Chapter Sixty Six
Lavender Crush
0o0
"Let's go swimming!" declared Maudlin, who was by now drunk enough to leap thoughtlessly into the sea. "God I hate this crowd—two perfect strangers have already asked me what I'm doing next year. And can't you feel how warm the breeze is?"
Luc tore himself away from Élise to hoot his consent, but Astoria (who could not pretend to be anything other than exhausted) glanced shiftily toward the house and offered no comment.
They were still in the garden. A delicate dew had descended, but it was offset by a draft of stiflingly hot air sweeping in over the hills. Bands of crickets hummed in the bushes: their sound struck Astoria as both melodious and calming. After an unduly stressful evening, she wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep like she had never slept before.
She was not entirely alone in this feeling, either—the oldest and most responsible of Aston's guests were already popping up between the hedgerows like unexpected ghosts, retracing the path toward the waiting row of floos inside. But down in the cove, a continuing roar of sound indicated that the bulk of the party was still very active. Too early to slip off to bed unnoticed...
"Your beach is crawling with foreigners," snorted Alec. "I refuse to go skinny dipping in front of the British Ministry."
"Then let's cut around through the woods," supplied Maudlin, fishing for a solution. "There's water access there—Astoria knows, I took her earlier."
"Or do I...?" murmured Alec, perhaps rethinking the hilarity of a full moon.
"Wait!" startled Astoria. "To that cave you mean? It's at the bottom of a thirty foot drop."
"There's a path," scoffed Maudlin. "We managed it."
"A goat path," Astoria insisted, still eyeing the house. "It's dark now. Someone will fall."
Draco snorted his approval, clearly keen to avoid a brush with death, but Astoria resisted the urge to glance at him for further support. She did not know if she could trust her expression and a part of her was very afraid that Maudlin would notice.
"What were you two doing alone in a cave?" demanded Luc. "Treasure hunting?"
He turned to squint at Astoria suspiciously. She met his gaze. If he was uncomfortable with the notion of Maudlin spending time alone with girls so soon after his break up, she wanted to head him off at the pass, but Maudlin beat her to the punch before she could get so much as a word in.
"Nothing," he sneered, too fast and too defensively. "What did you do today? We never even saw you."
"Yeah, well," leered Luc, running a finger under Élise's chin, "no apologies for that."
Despite all the attention she was receiving, Élise's mind was clearly elsewhere. With her eyes cast toward the beach, she did not even seem to notice that Luc was touching her until his fiddling fingers finally forced her to face him. Swift as lightning, she knocked his hand away.
"There's nobody inside the house," Élise raised a pale wrist and motioned toward the shadowy second floor, "let's go there."
Astoria peered warily up at the row of darkened windows. She did not know if Élise's motivation for slipping away stemmed from a desire to avoid George (a reasonable plot), or to corner Astoria alone for a conference, but the latter was something she wished to avoid.
"I suppose," Maudlin relented, plainly disappointed. "Maybe one of the balconies..."
It was decided. They reentered the house behind several other guests and then waited about in the hall for Maudlin, who promptly slipped off to search for an elf with an unopened bottle of wine.
The hot breeze continued to gutter the drapes like candle fire. Astoria sat down on the bottom step of the main staircase and stared off at the nearest row of fireplaces. Several departing guests had formed a small congregation there. An old witch was reading the dates on a tapestry; a portly gentleman—Mr. Bonaccord, in fact—was fiddling suspiciously with a timepiece on the mantle. Even as Astoria watched, he picked the clock up and eyed the stamp on the back approvingly.
A robber in the making, she thought, trying not to smirk.
Closer to the terrace, Cassandra was still arguing with her elderly aunt. More curious to know what they were bickering about than she was to witness a theft, Astoria ceased spying on Bonaccord and leaned around Alec's legs to eavesdrop.
"...none of your business!" she heard Cassandra hiss. "...because I already have it in hand... there's no one... I most certainly will not!"
Interesting.
For the most part, Cassandra behaved to the very letter of correctness in public. Her aunt—close to eighty and obviously something of an eccentric—would have to work hard to find a reason to police her niece's social tact. So what on Earth were they be fighting about? Astoria's mind sparked with dramatic possibilities.
"Got it!" announced Maudlin, reappearing though one of the closed-off living rooms. "Everybody move before Cassandra spots us."
Astoria got to her feet, privately certain that Cassandra already had spotted them, but felt no inclination to seek out their company.
The marble halls above glowed like bone marrow in the moonlight and faded into spooky, black obscurity on either end. After hours of listening to surf pound the beach, the immense silence of vaulted stone struck Astoria as slightly chilly and foreboding. She clung to the group until they emerged through a set of doors onto the balcony they had eaten lunch on earlier. Heat—briefly held at bay by the house's shuttered vastness—returned with all of the intensity of a child's fever.
