Chapter Sixty Five
Lanterns and Lies Pt. Two
0o0
George let out a snort of pleasure, oblivious to Astoria's distress. As far as he was concerned, everything was going swimmingly; he was rubbing elbows with the extremely rich and he didn't seem to be using any of his usual business ploys to do it.
Meanwhile, Astoria subtly pressed a hand against her stomach, trying to stabilize herself. Her father's unexpected arrival could not have come at a worse time. Still, it was possible that the evening might pass off without a public meltdown. Perhaps Élise would actually be glad to see George? His presence would provide her with an ideal opportunity to rub his nose in the face of her newest sexual conquest—and wasn't that why she was with Luc in the first place? Astoria had no reason to assume that a shouting match would ensue—and really, even if it did, what could her father do about it? Nothing. Not with Mafalda on his arm. He always took the easiest way out.
"Ah, look!" cried George, causing Astoria to flinch. "Isn't that Bertie Higgs? What on Earth can he be doing here—he never travels, the poor man!"
"Hmm," frowned Mafalda, "and no wonder."
"Half the Ministry has abandoned post!" chortled George. "What a thrill."
"Bertie is colorful, I'll give you that," griped Mafalda, "but he hardly counts as half the Ministry. He drinks too much."
"Yes, yes. Of course he does," amended George, flashing his most placating smile. Colorful drinkers had never bothered him one iota, but he had a knack for knowing when it was best to nod along.
Astoria stared. This was the most that she had ever heard Mafalda speak and she was curious to see how her father managed it.
"Of course, I know that you're fond of him," continued Mafalda, unable to conceal her scorn, "but he really is a fantastic dunce. There's no denying that."
"Right you are!" George agreed teasingly. "A person to be avoided at all costs! Shall we turn around and flee right back to France?"
Astoria did not know what surprised her more: Mafalda's power to temporarily check George's behavior or the rosy blush that George's cajoling seemed to produce in Mafalda's cheeks.
It was a strange thing to witness all around. Mafalda did not have a face for girlish expressions; she was proud, handsome in her own way, but very rigid. Didn't she know that the basis for George and Bertie's friendship was a decade of mutually respected dilettantism? Could she really be naive enough to think that she would change his mind with a single comment? Astoria had seen certainly seen women behave foolishly in George's company before, but none of them had been old enough to earn a large government salary. Her ability to find Mafalda tolerable—already a mere formality—only continued to decrease.
"Well, I like the look of him," declared Maudlin, trying hard to sound impassioned. "At least he's fun."
"Oh?" wondered George, eyes twinkling with a hundred fond reminiscences. "Do you know Bertie?"
"No," admitted Maudlin stoutly, "but I make it a rule never to pass up an amusement simply because it doesn't require a brilliant mind."
George laughed buoyantly.
"Careful!" shot Mafalda. Her romantic glow faded to scorn. "The way you talk! You might as well be quoting some passage from Oscar Wilde. Someday, someone will think you mean what you say. And then what? Are you prepared for a lifetime of stunted experiences?"
Maudlin shot Mafalda a sour look. The upshot of having Aston for a father meant that people—even grown adults—did not often correct him at home. Mafalda's logic was sound, but Astoria could tell that Maudlin resented her for making him realize it.
"Now, now," chuckled George sheepishly. "There are worse things than a little youthful philosophy!"
Sensing disaster and wishing to spare Maudlin any scorn (she had a feeling that Mafalda's sensible nature would round-house him in an argument), Astoria placed a hand firmly on his elbow, intending to steer him away.
"Will you show me where the bar is?" she asked quietly.
The bar was obviously located in the garden—in fact, it was visible from where they were all standing. Still, Astoria had a hunch that this was the best suggestion to distract Maudlin and she turned out to be quite right.
"Oh!" he jerked about, drifting away from George without meaning to. "Right, it's just over here."
Astoria followed him out onto the immaculate green turf, taking great breaths of fresh air. It really was a beautiful night outside; full of low stars and purple clouds that passed across the moon. Between the heat and the heavy greenery, the scene could almost pass for tropical. It was soothing.
"What an awful woman," muttered Maudlin under his breath. "I can't think what your father is doing with her."
Astoria gritted her teeth. This was it—the perfect moment to bring up Élise. She had wanted to do it all day and now, prompted by fate, the topic was finally at hand. Perhaps Maudlin wouldn't even be angry with her? With any luck, Mafalda's general aura of strictness would be enough to turn the tide in Astoria's favor. Maudlin loathed criticism. It was not in his nature to defend anyone who had ever offered him any. And he was so careless—wasn't it possible that he would forgive the presence of a veela in his home if he thought Astoria had a good reason for it?
"She's his mistress," admitted Astoria quietly, giving a gaggle of well-dressed wizards a wide berth.
"Hah!" burst Maudlin joylessly. "You're kidding! George is still a young man, isn't he? He could certainly do better."
George was not, strictly, a young man, but Astoria understood what Maudlin meant by this. George was very buoyant and he had the kind of face that seemed likely to disagree with anyone who would call him 'sir'. For as long as Astoria could remember he had been greeted with equal familiarity by high ranking ministry clients and card playing vagabonds alike. Anybody who could not see him for what he really was—a mostly good-natured materialist, equally fond of pleasure and the evasion of serious duty—was simply not in on the joke.
