to spy or prod, her suspicions were likely to fade. Without meaning to, however, Belladonna's rant had given Astoria a lot to ponder.
For starters, it had never occurred to her to search her father's partnership with Lucius for signs of an ulterior motive. George's desperation, coupled with his savant-like talent and relative lack of ethics, had always made his union with the Malfoys seem entirely natural.
Now that she really thought about it, however, the more it did seem somewhat suspicious. Draco had a tendency to act oddly around her—sometimes even in public. And Lucius was observant. Was it so impossible that he had selected George for all of the obvious reasons in addition to his relationship with Astoria? The answer to this question, of course, was no—it was exactly the sort of thing Mr. Malfoy might do.
Astoria did not really believe that Draco had asked his father to hire George, but that didn't mean there was no grater design in it. Especially when she examined the way that things currently stood. It was clear that Lucius was in a convenient position: he could cut off George's income at any time he liked—a powerful bargaining chip, and an advantage he would surely cash in on if he ever suspected Astoria of trying to coerce his son into doing doing something he disapproved of. Coincidence or a matter of strategy?
There was simply no way of knowing, and a week spent in Belladonna's company had done nothing to nourish Astoria's sense of sanity. Maybe she was overreacting? Her aunt was capable of imagining convincing murder plots within the pages of picture books, after all—perhaps it was not a good idea to dwell overlong on anything she said?
In the end, nothing was capable of soothing her more than sleep. When it finally came, Astoria was so exhausted that no dreams managed to follow after.
0o0
When the next morning dawned, it ushered in a shocking first for everyone. George, anxious to leave the country, arrived on schedule.
Punctually sweeping in at exactly six o'clock, he found Belladonna awake and waiting for him on the other side of the floo. Wearing nothing but a robe and a scowl, she soon began to scream at him.
Astoria was not sure if this was due to Belladonna's tempestuous mood or the need to keep up an act, but either way, the atmosphere escalated to thunderous. Anxious to avoid being involved, Astoria retreated to the garden to wait out their row under the lilac bushes.
It was a damp and heavy kind of day, so foggy that it was easy to pretend a box of powder had been dropped in her eyes; shiny, white and opaque with steam from the night before.
Pretending she could not hear her own name being screeched, Astoria snapped a cluster of blooms from the nearest bush and sat, pulling individual flowers free from their clumps. When her father began to talk about finances, she pinched the purple tufts between her fingers until they were reduced to a sweet, honey-tasting pulp.
George came clattering out a while later, swearing under his breath and kicking both of his legs in such an irritable way that his trousers rode up.
"Mad woman!" he grumbled, rounding Astoria up and ushering her down the gravel walk. "Honestly!"
"Good morning!" Astoria returned brightly, knowing it was her job to be merry. She resisted the urge to turn back toward the house to say goodbye to her aunt, swallowing a mouthful of guilt as she did so. Self control, Greengrass...
"She'll be shipping your luggage," George continued in a rush, still walking as though his shoes were on fire, "and if she doesn't, we'll spring for a new wardrobe. That will certainly show her. I won't have you writing letter after letter begging for your things!"
The odds of Belladonna depriving her niece of formalwear in front of impressive company stood at less than nil, but Astoria smiled winningly and strove to keep up with her father's pace.
"Good," she joked breathlessly, jabbing an elbow at George. "I haven't been shopping in ages!"
George let out a quick-silvery laugh and ran a hand through his hair. The chill vanished in an instant, his eyes returning to their usual state of handsome good-humor.
"Come on!" he panted, breaking into a jog. "We're catching a portkey from the same hollow we used before the World Cup."
"Will it take us straight there?" Astoria asked, gravel crunching rapidly beneath her feet.
"No," George panted, "and since your barmy aunt can't seem to understand the concept of time—if we don't run, we'll miss it!"
Ignoring the hypocrisy of this statement, Astoria sped up to swift sprint.
They started a sweaty countdown the moment the reached the hollow, leaning intently over an ancient cola bottle. With thirty seconds left to go, George snapped his pocket-watch shut and Astoria's fingers scrabbled to find purchase against the glass bottle-neck. At seven thirty exactly, a lurching suction dragged them both forward, spinning them off through time and space.