The view here was familiar, but significantly altered by nightfall: stars pricked the sky overhead and the hazy orange lights of Monte Carlo glowed invitingly across the bay. One sniff of the air (scented with a mixture of brine and night jasmine) was enough to make Astoria understand why Maudlin had not wanted to sit indoors: it was too stifling inside—there was no sense of movement.
Her eyes immediately shot toward the expanse of ocean that stretched along the horizon. Something about the sight made her feel looser, less tired. For a long minute, she allowed herself to think about nothing but the vast expanse of water in front of her—of all the foreign lands that it touched. The sight made her feel introspective: she knew that she did not want to be cooped up at home with Belladonna, but the possibility of otherness—of somewhere else—was just appealing enough to convince her that she didn't really want to be here, either.
Still, there was no point in being a malcontent. She steeled herself, trying to embrace what she had while she had it. So what if Malfoy was an ass? Nobody here thought so. And so what if Maudlin was a petulant brat? Surely she hadn't expected that much to change?
Only one worry refused to be ignored: in the the bright moonlight, it was impossible not to notice Élise's hostile glare.
"Who was that woman—the one Cassandra came with?" Astoria asked, determined to prevent a public confrontation if she could.
"The aunt?" scoffed Maudlin. "That's Merrily Rowle. Nut case. Emilie once told me that she paints birds in the bath."
"Birds taking a bath?" wondered Luc.
"No, from the bath," Maudlin clarified, going in for a swig off his wine bottle. "She spends half of her time in bathwater these days. Apparently she used to be quite the socialite. Posed for all the magazines, you know. But then her husband ran off and she stopped making sense altogether. Somebody taste this—am I drinking a Malbec?"
Astoria mulled this new information over quietly, trying to factor Merrily's supposed madness into the argument that she had witnessed. The pieces stubbornly refused to join together.
"She married a Rowle?" Astoria pressed.
"No," frowned Maudlin. "She must have switched back to her maiden name. Merrily's husband was a foreigner. Russian maybe? I don't know, it was after the war..."
Élise seized the bottle from Maudlin and tilted it to her lips.
"It's a Merlot," she scoffed imperiously, "not a Malbec. I'd bet anything. You obviously have no taste for red wine."
"Because you do?" muttered Maudlin resentfully, jerking the bottle back. "Veela trash..."
A curious moment of silence descended: a bubble of tension so fragile that a single word could and would pop it. Élise glared furiously. Maudlin squinted resentfully. For fifteen glorious seconds, Astoria stared at the rippling surface of the ocean, trying to transmute every ounce of logic that she possessed into a single, cunning act.
If she wanted to take control of the moment before Élise did, now was the time. Élise should not be allowed to strike first—Astoria knew that. She was too impulsive, too dangerous to take the lead. The likelihood of an incriminating retort seemed immense. Besides, Élise wanted a word alone with Astoria anyway—it was written all over her spun-sugar face. Perhaps the smartest thing was just to isolate her? Fight with her in private and then slip off to bed.
"You're an ass, Maudlin, you know that?" sneered Astoria, reclaiming her feet.
With an uncomfortable shiver of astonishment, Maudlin straightened up.
"Sorry?" he scoffed, positive that he must have misunderstood her.
"I need a bathroom," Astoria persisted, ignoring the looks of mingled surprise coming from every direction. "Élise?"
"You're taking her side?" spluttered Maudlin. "Astoria! You're joking—"
"Steady on!" cracked Luc, looking extremely bothered. "You're the one running your mouth! Nobody else is tossing insults around..."
"It's my house!" roared Maudlin.
White lipped and seething, Élise got up and followed Astoria through the patio doors.
"That simpering, puffed-up weasel!" she hissed, grabbing Astoria by the arm.
"Come on!" Astoria pleaded, using her own body as leverage to yank Élise away from the door. They stumbled along the hallway, tumbling in the familiar direction of their guest wing.
Élise pulled up short and snarled, "Get off!"
"Not until you remember where you are!" Astoria snapped. "Stop instigating!"
"Why?" Élise jeered nastily. "Am I making you nervous? You don't like watching your favorite boy dance?"
"You are making me nervous—this isn't a game!" Astoria hissed through her teeth. "Do you understand what I will do to you if you fuck this up? You will not be welcome here!"
Élise wrenched away. Her silvery hair spilled across her face like moon-dazzled milk. For a long moment, they glared hatefully at each other; sussing one another up, searching for weaknesses.
"Do your worst," Élise sneered, squaring her shoulders. "Luc is half in love with me already and the truth will only make you look bad."
"I'll tell my father how desperate you are," Astoria hissed, certain that, for whatever reason, this was Élise's Achilles heel. "I'm his daughter—he'll forgive me, but he'll think you're pathetic!"