Mafalda, Astoria realized uncomfortably, was exactly the sort of person who would never be able to understand this. Despite being educated and well-off, the poor woman probably didn't know what she had gotten herself into. She was million times more clever than Lady MacLaggen, but the only thing Mafalda's respectability and self-worth did was blind her. She behaved too well to understand what a scoundrel George was and there was every chance she would end up humiliated because of it.
But what if that same sense of high self-regard eventually lead her to believe that she was too good to be somebody's mistress?
Suppose Maflada encouraged George to leave his wife—Daphne's mother—because she was too proud to be a long-term adulterer? Astoria's blood ran cold. She could picture exactly the sort of things Mafalda would say: "I know it will be hard at first, but it will be better this way. We'll never be happy as long as we're lying."
George was a coward, but he was also as moldable as clay. Mafalda had more grit than Beatrice. Wasn't it possible that George would find it easier in the long run to divorce his legal wife than to extract himself from the scandal surrounding an affair with a well-appointed and clever Ministry worker?
This, Astoria reflected dully, was the real threat, wasn't it? She did not especially care about Mafalda or her father's propensity for foolish love affairs—the real sting from that wound had faded years ago. But Daphne, no matter how estranged, was still her sister and Astoria cared about her a great deal. They shared blood through their father—he was the last real tie binding them together. If George left Beatrice, Astoria would lose Daphne completely and she wasn't going to let that happen. Not yet at least. Her family was already small enough: Mafalda had to go.
Her plan with Élise was faulty from the ground up, but it did serve one intelligent purpose: if executed properly, it was very likely to free George from Mafalda's clutches. Astoria would simply have to explain the matter to Maudlin carefully—without mentioning the role her personal vendetta had played in the proceedings. Perhaps he would even be able to help her?
"I agree," Astoria persisted carefully, preparing to unleash hell.
"There you are!"
Astoria's nerves zinged. She had been on the verge of revealing her secret at last and the unexpected interruption left her reeling. For a jazzy second, the ground beneath her feet wobbled unstably—more like the deck of a ship than a lawn.
The voice belonged to Luc and he was not alone: Élise tittered along behind him, intermittently clutching at his sleeves and eating fruit out of a wide fingerbowl of champagne. Appalled by what she had almost just said, Astoria felt herself harden.
"Impressive turnout," sniffed Luc, his eyes never really leaving Élise, "even if it is looking a bit foreign out here."
Élise laughed beautifully and ate another strawberry. Her tongue lapped at the inside of her fingers, searching for leftover juices. Something about the motion struck Astoria as being slightly profane.
"We've just gotten away from Cassandra's dowager aunt," Luc continued, smirking conspiratorially. "The poor woman's been withering away on the wrong side of eighty for a million years already. Only I reckon she got into the sherry tonight because she doesn't want to talk about anything but her runaway husband."
"I thought she was going to sob!" cried Élise. "Some people should really never drink."
"Runaway husband?" wondered Astoria, curious despite herself. Cassandra had certainly never mentioned a missing uncle before.
"Yes. Of course, that was years ago. The sixties probably. She swears that she had no idea it was coming," Luc went on, cracking himself up. "Says he 'wasn't the type of bloke who liked to talk about feelings'. I swear—only the English!"
It took a good deal of restraint for Astoria to resist glancing at Élise, a runaway lover in the making.
"Hmm?" grunted Maudlin, paying them no mind. He was still looking at the house, perhaps thinking about what little of Astoria's story she had managed to tell him.
"I thought Cassandra's aunt lived in Paris?" Astoria wondered out loud, prolonging the conversation on purpose. Anything to distract Élise before she turned around to investigate what Maudlin was staring at. George was still very visible in the front hall. Why wasn't he mingling?
"She does," shrugged Luc, pausing so that Élise could feed him a sticky-fingered berry, "but most of Cassandra's people are from your side of the channel, aren't they? I can only assume that's where she gets her puritanical streak from."
Astoria raised an eyebrow. This was quite a change of heart. Luc was the only one of Maudlin's friends who had ever shown a real weakness for Cassandra—a fact that she had been quick to notice at Hogwarts. Even now, Astoria could recall several instances of his following Cassandra about without having to strain herself; it seemed to her that he had spent the entire winter resisting Cassandra's many rebuffs with the patience of a loyal lapdog.
Élise leaned into Luc's side, amused by the extent of her victory over him. Noticing Astoria's expression, her gaze fluttered still higher, mocking the night air with her veela-bright eyes. Then, her gaze wandered past Maudlin's shoulder and fastened upon the foyer doorway.
Astoria held her breath. Was there any chance that Élise hadn't seen George?
No, none at all.
"Excuse me!" snapped Élise, straightening up rather suddenly. There was nothing 'carefree' left over in her expression now. Luc reached out to reclaim her, but she slapped his fingers.
Casting Astoria a furious look, she slipped away and melted into the thicket of gentleman standing near the steps.
"What a night!" sighed Luc contentedly, apparently incapable of guessing that anything was amiss. "I know you disapprove, Maudlin, but she really is something else. It's as though she sees straight through exteriors and gets right to the sensual heart of things!"
Astoria's palms were sweating; all of her focus was now bent toward the house. She snorted without meaning to.