Astoria landed with a red-faced thump beside her father. Dimly aware that the surface beneath her was harder than dirt and flakey to the touch, she sat up. Astoria was sprawled out on a bleak wooden pier facing the ocean. Rows of dirty, rundown boats bobbed sadly against the docks, pulsing fluidly on the turning tide an iron-grey sea. The sun hung to the west, dangling like a sorcerous orb behind a veil of white clouds, somehow indirect and yet punishingly hot at the same time.
Pulling her shirt away from her sticky back to brush off salt residue, Astoria watched as George barreled off toward a run-down shack. A man with an actual eye-patch greeted him, blathering on about chartered fishing expeditions. But when George lowered his voice, the one-eyed sailor seemed to stand up straighter. Perhaps he had been speaking in code? A moment later, her father returned clutching two tickets and grinning like a schoolboy.
"This way!" he called, indicating that she should follow him further out along the bleak pier. "The next cross-channel passage is at noon—there aren't any portkeys bound for France before that."
Annoyed that George hadn't bothered to refine his itinerary, Astoria tripped over her feet to catch back up with his manic pace. It was on her mind to complain, but the run-down shops and battered booths on either side of them were growing progressively odder and they soon became distracting. It was the strangest beach that Astoria had ever seen: a mixture of a run-down carnival and the sea-side getaway of a victorian novel.
Nearby, a storefront with several broken windows claimed to sell world-famous puppets and marionettes. Another offered shaved ice for five cents. Astoria paused to read a crooked sign hanging from a gaslit lamp-post. It informed her that they were in the worst possible corner of the township of Clacton on Sea.
After several minutes of high-spirited walking, George came to a jaunty stop in front of a grimy and out-of-business chip. Certain that they had gotten turned around, Astoria pivoted to search for another outlet when the door to the chip shop suddenly burst open.
A tipsy looking man in baggy, emerald colored robes came barreling down the ramshackle steps—a wizard if ever there was one—letting out a surprisingly upbeat cloud of sound. Then, the door sucked shut again and everything fell silent, returning to the eerie soundtrack of lapping water and gull calls.
"This'll be it!" murmured George, emboldened by the surefire signs of magic. "It's been years since I've traveled through here—people usually stop over in Dover..."
"Uhuh," Astoria agreed, having traveled to France more times than she could count without ever setting foot in this strange place.
"A bit of second-class option, you know, " George confessed sheepishly. "I was late in booking our passage. Couldn't be avoided, really. But if I remember correctly, they serve a fantastic lager here. We'll just stop and have a drink—" George caught himself, shooting Astoria a guilty, sidelong glance, "—or lunch, I suppose, and then we'll be on our merry way."
Despite all the marvelous conveniences that magic had to offer, the inside of the chip shop was hardly any less dingy than its exterior. George steered them both toward a corner seat (quickly, but not fast enough to prevent a bearded man from eyeing Astoria's skirt and winking) and then set about ordering a plate of clams and a sampler pint of each beer the bar served.
It wasn't exactly a glamourous meal, but it was not in Astoria's current best interests to be picky. Strangeness had never bothered her half as much as George's bothersome tendency to abandon her. Figuring there was no better way to prove her good spirits than to embrace their strange circumstances, Astoria forced down two rubbery clams and liberated her father of one of his drinks. Thankfully, George decided to find this saucy rather than ill-behaved.
"Of course, what your aunt doesn't understand is that Malfoy isn't going to simply bend for her," George insisted. "She'd be far better off getting her affairs in order—it's not our job to cater to her colorful past, you know."
"I'm sure," Astoria agreed lightly. She swallowed her lie with a gulp of lager; an act that might have made a normal parent uneasy, but which George's lifelong flirtation with functional-alcoholism seemed to have largely inured him against. "Prison, though—"
"It's not for you to fret over," breezed George, shrugging her off. "She's a woman of many talents, Belladonna. She'll fall on her feet no matter what they dig up in that lake. I'm certainly not worried."