"An he'll think you're a psychopath!" Élise bit back, plainly nettled and failing to disguise it. "George doesn't care, anyway! He hasn't talked to me once—all he does is fuss over that wrinkled secretary he brought with him. Fucking ingrate—I'm nineteen years old and on the cover of half his wife's fashion magazines! Who does he think he is?"
"Of course he cares!" insisted Astoria desperately, finally beginning to understand that Élise was as much a loaded weapon as she was a woman. "He's done nothing but watch you all night!"
Élise eyelashes fluttered uncertainly and her expression flickered; a visual manifestation of vanity and spite fighting for supremacy over logic.
"Prove it!" she spat, positively shuddering.
Astoria clicked her teeth and cast her eyes upward, thinking hard. If only her father had said something—a direct quote that she could spin to her advantage now. Only he hadn't—he'd simply frowned unhappily and watched Élise flirt with Luc from a distance.
The sound of muffled voices and the heavy thunk of the patio door slamming open brought Astoria's eyes back down to ground-level. Alec, Luc and Maudlin were coming in, still arguing bitterly. But Draco was already standing against the inside of the door, quietly watching them.
With a jolt, Astoria wondered how long he had been in the hall. Too long, if his sly, calculating expression was anything to go by.
"Astoria!" hollered Maudlin, whipping a formidable hand up in front of Luc's face to silence him. "If you want to say goodnight to your father, now is the time! Unless you'd rather not—I'll just tell him you're in the loo with a half-breed and couldn't be bothered!"
Swearing under her breath, Astoria peeled away from Élise and surged down the stairs.
"I'm right!" pleaded Maudlin as she stormed past him. "You know I am!"
Downstairs, a good deal of the company had trickled up the path from the beach. Most were wandering the garden, where they'd begun the process of resuscitating the bar. Cassandra was gone, but both Alistair and Roland Yaxley were still lingering on the grass, chatting leisurely with Aston and half a dozen British citizens—including Lucius Malfoy.
As eager to avoid their colony of villainy as she was to outstrip Maudlin, Astoria skirted the hedgerows and cast a poorly focused eye about for her father. Her limbs were shaking—partly because confrontation had a tendency to rattle her, but mostly because the situation with Élise had officially spiraled out of her control. Something had to be done and soon. If that meant provoking George—harassing or otherwise tricking him into action—Astoria suddenly felt herself very equal to the task.
"Father!" she exhaled warmly, finally spotting the shape of his eager face in the crowd. He was standing between a pair French-speaking twins—both of them male, vividly red-headed and no older than thirty.
"Darling!" effused George in rapid French, holding an arm out to her. "Have you met the Flamels? They're the latest dynamic duo to take a crack at the French Ministry building—both architects. You've got these gentleman to thank for this year's Minister's ball. Albert and Louis—have either of you met my daughter, Astoria?"
Albert and Louis both turned to flash Astoria a set of identical, toothy grins.
Astoria shook hands, marveling at the sharpness of the twins' features. With hair the color of ripe strawberries and eyes darker than coffee, they more closely resembled story-book imps than professional men. She waited impatiently for them to lose interest in her—nodding along thoughtlessly. Then, at the first opportunity, she pounced.
"Where's Mafalda gone?" she whispered in English, leaning further into the radius of her father's cologne. "Has she left?"
Having only one mistress to contend with would certainly make the task of leading her father down the proverbial garden path that much easier. Astoria silently prayed that Mafalda had returned to town.
"Refreshing her drink, I expect," answered George. "Have you lost Maudlin? I thought I saw him near the terrace."
He spoke with an accented lilt that Astoria had not heard in ages. Despite the fact that he was always a little uncomfortable in Aston's presence, her father had nevertheless been born and educated in France. He was very much in his natural element—if she wanted to rattle him, she would have to be direct.
"He's with Luc," insisted Astoria, adding somewhat spitefully, "and Élise."
"Oh?" quirked George. His hand twitched toward his mouth for an instinctive sip of gin. "Yes, her. That must have been somewhat shocking for you. I hope you weren't upset..."
Astoria blinked, trying to decide if her father was alluding to his affair with Élise—and the corresponding switch of partners that had taken place afterwards—out loud in front of strangers. She had no idea if Albert and Louis spoke English but, considering their government contracts, she strongly suspected they might.
"Shocked?" Astoria repeated dubiously, tasting the word in her mouth. No, she wasn't shocked.
"I only mean to say that you must not have expected—ah!" he broke off, his eyes alighting on something over Astoria's shoulder. "Malfoy!"
Astoria pivoted, bracing herself for the ominous impact of Lucius's Malfoy's shadow, but it was only Draco and he was alone.
"Sir," drawled Draco smoothly.