"What?" demanded Luc. He was still massaging the sting from Élise's slap out of his fingers, but he was also love-struck and in no mood to be disagreed with.
"Nothing," Astoria replied shortly. A mixture of natural dislike and pity prevented her from saying anything more.
"I suppose you think you know better?" he sneered.
Obviously he considered Élise's brand of seductive femininity far superior to Astoria's and, although the insinuation was weak, it stung. Astoria's eyelashes fluttered. Perhaps he was right? After all, if she had any capacity for ensnarement, Malfoy probably would not be avoiding her like the plague…
"What's this?" asked Maudlin, returning to the conversation at hand.
"I was just talking about Élise," ventured Luc, still glaring at Astoria.
"Oh, that," murmured Maudlin dispassionately. "Yes, yes. You're an accomplished debaucher, Luc, we're all very pleased for you."
"Whatever," huffed Luc.
He was not being complimented and he knew it—he was being patronized for his interest in a girl that his friends viewed as being only partly human.
"Did you want a drink, Astoria?" continued Maudlin, finally remembering why they had stepped outside in the first place.
Astoria glanced toward the bar. A small but intricate pyramid of crystal glasses glistened in the multi-colored light of the floating fairy lanterns. Behind it, Lucius Malfoy had Aston's full attention.
"No," swore Astoria gravely, unwilling to pass Lucius in order to obtain one.
"My father doesn't have to see you pour anything," declared Maudlin, plainly mistaking the cause of her fear. "Hang on, I'll fetch it for you."
Astoria watched him strike out across the lawn, privately wishing that he wouldn't leave her alone with Luc. A silence descended. At last, making up her mind to say something or else run the risk of appearing inexplicably hostile, Astoria turned around.
Her face smashed into Draco Malfoy's shoulder with enough force to make her teeth rattle.
In a flash, Astoria's mind sputtered and spun into overdrive. Where was Luc? He had been behind her just a moment ago, but now nowhere to be seen. Perhaps had he wandered off to collect Élise? And what was Malfoy doing? Astoria hadn't even heard the warning scuffle of his footsteps approaching…
"Sorry!" she laughed falsely, sucking in a shivery breath.
Overcompensating for his awkwardness, Draco recoiled. His reaction was swift, but the outline of his grimace lingered like a ghost. Stiff with embarrassment and desperate to escape his sneer, Astoria turned left. By some curse of fate, Malfoy did the same.
Realizing that she was going to accidentally run into him all over again, Astoria squeezed her eyes shut and bit her tongue. Hell. Hell on earth.
Draco's limbs stiffened beneath her outstretched fingers. She felt a gust of breath against her cheek. Then, without warning, something warm and baffling brushed against her ear.
What was that? Jesus, had he just kissed her face?
Astoria shocked back a step.
Yes, he had. There was no way around it. Even stranger still, he obviously had not meant to. His expression was frozen and his posture was something straight out of a stage-comedy: stock still, head bent forward, one fist tightened.
Astoria struggled to understand; Malfoy did not help her at all. Then, a weird flash of anger passed across his features and his weird stillness broke. His eyes twitched toward her face and he glared provokingly.
He obviously wanted her to say something, but Astoria didn't have the heart to guess what.
"Right," muttered Draco angrily, giving the strange impression that he was talking more to himself than to her. He straightened up and grabbed her arm, angling her toward the bushes.
Astoria teetered. She was wearing heels and she was not especially used to being man-handled. What was he doing?
"Maudlin's coming back," she stuttered nervously.
"So what?" sneered Malfoy, but his tone belied a hint of underlying insecurity at the mention of Maudlin's name.
Right on cue: "Astoria!" cried a voice in the garden. "Astoria! ASTORIA! ASTORIA!"
Seeing nothing else for it, Astoria pulled away from Draco before he could push her behind the hedge.
"What, Maudlin?" she snapped intolerantly, leaning sideways. "Stop hollering my name! I'm right here."
"Ah! So you are!" exclaimed Maudlin jauntily. Using her voice as a guide, he burst through a gap in the crowd, clutching two glasses and smiling pompously.
Malfoy's presence faded. He pulled his shoulders back, keen to slip away. Astoria's fingers contracted involuntarily, betraying a weird instinct to stop him.
You shouldn't have said anything. You finally had him on his own...
"Malfoy! I haven't seen you all night!" Maudlin exclaimed, passing Astoria her drink: too dark, not enough ice... "What are you two doing back here? Admiring the view?"
"What view?" scoffed Draco insolently.
"I suppose I meant the view from the courtyard," corrected Maudlin, affecting his own brand of passive-aggressive primness.
"We're not in the courtyard," Draco sneered, gesturing toward the towering hedgerow with a pointed snap of his hand.
"Perhaps you should go there," suggested Maudlin stiffly, taken aback by Draco's aggression.
Without so much as a consulting sniff, Astoria downed the unappealing drink in her clammy hand. The contents of the glass curdled in her empty stomach immediately, like vinegar slopped on top of cream: a tangible unpleasantness that perfectly matched her current mood.
Draco eyelashes fluttered punishingly but, warily fixated on Astoria's empty glass, he closed his mouth.