Astoria had no doubt that this was true. George never worried about anything. In fact, he was so without inner-turmoil that it probably didn't even occur to him how oblivious he was. Perhaps the truth occasionally caught up with him in the dead of night, though? A strangling, nagging anxiety that he forced himself to suppress?
George wrenched a plastic, sword-shaped toothpick out of his lemon wedge and brandished it at her comically.
Perhaps not.
"Will Mafilda Hopkirk be in France this summer?" Astoria asked casually, wanting to shift the subject away from her aunt, even if it meant pursuing her father's mistress instead.
"She might," George shrugged. "Actually, its possible we'll see her tonight—it's the Minister's Ball, you know. I figured we might as well stay over for it. You can leave for Monaco with the Mendels in the morning and I'll catch up with you later in the week."
"Oh," said Astoria, trying not to be thrown by this drastic change of plans.
"I meant for us to be in town yesterday, but Belladonna put up a fight," George explained apologetically. "As it is, we'll only arrive with time to eat and change. You brought along something with your sigil? Damn—but your aunt has the luggage!"
Astoria tuned out her father's needless fretting, trying to consider this new information. The Minister's Ball was actually quite a famous affair.
Held annually in France, it was considered an important event by almost every civilized home in Europe. Prestigious enough to be photographed for magazines, the party was celebrated for its wealthy guest-list and feared for its wildly exclusive snobbery. It was a well-deserved reputation, too: the fact that the party had been carried off without a single muggle-born invitee or member of staff in attendance for the first two hundred years of its existence was public knowledge.
The dawn of the twentieth century had seen the end of this practice, with more lenient and modern attitudes finally declaring that it was socially rude to outright ban the riffraff. Wizarding aristocracy had been forced to adapt. This they had done—with cheer and a right good will. Keeping one foot planted as firmly as ever in the feudal days of serfdom, Respectable Society had collectively shaken their heads, murmured dispassionately and then, ultimately, they had donned masks.
Disguise became the event's requisite fashion: gowns draped with furs or topped with artificial hoods, faces obscured by fascinators or silks. The result—quite intentionally—was a room full of familiar strangers made recognizable not by their faces, but by the family sigils they wore on their robes.
For this reason, ancient crests and family pins made their annual showing every year in July. Polished jewels and embroidered insignias announced the identify of every man, woman or child fortunate enough to come from an old and credible family. Those who had not been born into a heritage with a coat of arms—still obligated to abide by the event's style laws—were forced to attend in nameless obscurity.
It was all done in horrid taste, of course, and with such delicate passive-aggression that it was very nearly funny. Still, Astoria had never been old enough to attend before (to say nothing of the effort Belladonna would have had to expend just to get them invitations) and she was rather curious to see with her own eyes what she had ogled so many times in the pages of newspapers and magazines.
"Auntie will send my cases," Astoria assured her father confidently. "She won't want me to make a fool out of myself—it would make her look bad."
"Ha!" George projected, assuming that Astoria was making a wise-crack.
"I really don't know what you see in Mafilda," Astoria went on, pushing the conversation away from Belladonna yet again.
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," George scolded indulgently, switching pint glasses.
"She's too old for you," Astoria smirked, trying on the role of The Frivolous Daughter, certain that George would find her more manageable and entertaining than the sulky, natural version.
"Nonsense!" George cried warmly, no longer pretending at obliviousness. "Mafilda's my age."
"You never date women your age," Astoria pointed out, disregarding the fact that he shouldn't technically be dating anyone at all. "Even Mrs. McLaggen was younger than you, and her son is in the year above me!"
"Well, maybe it's time I made the change," George reasoned, taking a pensive sip. "I'm not getting any younger, you know..."
Astoria studied her father's handsome face, still blessed with great natural vitality and charm.
Despite herself, she was a little moved by the notion that his age worried him. Surely he should be thinking of other things—his wife, his family, his job—but Astoria knew the agony of an irrational fear too well to entirely dismiss him. George had been trapped in a loveless marriage for fourteen years (albeit, a union entirely of his own making) and while his actions did not entirely align with what Astoria considered decent, she also knew that it was something she was going to have to overlook if she wanted to spend a pleasant summer with him.
"You're mad!" Astoria grinned. "You don't look a day over thirty—there's no call to give yourself up to any dour, old ministry witches!"
George laughed boisterously and went to pay their tab, leaving Astoria behind to ponder weather or not she had just done Daphne a disservice. No good could come of encouraging their father to continue his love affair with bimbos, surely. But wasn't it better for George to pursue silly, aspiring actresses than the adultish government officials that his actual wife might see in public?
0o0
The portkey station was located on the packed dirt embankment underneath the pier, so when eleven o'clock rolled around, Astoria and George made their way down onto the sand. The old wizard in the baggy, green cloak was already waiting in the shadows.
Together, they all clutched a deflated beach-ball, sweating uncomfortably in the heat. Astoria closed her eyes at the last minute, trying not to fight against the dragging lurch when they were spun forward.
Space and time dissolved again until the beach was replaced by the familiar darkness of the Paris catacombs. Blinking in the gloom, Astoria became aware of several sounds all at once: the muffled conversation of a distant cafe, the shrill shriek of the buried subway; bird song.
They were in a station she knew this time. No more carnival strangeness. Located in a well-disguised outlet just off an abandoned muggle railway called the Petite Ceinture, they had landed somewhere in the fourteenth arrondissement of Paris. This meant that they were perfectly positioned to stop over at George's hotel in St. Germain before carrying on to meet the Mendels, who lived a stone's throw away from the Musee D'Orsay in the seventh.
Elated that this leg of their journey had gone off without a hitch, Astoria led the way up the crooked stone hallway at a clip. The moment they reached the street, however, it became obvious that they were at yet another impasse.
George, who would normally have Apparated to his destination, had clearly forgotten that he could not do so with Astoria in tow. Side-along Apparition was a challenge for the brightest of wizards and he had consumed four beers over lunch. What was worse, he did not have any muggle money to hire a taxi. Effectively stranded, Astoria could feel her pleasant demeanor slipping away.
"Can't we find a shop that's connected to the floo network?" Astoria suggested desperately, melting under the clear, noon-day sun.
"Oh, never!" exclaimed George, tearing a flier off a nearby wall. "Stay here!"
George crossed the street to consult with a vestibule-shaped box, looking both ways and keeping his wand hand low. He returned with a stack of colorfully transfigured bills denominated in every numerical unit possible.
"Will those work?" Astoria wondered dubiously, eyeing the portraits of foreign currency on the advertisement that her father had copied from.
"Of course they will," breathed George impatiently, signaling for a cab. "They look the same, don't they?"
"No," Astoria frowned, still double checking against the poster across the street. "Those numbers jump straight from twenty to fifty—you've got a fistful of twenty-fives in here."
"Easy fix," amended George, ripping the offending bills out of his stack and tossing them into the gutter. "Now they're alright?"
"I suppose," Astoria admitted, "but I think the muggles put their money into that machine. Won't it just spit all this rubbish back out?"
"Darling, you're too good!" George cried, unworried and amused. "We're tricking a cabbie—every cent we pay him is probably destined for the pockets of a back-alley thug."
Trying not to look at George's designer wristwatch when he handed over the false bills, Astoria hopped into the car. Harassed by the unfamiliar inconvenience of traffic and weary from their travels, they arrived at George's hotel with just enough time to check for luggage.
"Now remember," George reminded her, sliding his key into the lock, "I'm in room eleven. If anything should happen at the Mendels, this is where you'll be able to find me."
"I thought I was leaving for Monaco with them tomorrow," Astoria insisted, irritated with her father's inability to keep his plans straight.
"You are," George corrected himself, "but I'm using this as my forwarding address until the end of July. If you need me, you'll have to send your owl here. And in any case, this room only has one bed. I thought you might want to stay with Maudlin..."
"Alright," Astoria sighed, conscious of the fact that it had taken her father less than a day to shunt her off into Aston's care.
"Don't be so glum!" George called back at her, pushing the door open and heading straight for the sink. "I'll meet you in in less than a week!"