Sensing victory, Maudlin stopped bristling. "Dinner should have been served half an hour ago," he muttered, consulting his watch. "Father must be orating."
Thankful for the distraction, Astoria looked about for Aston. He had relocated again, but even now he seemed to be making a push toward the veranda. From a distance, he appeared as proud and willful as always, but his flummoxed speed was enough to bear noticing.
So much motion was unusual. Aston rarely made a pointed effort to please; his easy confidence and generous wit typically ensured that people gravitated toward him. Perhaps he had been caught unprepared? It was certainly possible that he had underestimated the evening's head count. Astoria had never seen so many familiar adult faces outside a Ministry function before, let alone on foreign soil…
Not that Astoria imaged he was displeased by the extra company. Aston certainly enjoyed guests, but his flair for the unusual—not so very different from his theatrical son's—meant that he also liked to entertain on a grand scale. This was a night of unusually high ranking company, even for his household. Sure enough, it was soon announced that the veranda could no longer accommodate their party. Dinner was being moved to the beach.
Maudlin, who had guessed this eventuality from the outset (for a boy with no observational skills, he certainly did know his father) made quick work of rounding up Alec. Doing his best to appear as helpful as possible, he hustled his friends down the walk with the impatience of a prison warden.
"If we don't move now, father will have to pry Mr. Bonaccord out of the house," he whispered, giving Astoria a rude nudge forward with his thumb. "I can't tell you how many times father's had a garden party only to pop inside and find Bonaccord nosing about in his study. The man's a snake."
"Mr. Bonaccord is here?" wondered Astoria, perking up at this news. "I suppose that means he got your letter about the museum board?"
"Yes, of course he did," continued Maudlin thanklessly, hardly pausing for breath. "And let me just say, his own letter was nothing short of stunning! A display of sycophantic lyricism! I have to show it to you later, don't let me forget! He responded to all of my points with the most emphatic apologies known to man—you'll gag!"
Astoria grit her teeth. She had written the original note in its entirety. Therefore, it was more than a little irritating to hear Maudlin refer to any of the points it contained as his own. Thankfully, the desire to complain was soon driven out of her thoughts at the bottom of the path.
The abandoned veranda was nothing in comparison to the romantic seascape that awaited them. Rallying at the last minute, Aston's elves had directed their attention toward a flat, well-mowed patch of lawn. There was no shortage of glow; the same lanterns that floated along the garden walk also rested gently along the rafters of a hastily constructed and blindingly white canvas tent. A long table had been assembled and wine was already chilled. The sound of waves crashing—middle tide and rising—was a better soundtrack than any symphony. If Aston was trying to impress, he had picked the right place to do so casually and irrefutably.
"What do you think?" demanded Aston, breaking away from his company to rest a hand on Astoria and Maudlin's shoulders.
"Splendid!" ventured Maudlin quickly. "You have an eye for detail, father."
"If I had planned any of it, I would agree with you," snorted Aston pleasantly. "What I really have is the precaution of an excellent view. Don't forget."
"It's very Fitzgerald," observed Astoria, dimly aware that the drink she had upended had gone straight to her head. "I'm sure it isn't quite want you wanted, but you're pleased with it."
Aston blinked. This was a more philosophical answer than he had been expecting, but Astoria had no doubt that her observation pleased him. He shot her a soft, conspiratorial smile before slipping away to rejoin his guests.
There were too many people to avoid a formal seating arrangement so their small group split up at the tent. Fearing the worst, Astoria wandered about until she found her name tag and, sure enough, her placement was nearly as bad as it had been the night before. She was sitting directly in the middle of the table, across from Cassandra and her ghastly dowager aunt. To her surprise, however, Maudlin was positioned beside her.
"There's Bonaccord! Over there!" hissed Maudlin, elbowing her hard in the side. "He's smiling at me. Lord, he's so drunk he makes it look like a benediction! Look!"
Astoria glanced in the direction of Maudlin's furiously bobbing head, but her gaze fell short and landed on Narcissa Malfoy. She looked as lovely and refined as she always did: lightly made up, effortlessly tailored. Although pale and slim, she certainly had the gift of presence. She never came across as unsubstantial. She was too aware of her self-worth to be overlooked.
Actually, no, that wasn't the secret at all. In truth, Narcissa was really quite tall. Every inch she lacked on her waist she more than made up for in height. Astoria had never noticed that before...
Taking advantage of the fact that Maudlin was pouring them both wine, Astoria swiveled in her seat to peer at Lucius. Her eyes found him near the head of the table and there could be no mistaking his own towering advantage. He was a fist taller than Aston, comfortably surpassing six feet by several inches.
How fitting, thought Astoria tensely, slumping back into her chair. Try as she might, she could not seem to work the Malfoys' marital height similarity into a proper joke. Boxy McLaggen and his Buxum Wife were easy enough: they came together like two halves of the same punchline. But Narcissa and her husband made creating a parody feel like work.
"I know," hissed Maudlin, misreading her thoughts. "Father stuck Bonaccord as far away from him as possible. It's no wonder the poor sod was so quick to write me back! He's afraid of being permanently exiled from the guest list..."
Astoria was not listening. She already knew this—in truth, she had made several loose allusions to the loss of Aston's favor in her letter. That the same idea was only just now occurring to Maudlin did nothing but bore her. She nodded along when it seemed appropriate and prompted him when necessary, but her thoughts were utterly elsewhere.