Inside, a bedroom abutted a circular sitting area. Breezy, bourgeois and decorated in silvery-gray, the suite suited her father to a tee. A wall of open windows had been thrust open to encourage a draft—cooler here than on the street. Astoria located her trunk and sunk down onto the carpet, inspecting her traveling cases for any sign of damage or disruption.
The door had nearly fallen shut behind them when someone stuck a foot in the crack to impede the progress of its re-locking.
THUD.
A string of curse words made Astoria's head jerk up again. A stunning but irritable looking woman was looming over her, her eyes as cold as ice chips.
Tall, blonde and impossibly lovely, this female stranger was built like a luminous will-o'-the-wisp with all of the coloring of spun sugar, but none of its quality. Reminded impossibly of Fleur Delacour, Astoria could only blink in amazement.
"And 'oo is zis?" the blonde girl snapped, rounding on George with the ferocity of a thousand lily-white suns. "I 'ave been waiting in ze lobby for more zen an hour! Ze clerk 'sinks I am a prostitute!"
"Élise!" George cringed disparagingly, swinging his water glass toward the table. "I thought I said—"
"You said, you said!" Élise screamed, repeating George's hesitation with comical correctness. She stomped a perfect foot against the floor. "And now I 'ave pushed my way up 'ere only to find zat you are 'arbouring anozzer woman!"
It all clicked into place several seconds later than it probably should have: the jealous rage, the intimate knowledge of George's hotel room and schedule. Astoria had clearly been remiss to openly discourage George from dating age-appropriate women. He obviously needed no help on that front. Though blazingly sensual, Élise did not look much older than Astoria. Nineteen at most, her purpose for waiting the lobby was crystal clear.
"Look at 'er!" Élise sneered, sniffing in Astoria's direction. "She ees pretty, I suppose, but even younger zen I am! It's really quite sickening."
Astoria dropped her trunk lid with as much dignity as she could muster and stood up.
"Astoria," she clarified stonily, extending her hand. "Greengrass."
"Oh," the girl responded monosyllabically, barely reacting to the news that Astoria was George's daughter and not his consort. "I see." She did not shake Astoria's hand.
"Do you?" sniffed George, put off by the accusations floating around his head.
"In that case, I'll have whatever you're having," Élise sniffed, switching over to French. She dropped onto one of the quick-silvery chairs and motioned toward the glass in George's hand.
Even in her native tongue, her speech did not seem to lose its quality of haphazardness; slightly jarred, a little rough. Gorgeous though she was and dressed in undoubtably high-end clothing, Élise could not seem to shake the fact that there was something of a farm-girl about her. She flopped her feet gracelessly onto the coffee-table and sighed impatiently. Not from the city, Astoria decided distractedly. Not from anywhere important...
"It's water," George explained pointedly, "and there's hardly time for anything else. I was just on my way out.."
"Then why did you tell me to meet you here at all?" demanded Élise, flaring up again. "Those absolute chucklefucks at the front desk won't let me up twice!"
"Here's an idea," Astoria announced pointedly, unwilling to watch her father be haggled by a teenaged tart, "why don't I just use the floo?"
"Yes," Élise agreed insolently. "Why don't you?"
"Astoria, no," George fought back, moving forward.
"It's fine," Astoria grumbled, taking a pinch of powder from the top of the mantle. "I'll see you tonight, won't I?"
George sighed, eyeing Astoria thankfully. You better be there, Astoria attempted to convey to him, ignoring Élise entirely. George gave a motion of assent so Astoria stepped into the low-burning flames. A timely escape if ever there was one...
The Mendels Paris apartments were located in a very calm, clean neighborhood dominated by attractive, dressed-stone buildings on the left bank. Astoria stepped out of the floo and was greeted by the front hall's faintly familiar Hungarian parquet flooring just as the bells of the nearby Orthodox cathedral began to toll for three o'clock.
Tired and bothered to the point of repressive shivers by the scene she had just left, Astoria scanned the room for any sign of a helpful servant. There were no elves in sight. This made sense, of course. Astoria had arrived without warning. She hadn't even had time to send over a card...