In fact, they were almost entirely fixated on Narcissa. This was not because Narcissa was doing anything wrong—far from it, actually—but because her presence made Astoria nervous. It was not long before she began to wish that Aston had seated Narcissa a little closer to her husband, who nearly always stole the stage with his charismatic talk and imperious eye contact.
Denied Lucius's buffering effect, Astoria found herself studying Narcissa's mannerisms over the brim of her wine glass almost obsessively. She did her best to pull them apart for meaning, but it was tricky, because the key to Narcissa's character seemed to be hidden in what she did not do.
For a start, she did not pick at or fuss over herself: Narcissa was the rare sort of woman who dressed herself so carefully that she had no fear of her clothing betraying her. When she wasn't eating, her hands were at rest. At first this seemed like nothing more than good posture, but the more Astoria watched, the more it began to seem like a novelty.
Unlike the vast majority of Aston's guests, Narcissa was not visibly drunk. By rationing her movements, she created a dignified barrier between herself and her giddier conversation partners. It was a subtle trick, but an artful one.
There was something more, too—something Astoria could not quite put her finger on.
It was easy enough to tell when Narcissa was displeased—it happened several times before the fish course—but she never sacrificed politeness enough to actually say so. Instead, Narcissa seemed to convey her distaste in a way that people reacted to subconsciously: using a mixture of sudden withdrawals and foreboding silences. It was clear that her attitude encouraged the best from her audience, but it also seemed to glory in the humiliation of any persons who had the audacity to prove themselves ridiculous in front of her. Astoria could not help but admire this, but she also irrationally resented it.
After all, her own father was as drunk and loud as the best of them, but at least he was making people laugh. Surely there was something to be said for contributing to an atmosphere?
Only Astoria could not really convince herself of this. The truth of the matter was that Narcissa's behavior highlighted and exaggerated her own poor taste—to say nothing of the bawdy, dramatic tastes of both her father and her aunt.
Furthermore, unlike Lucius, who savored the same kind of complete triumph that Belladonna usually angled for, Narcissa seemed perfectly content to be privately amused. Perhaps that was the trait that Astoria found so hard to comprehend or like? The distance? The lack of displayed frustration?
Draco tended to copy his father in all of the most important ways, but in this he shared a trait with his mother: when he was annoyed he snapped and sneered, but when he was feeling resentful—an emotion that Astoria, perhaps wrongfully, associated with a more feminine nature—he certainly knew how to affect a subtle and punishing silence.
What a pissy trait, Astoria seethed, looking away.
And really, what good had it ever done Draco? It had certainly never encouraged her to like him any better. Perhaps Narcissa's time would have been better spent teaching her child not to make fun of other children? Had it ever occurred to her to check that little case of bad taste? No, of course it hadn't. For a woman with impeccable manners, she had certainly raised a beast of a son!
Incredibly, Astoria found herself rallying behind this notion, justifying the extent of her discomfort by encouraging her righteous anger. She raised her glass for another sip of the white table wine and discovered that it was empty.
Narcissa would certainly have no trouble ripping Astoria apart. It would be the easiest thing in the world—she was made of ludicrous edges and wild contradictions.
But what Narcissa didn't know was that Astoria had slept with her son and that was a trump card, wasn't it? Mrs. Malfoy might have an admirable amount of self-possession, but Astoria would always have the weird, disjointed memory of Draco's whimper-ey orgasm in her arsenal. If fate ever conspired to turn Narcissa Malfoy against her—and there was a real chance now that it would—Astoria would not be deprived the satisfaction of the last word.
For a moment, a swell of vindictive pride carried Astoria past better reason, but then the feeling gave way to an awkward disgust.
What are you doing?
Astoria barely knew Narcissa; she had no logical reason at all for disliking her. Why was she berating and plotting against a woman who barely knew her name? Narcissa had done nothing to provoke her—she had merely behaved with tact with and abstained from drunkenness. Surely those were still good things.
Draco, sighed the relentless inner voice that had dogged her all evening. It's Draco. Isn't it usually?
Astoria bristled, faintly uncomfortable with this realization.
No matter how much sway you have over him, you'll never mean more than his mother, the little voice insisted. You've been mentally punishing the woman who birthed him because you are too competitive and controlling to live.
Recoiling, Astoria forced herself to look anywhere but at Mrs. Malfoy. The very sight of her—so recently irritating—was now horrific beyond measure.
Lord, she was on a one way path to self-loathing, wasn't she?
Astoria strained her eyes in the direction of the tent's canvas ceiling, boring into it with such intensity that she almost expected the fabric to give way and reveal stars. Sick and twisted. Twisted and sick!
Her mind wasn't the only twisted thing—the seam running along the canvas ceiling was as crooked as her thoughts. Only it wasn't. Her vision was swaying.
You're drunk.
Astoria pushed her empty wine glass away and seized her water goblet. Contrary to her prior experiences with intoxication—whirlwinds of giddiness and regrettable jokes—she found herself in a state of unbearable melancholy.
"Mind your elbows!" whispered Cassandra's aunt rather loudly. She tapped her knife against Cassandra's plate.
Astoria turned to watch, struck by the bizarre notion that Cassandra was also suffering her way through dinner in an isolated bubble.