Crossing the room with an awkward, burglars gait, Astoria made for the main stairway. The house boasted an impressive four floors for a family that very rarely visited. Astoria knew from previous encounters that the first level was largely given over to a kitchen, several pantries and a wine cellar. The second floor was were she should go if she hoped to find the living, dining or reception rooms but these were formal and she doubted anyone would be there.
It was not until the third floor that Aston Mendel's personal taste began to show. As confidently eccentric as he was wealthy, Maudlin's father had caved to the pressure of keeping a house in a fashionable neighborhood but by the time one reached the family's private living areas, his rebellion began to show.
Darker, stranger and more lived in, the top two levels still retained something of the 1930's in their odd, art-deco furnishings. Slightly out of fashion but wildly interesting to look at, he had spent hours of his life claiming that he would one day renovate them only to put down a fresh coat of paint every two years and leave the rest untouched.
Astoria hesitated on the stairway uncertainly. To the left were Aston's study, bedroom and library; to the right, five guest suites. It was still very early in the day, however, and she had a hunch that Aston would be out...
Conscious of the fact that she had now penetrated the house almost as deeply as she could without announcing herself, Astoria plodded on to the fourth floor, where Maudlin had been allowed to hold his own private court since the age of fifteen.
The compartments were smaller here, and narrower. Astoria could hear voices before she even reached the top hall. A long, rectangular sitting area made up most of the floor, neatly separating Maudlin's bedroom on one side from two guest rooms (former maid's quarters, if you believed the muggle mumbo-jumbo) on the other.
"Astoria!" cried Maudlin, leaping up from a jazzy, red velvet couch. "I didn't hear you come in!"
How he had possibly expected to hear her arrive from four floors above, Astoria did not dare guess. Instead, skirting around the fact that she had probably just left her father to a barely-legal veela tryst, she took an unnecessary dig at Maudlin's staff.
"That's because there isn't a single elf in reception," Astoria replied lightly, taking stock of the scene before her.
Alec was lounging in a similarly velveteen window seat, playing with his lighter. Luc was on the floor, spread out on his back, sipping wine straight from a bottle like a sailor. Above him, a table sported a platter of various cheeses, smoked meats and pickled vegetables. And on the couch closest to her was another white-blonde head, one that she knew would belong to Draco Malfoy before he even turned his neck to catch a glimpse of her.
His presence in town made sense, Astoria supposed. Surely Lucius and his family had been invited to the Minister's Ball? Torn between the thrill of shameful excitement and the memory of Belladonna's rant, Astoria split the difference and tried not to look at him.
"I thought you were coming with your father," prompted Maudlin, faintly disappointed by George's absence.
"I'm sure you'll see him later," Astoria answered waspishly. "He'll be terribly busy though—he gave me the impression I was staying here."
"No matter!" breathed Maudlin excitedly. "We'll make room—you can take the pink room. I was planning to put Malfoy there, but he can stay with Alec in the Little Boys' Room."
"Sorry," scoffed Draco incredulously, "the what?"
As ridiculous as it had sounded, Astoria knew just what Maudlin meant. For years, it had been a burdensome and obsessive trait of his to stash his visiting friends in whatever wing of the house he was currently occupying (a habit that had only been enhanced by his teenage discovery of alcohol). In Monaco, this was little more than a piece of silly trivia, but in Paris it was problematic. The fourth floor only had two guest bedrooms and both were ghastly.
The Pink Room, although bigger, was occupied by a particularly noisy and angry ghost that liked to scream and drop objects onto the floor in the middle of the night. The Little Boys' Room (ostensibly named for its blue walls and perilously small twin beds) was not much better.
"Don't be ridiculous," Astoria scoffed, certain that she would rather sleep on one of the couches. "That room is haunted as shit, I'll just go down a floor—"
"Oh-no-you-won't," argued Maudlin, already bristling.
"Astoria," called Alec, intervening on her behalf, "have some wine. Draco, trust me—opt for the Little Boys Room."
"Why would anyone call it that?" scoffed Draco snidely.
"You're awfully keen to have a blokes in your room," Luc taunted, put-out by the fact that he alone did not seem to have received an invitation to stay. "Ten galleons says that if someone gave you the option to either blow a guy or die, you'd dive in face first—"
"Of course I would," scoffed Alec, wrinkling his brow almost patronizingly. "What kind of option is that?"
Luc snorted hollowly, undone by Alec's complete lack of macho squeamishness.
"In fact," Alec went on, smirking idly, "there probably isn't a single thing I wouldn't do in order to preserve my own cowardly skin. Not if it came right down to it. Not one. Hell, I'd probably blow you."
Luc made a flustered sound somewhere between disgust and fascination. Thinking fast, he opened his mouth to retort.
"Yes," answered Alec, cutting him off. "I don't even need to know what you're thinking of. I'd do it. Even that."
"Well, as long as Alec is content to whore himself out in the name of life," Maudlin cut in loudly, wishing to reclaim the conversation for himself. He thrust a glass into Astoria's hand and pushed her toward the couch.
It soon became apparent that, despite it being the first week of the holidays, nobody was in a particularly enthusiastic mood. Equally obvious was the fact that that an actual spat seemed to be brewing, lingering just below the surface, waiting to be provoked.
It had only been six days since she had last seen them, but Astoria thought Maudlin seemed faintly distracted; Alec unusually quiet and observant. Luc reacted to this in the only way that he knew how—by being twice as goading as usual, if only to ensure that he was not ignored altogether.
Draco alone seemed unperturbed. Normally, this might have caused Astoria to gravitate toward him, but between Blaise's snide insinuations and Belladonna's fury, the idea of looking him in the eye was enough to make her feel awkward and jittery.
"Is Emilie coming tonight?" Astoria asked, desperate to have somewhere to look. Hadn't Emile said she was enrolled in some kind of internship in the city that summer?
"Hmm?" Maudlin grunted. "Yes, of course she is. Wouldn't miss it for the world. That's literally, of course..."
Draco stirred, adjusting his legs (wide at the knees, how did he sit like that, girls never sat like that...) and Astoria accidentally glanced at him.
"I suppose Cassandra will be there, too?" Astoria continued quickly, thoughts flashing disjointedly to her own missed connection: Thorfinn Rowle.
"I suppose so. She's back in France, isn't she?" answered Maudlin sneeringly, upending the bottom of a second bottle of wine into his glass. "Not that it matters. I've been in Paris since the weekend and I haven't managed to escape Emilie for a single day—I should be cheering Cassandra back into town with a dozen roses."
"She's your girlfriend," Luc insisted worriedly, unintentionally reminding Astoria for the hundredth time that he was only here because he was Maudlin's girlfriend's cousin. Alone he was dispensable, and if his tone was anything to go by, he seemed to know it. "It's ridiculous to make such a fuss over her for being clingy..."
It was as though Astoria's eyes were drawn to Draco like magnets, driven by the perverse urge to stare at the only thing she was not supposed to be looking at. But if she couldn't resist where her eyes went, she could at least choose what she decided to see. Astoria gave in, allowing herself to stare at him unabashedly, searching for something that would displease her.
Silently, she picked him apart, focusing on every irregularity in his features. Singularly, there were many things to dislike. The way he held his mouth was snide. His coloring was pale and the effect was not robust. His eyes were intelligent, but without warmth. His nose was too big. From a certain perspective, she could almost make him funny looking...
Then, without warning, the pieces seemed to snap together again, his separate aspects reassembling until she was looking at Draco's whole face. A hot shiver seemed to slide down Astoria's throat like honey, ending between her legs like a breathless jolt.
"The Parkinsons aren't coming this year," Draco volunteered lazily, moving his foot away from Luc, who had flopped over onto his stomach to spy on Maudlin.
Astoria stopped herself from twitching, checked by the fear of appearing bothered. But she was bothered. Why had that made Draco think of Pansy? Was he trying to tell Astoria that Pansy would not be present? Or was he trying to admit that he was finally shagging her? Why was it that everything Astoria did somehow turned into an agony?