This aunt—a tall and droopy-faced woman of impressive age—was a perfect stranger. It was not the same relative that Astoria had met at Cassandra's farewell dinner. This woman was taller, more hunched-over, less foreboding; a chaperone, not a master.
Rigid with embarrassment, Cassandra yanked both of her arms off the table. Feeling Astoria's soporific gaze on the side of her face, she turned and sneered. "What?"
"Cassandra!" corrected the Dowager, positively trembling with mortification. "You are a guest! Mind your attitude!"
Seething with unspoken anger, Cassandra leaned back in her seat and glared insolently.
"But you look familiar," squinted the aunt.
It took Astoria a moment to realize that this comment was addressed to her.
"She's in the sisterhood," snapped Cassandra, clearly eager to minimize how much time Astoria spent speaking with her aunt. Perhaps she was afraid that the subject of her runaway uncle would reemerge? "The English chapter. You don't know her—you probably just saw her in the group photograph."
"Hmm," the aunt murmured, still squinting at Astoria's face. "Lestrange?"
Before Astoria could even respond, the woman produced a monocle from her Victorian-looking pockets. She leaned forward to peer, disturbing the butter dish with her elbow.
"Christ!" Cassandra snapped. "Yes, Auntie, I suppose so. Put that thing away!"
Astoria had witnessed several of Cassandra's livid explosions, but she had never seen her look so wrathful in public.
Good, thought Astoria smugly. Suffer. Lord knows I am.
"Cassandra, why not ask her for help?"
"Because I don't need help!" hissed Casandra. "It's nothing to do with her, Auntie! She's practically a junior member!"
"Nonsense!" the old woman cried. "It's your duty as Chapter President to put out a final newsletter and you've no one to help you!"
Astoria blinked, catching just enough of the gist of their conversation to know that she wanted no part of what Cassandra's aunt was suggesting.
It was hardly Astoria's fault that Cassandra had left the country without finishing up her duties for the Sisterhood. The last thing she wanted was to be commissioned to fill out paperwork while she was on vacation.
"But just think—"
"Enough!" Cassandra snapped, tugging her aunt's monocle right out of her gloved hand.
Eager to avoid further insistence on behalf of the Eastern Star, Astoria got up and followed several gentleman toward the path. Dinner was winding down; two or three grey haired fellows were already smoking cigars near the rosebushes.
The evening was still balmy, but the breeze coming off the ocean was enough to make Astoria wrap her arms around her chest. She leaned against a hedge and peered back into the fairy-lit tent. Maudlin was still drinking wine and talking to anyone who would listen—he did not seem to realize that she had left. Meanwhile, a little boy that Astoria did not recognize—no older than eight—was running along the beach in utter ecstasy. He had foreign look about him: not a Mendel, a Yaxley, or a Rowle. The sound of his effortless joy made her eyes prickle.
Eager to avoid crying, she looked up at the sky, tracing the line where the stars began to fade into the boiled orange smog of the casinos and restaurants on the other side of the hill. So many sources of amusement in the world; she felt as far away from them all as the moon.
She had done her best to avoid looking at Draco all night, but now, partially obscured by shadow, she finally allowed herself to glance at him. To her immense surprise, he was already leaning about in his seat, peering sideways in the direction of the garden that Astoria had just slipped off into. She registered this observation with excitement—he was obviously keeping track of her. Then, too late, she realized that he might actually succeed in spotting her.
Before she could make up her mind whether to slip off into the hedges or not, Astoria's eyes met his. Jolting forcibly, she looked away.
Walk up the path, thought Astoria at once. If he follows you, you have permission to like him—just a little bit.
This was nonsense bargaining; ultimately it meant nothing. But she needed a sense of purpose, so she turned about and resolutely began to retrace the limestone path.
What did it even matter? Her business with Draco was maddeningly unfinished, but it was also awkward. Perhaps she didn't even want to talk to him? You don't want this, she found herself thinking. You don't want any of it.
The sound of somebody else crunching up the walk behind her was enough to send her heart slamming into her throat, anyway. A hand closed around her arm; she twisted and feigned surprise at the sight of Draco's white blonde head.
Elation mixed with terror in her chest.
"What's happening?" Astoria muttered, regretting the wine now more than ever.
"I'm trying to have a word with you," hissed Malfoy, sounding much angrier than she'd expected.
He wheeled her about until they were on the other side of a low Hawthorne hedge. This garden bordered a courtyard—it was eerily open and silent, but the stones gave every impression of encouraging echoes.
"What do you want?" Astoria mumbled, tongue-thick with indecision. A part of her literally wanted to throw herself on top of him, but another, equally powerful instinct seemed to be urging her to yank his hair out as punishment for causing her so much inner turmoil.
"What do I want?" he repeated wrathfully. "You've been twisting your fingers and staring at me all day! You've obviously got something to say, so say it, Greengrass!"
Astoria blinked, taken aback. This was not what she had been expecting. Wasn't he the one chasing her? She had anticipated smugness from him; she had even fearfully predicted what the self-disgusted silence of his possible rejection would be like. These were the outcomes she was prepared for. She had no idea what to do with trembling white fury. Not only was it unexpected, it was mortifying.
Draco was still holding her wrist, but his grasp was just a little too rough to be pleasant.
"You're hurting me," said Astoria, surprised by how emotionless her voice sounded.
Draco released her immediately. To his credit, the suggestion that he was behaving like a barbarian made him self-conscious. He flushed crimson.
"Fine!" he sneered nasally. "There. I'll never touch you again! You're safe."
Was he frustrated with himself for accidentally kissing her earlier? That was nothing—no one had even seen him do it. Or did he think that it was Astoria's intention to reject him? Could that be the source of his hostility?
And that was what she was planning to do, wasn't it? She'd spent all morning plotting ways to keep him quiet, ways to remove herself without causing offense. Only now, after an evening of silence, it was very obvious that she did not want to send him away at all.
"I like it when you touch me," said Astoria quietly, figuring there was nothing else for it.
The effect of these words was immediate and perplexing. Draco's scowl slipped, but he did not seem to know what to do with his face. A haunting softness flickered just behind his features, held at bay by wariness. She had never seen him so still; only his eyes were moving. They were probing her sharply—drawn inward, terrified of a punch line.
"Yeah?" he sniffed, looking bizarrely stoic in the moonlight.
"I'll let it happen again if you don't make a show out of it," she admitted.
"Alright," he sniffed again, much too quickly.
Astoria blinked. Was that it? She had hoped the offer would appeal to him, but she'd expected him to taunt her a bit before admitting it—anything to save a little face. Was this actually happening?
"You can't tell Maudlin," she whispered.
Draco's carefully neutral expression twisted and contracted. His nastiness returned and redoubled.
"Why's that?" he sneered.
"You know why," Astoria scoffed.
She had just outright offered to sleep with him—was he really going harp on about Maudlin? For that matter, why wasn't he reacting the way he should? Even if he didn't fancy her enough to be flustered, from a purely hormonal standpoint, shouldn't he be a least a little bit excited?
"Yeah," scowled Malfoy, twitching his weight from foot to foot. "I expect I do."
"You've already had plenty of chances to say something to him and you didn't," countered Astoria.
"Only because I could tell you wanted me to keep my mouth shut," hissed Draco. "Why is that?"
His voice was beginning to take on a raw, throaty quality that Astoria recognized at once. It was not a tone that he tended to use when he was fully in control of his emotions; it was a harbinger of chaos.
"Because Maudlin's a winy brat!" Astoria burst, irrationally disappointed. "You do realize he'd probably kick you out? Is that what you want? What is wrong with you?"
As if in answer to this question, Draco let out a deeply suspicious and very nasal snarl.
"Why give him a reason to throw a fit?" Astoria sneered, absolutely baffled. "Is that what gets your rocks off?"
"Why not?" seethed Draco. "Afraid he'll stop hollering your name every time he gets drunk? I don't need him—neither do you!"
Astoria pulled back warily. She had never known Draco to publicly humiliate himself on purpose. Furthermore, she was positive that he would rather not tell Lucius that he was sleeping with Belladonna's niece, so what was happening here? Everything about her logic ought to be appealing to him.
Did he honestly think that she was secretly in love Maudlin? Astoria was so certain that she had never acted in way to support this idea that it was almost comical to consider.
Then again, Malfoy had a queer way of talking sometimes—as though he privately believed that most people associated love and loyalty with money. He obviously knew that real sentiment existed—he occasionally betrayed the fact that he had some of his own—but he clearly considered actual attachment to be a rarity. Seen in this brutal light, his paranoia made a kind of very sad sense.
It didn't matter if Astoria actually liked Maudlin. Draco would always consider him a threat—because he was handsome, because he had known Astoria for a long time, but primarily because he came from the same kind of extreme wealth that Draco relied on as an advantage.
Bottomless fortune had secured Draco a place on the Slytherin quidditch team and it had ensured his ability to take revenge against Hagrid, but it was of almost no use to him here. As long as there was another boy with an equal capacity for bribery stumbling around the grounds—a prettier and stupider one at that—he would never truly be at ease.
He didn't care about lying to Maudlin—this wasn't a moral issue—he was afraid that, by staying silent, he would be giving Astoria a chance to trade up behind his back. And the idea of being overlooked for Maudlin clearly pained him—he was physically cringing beneath his sneer. For just a second, his eyes seemed to implore her.
Astoria's hand twitched but she could not quite bring herself to touch him. Perhaps this was because his vulnerability had the opposite effect of what vulnerability strictly should: it seemed to lend his insecurity an aspect of something sinister. Even in the lantern-glow, Draco bore far too much resemblance to his father for Astoria to entirely dismiss the notion that he was potentially dangerous. Jealousy was always an ugly thing, but it manifested in Draco with a particular strength. His fear of betrayal was misplaced—Astoria did not want Maudlin—but it wasn't wholly unmerited, was it?
A voice of caution went off in Astoria's ear: What are you doing? Stop this now.
Despite the fact that Astoria's pulse quickened whenever Draco entered a room, she knew that she could never really allow herself to be with him. If she asked Draco to soften for her, to show her some kind of loyalty—the two emotions that he hoarded the most covetously within himself—she would be risking scorched earth when she eventually wronged him.