Because you're never honest with anybody, Astoria's subconscious answered cruelly.
"Speak of the devil," muttered Maudlin, craning his ear toward the stairway.
Several floors below, Astoria could just make out a faint commotion. A woman's voice echoed pleasantly in the hall—definitely Cassandra's.
"Nothing can stop the spread of the needy lingerers," sneered Maudlin in a voice quite unlike his own.
"I make it my personal mission to spread myself everywhere," remarked Alec cleverly, more to himself than to anyone in particular.
"Maudlin!" cried Cassandra, entering the room as if she owned it. "It's been ages!"
"It's been a week," sniped Maudlin under his breath, rising to greet her just the same.
Emilie hung in the doorway behind Cassandra, as polite and silent as ever.
"Draco!" remarked Cassandra quickly, catching sight of him. "Goodness, you wasted no time in looking up the Mendels." Her eyes flickered toward Astoria, who met her gaze with steely firmness. "Ria," she cooed falsely, adopting Maudlin's pet-name for the first time ever.
"Please, won't you come in," intoned Maudlin hollowly, motioning toward the seat that Cassandra had already taken. If he had sounded any less enthusiastic, he would have been asleep. "Can I get you anything? I can call the elf—"
"No," Cassandra chirped primly, folding her hands over her skirt. She did not say 'thank you'.
"Suit yourself," Maudlin grunted, forgoing his glass in favor of sipping straight from the wine bottle. Astoria eyed his thirsty gulp warily. If the Third Task had taught her anything, it was that Maudlin could not be counted upon to spend a day stress-drinking and then manage to attend an evening event.
"What time are you leaving tonight?" Cassandra asked, plucking an offending piece of lint from her sleeve. "Emilie thought we should coordinate—and or that matter, so do I."
"Are you picking us up or shall we meet you there?" pressed Emilie, still standing. For a clinger, she sure looked awfully content.
Maudlin let out a gust of air through his nose and stared listlessly at the tray of crackers.
"Maudlin," cautioned Cassandra sharply, determined that he should answer Emilie's question.
"We'll meet at eight," he grunted at last, giving in.
"Good," Cassandra sniffed, standing up again. "Luc, come with us. Your things are stored with Emilie's. You really ought to change—" her lips puckered as she took in the sight of his rumpled shirt.
Luc groaned, pulled himself up from the floor and loped off toward the doorway after Cassandra. Maudlin continued to stare long after he had disappeared, sour-mouthed and drooping.
"God, Maudlin," snorted Alec merrily, breaking the silence. "That was pathetic."
"I didn't ask for an opinion!" snapped Maudlin, heaving himself up as well.
He turned right, turned left, seemed to realize he had nowhere to go, sank back down onto the couch with as much dignity as he could and fixed his pants pockets.
"Right, well, I'm not going," he sneered at last, shoving the cheese tray away as though it had offended him. "It's just the sodding Minister's Ball—I won't miss anything. It's an annual event. They can't make me."
"Are you serious?" Astoria ground out through a clenched jaw. This was a side of Maudlin she had not seen lately, reminiscent of the petulant little boy who had picked on her as a child. Lord even knew where George was—why did Maudlin have to turn her last sanctuary into a battleground? "Luc will throw a fit—"
"I don't care about Luc," Maudlin spat. "Everyone knows his father is going bankrupt. If I paid him enough, he'd probably punch Emilie right in her stupid lungs for me!"
This was possibly true, but also patently awful.
"Done with her, are you?" sneered Draco, sounding very unsurprised.
0o0
OK, it was a long time coming and it's largely without Draco, but I had to get everybody where they were supposed to be! Promising drama will commence in the rest of the summer-posts. The stage is set!
In other news, sorry about the wait on this chapter. I had to move again and, to make a long and dreary story short (involving lots of paperwork and an octogenarian downstairs neighbor), I did not really want to. That makes two moves since school got out and I'm just so fatigued. It really was my intent to have the chapter up on time and the next post will hopefully stick to schedule.
As always, reviews are a wonderful treat! And I'm sitting in a room full of unpacked boxes right now, so they'll brighten my day that much more. :)