And somehow she would. In her heart of hearts, Astoria already knew that she was bound to. In the end, it would not be Elise, or her father or any of the other victims on her long list of plots who would end up striking out against her. It would be Draco. This was the plot that she would bungle.
Because you like him. You do. You're actually kind of obsessed with him. He's a wretched little bully and all wrong for you, but there it is.
Astoria froze. She did not know what to do with this revelation. She did not feel soft or excited, or any of the other things that she knew that she was supposed to feel. The truth did not make her braver. If anything, it finally achieved what five years of Draco's haughty bragging had failed to do: she was afraid of him at last.
A wild desire to run reached up and caught her by the throat. Astoria pushed away from the hedge, angling her body toward the garden. Maudlin was probably still in the tent. She could leave Draco here and rejoin him—she could forget all about this and spend the rest of the summer contentedly, never questioning her own self-worth…
Draco stepped sideways to cut her off, suddenly alarmed.
"Wait—fuck! I mean, fine. I'll do it," he sneered, frustrated and fumbling. "I don't even care. What does it matter? But if you think you can sneak around with me and then have-off with bloody Mendel—"
Could she have predicted the cause of Draco's inner turmoil with more accuracy? No, not without actually reading his mind.
"I don't want anybody else," Astoria frowned.
She was staring at his coat buttons—not out of modestly, but in contemplation. It was true: she did not currently want anybody else as much as she wanted Malfoy. God, but wasn't that a humiliating revelation!
A single glance at Draco's face revealed that something had landed with a massive impact. He was soft, transfixed; he sniffed sharply, trying to recover himself.
I don't want anybody else.
Finally realizing how this sounded, Astoria experienced a belated rush of pure fire. It was perfectly true, but she would never have said it if she had been thinking properly.
"I mean, if it's too much of a bother then forget it," Astoria snapped, seized by an inexplicable impulse to backtrack. To refute any evidence that they were exclusive, that she wanted to be his girlfriend—that she cared at all.
"What do you mean?" sneered Draco regretfully.
Determined to be cruel, Astoria opened her mouth and lost her nerve. Draco's expression was already mostly a grimace and there was knot in her own throat.
"The idea of me with Maudlin bothers you?" she sniffed.
"Obviously," Draco scowled back twitchily.
Astoria sucked in a shaky breath. "Why?"
It was the most dangerous question she could have possibly asked—this, above all other things, was the topic that she needed to avoid if she wanted to have her cake and eat it too. She didn't even want to hear the answer—she'd already known it for ages. Except she did want to make him say it. She wanted to hear him admit it out loud. And then, ideally, she wanted him to forget that he'd told her.
Draco stared, torn between annoyance and self-consciousness. "You know why," he sneered evasively.
"Not really, no," Astoria shrugged stubbornly.
"What do you want me to say?" he hissed, becoming slightly angry again.
"I don't know," Astoria relented.
"I'm in fucking Monaco, Astoria—I'm supposed to be in Italy," he persisted, uncomfortably aware that he had missed the mark somewhere. "What do you care, anyway?"
Astoria watched him fume. Nobody else ever reacted to her displeasure this way—indeed, it was a rare occasion that anybody else even noticed that she had a problem. The idea that Malfoy was becoming stuffy and self-righteous because of her was nothing less than a drug. She felt like a spoiled child and she secretly liked it.
"You want me to get sentimental?" he jeered, turning pink. His faced twitched into a very half-hearted sneer. "You'd hate it. That sort of thing makes you itch—"
Astoria let out a disgruntled scoff and contemplated rejoining the party guests on the lime walk.
Worlds were failing him and he knew it. Draco ran an agitated hand through his hair and kissed her jaw; softly, stubbornly. Astoria closed her eyes, trying not to wonder if feelings really did make her itch.
It was a strange sensation, just letting Draco touch her. He waited to see how she would react; she could feel the baited hitch of his breath against her neck. His lips twitched toward her mouth.
It was altogether different than it had been the night before—less crazed, more conscious. She could feel his awareness: of her body, her skin, her hair. Even her reaction to him was worth paying attention to.
Every atom of her being seemed to please him. Or at the very least fascinate him. So much so that his touch was nearly wary, almost apologetic. He coveted her, and he was conscious enough to know that she knew it now, too.
And he was right. It was too soft—there was too much feeling in it. It did make her itch.
Maudlin's voice was drawing near again. Astoria turned her head, breaking contact with Draco's mouth. She felt light-headed. Her heart was banging a little too hard, starved for oxygen.
"Find me later," she whispered quietly.
0o0
YOU GUYS. I've had the most disgusting cold. I'm so sorry this took so long. (Seriously, someone near my house must have unleashed a medieval plague of YORE. First it was a cold, then it was flu. Then it was a flu-cold. I HAD A FOLD.)
In any case, I know this was a bit of an introspective chapter—most of the action literally took place in Astoria's head over the course of about four hours. I get the feeling that some people love these sort of posts and other people loathe them, but this chapter FELT like the natural place for a turning point in the plot and I couldn't think of any way to use it without getting a little dreamy. (Essentially, the rest of the story doesn't make sense unless we know that Astoria does like Draco, and I don't think her growing obsession with him has been fully dealt with.) I promise that we'll move out of Astoria's head a little and back into regular action in the next post, though—more than one day might even pass! WHO KNOWS?
As always, your reviews make my day!