Astoria waited, certain he would carry on elsewhere, but he came to a leisurely stop. This was his destination? And had he just called her father 'Sir'? A new and unexpected fear began to blossom in her chest. Draco never went out of his way to speak to George—and he could barely be counted on to address his professors politely, let alone itinerant lawyers. What was he doing?
"We were just discussing your new school friends," continued George, regaining composure with an affable—almost foolish—ease. "What a load of excitement they must have caused on the grounds this year!"
"Not especially," Draco drawled. "Hogwarts has a way familiarizing ridiculous things. Nothing short of a murder excites us anymore."
Astoria's suspicions sharpened. She cocked her head sideways, no longer even pretending to look elsewhere. Draco was smiling and his tone, though still characteristically snide, had an edge of indulgence to it that he usually reserved for the likes of Lucius or Cornelius Fudge.
"Weren't you with Maudlin?" snapped Astoria tensely, desperate to make him go away. "He's probably looking for you."
"Yeah," confirmed Draco, raising an suggestive eyebrow, "but we were disturbing Millefeuille and that Veela girl of his."
At the mention of Élise, a bolt of stubborn and discomforted emotion flashed across George's placid features.
"Oh, the model?" her father ventured, speaking into his glass, which he had subconsciously raised again. "What a funny pair they make."
"You think so?" remarked Draco, curling his lip. "Seems about right to me."
Merlin. He had heard Astoria upstairs in the hall, he must have. He knew that she was doing everything in her power to reroute her Father's attention onto Élise and he had come to stop her.
"Nonsense!" scoffed George. "That type of girl is never particular about anything—that's just their way. Anyone could have her..."
"If you say so," drawled Draco, still employing his weird, unctuous tone of camaraderie, "but I'd say she's spoken for."
"The poor boy has no idea what he's gotten himself into!" snapped George, endeavoring to look sympathetic.
"He's young, isn't he?" shrugged Draco. "I suppose she fancies him. There's my father—I should say goodnight."
Having dropped his final bomb, Malfoy turned on his heel toward the house. Astoria watched him go, half-blinded by shock. She had known that Draco would be against her plan with Élise from the start, but even Astoria—with her boundless capacity for suspicion—had not expected him to interfere so casually. Hadn't he just assured her that he would play nice less than an hour ago?
A weird thunder filled her ears. Without any idea what she was saying, she bid goodbye to George and darted out across the lawn, following Draco's blond head across the terrace and into the hall. She did not stop for anything, did not even bother to think about the fact that Lucius was still outside with Aston—it didn't matter where Draco was actually going as long as she caught up with him in time.
"Malfoy!" she hissed.
The sound of her voice—a raw, throaty rasp—was enough to visibly startle several guests, but Draco simply came to a stop near the foot of the stairs.
"You're welcome," he scoffed lazily.
"Excuse me?" Astoria snarled, too irritated to even court the possibility of confusion. "What was that?"
Malfoy paused, taken aback. His eyes flicked toward her livid face. Something close to irritation clouded his features.
"That was me doing you a favor," he said slowly.
"You don't get to decide that!" Astoria hissed. She poked him in the chest and, though smaller, still managed to force him up several steps.
"What, are you mad that I beat you to the punch?" scoffed Draco, plainly perplexed. "I knew there was something up with that Veela! I said so two days ago..."
"So what!" snapped Astoria. "That doesn't give you an excuse to spy on me in the halls!"
"Cute," sneered Draco, properly annoyed now. "Really nice, Greengrass. I just did more for you in one conversation than you've managed in a week—but go ahead and yell at me."
"I'm trying to get my father to shag the bloody Veela—not send her a wedding present!" Astoria snarled furiously. "You've messed everything up!"
"Really?" sneered Draco, but his expression was very much at odds with his tone. In fact, he was radiating triumphant skepticism. "Think about it. What will frustrate him more—an ex-whatever with a thing for him, or a half-breed that he can't have because he lost her to a boy half his age?"
Astoria paused, teetering on the verge of a breakdown.
"Your way wouldn't have worked," he persisted stubbornly. "I'd have told you that if you'd just admitted what you were up to in the first place!"
"No," Astoria mumbled, still afraid of being tricked, "now he'll think she's unavailable..."
"Good!" snapped Draco. "He doesn't actually like her—who would? It's all ego, Greengrass. You were just bothering him. Thanks to me, the stupid git will probably toss his hat back in the ring!"
Astoria ran a shaky hand through her hair. An aftermath of fear was still coursing through her veins in unwanted, shaky circuits. She no longer felt betrayed, but she was by no means thankful. She did feel something, though—something distinct that she could not seem to name. Exposed perhaps?
"I still don't get why," Draco needled, plainly frustrated. "My father won't fire him in the middle of a case. He's no fan of half-breeds, but he tolerates things. He'll look the other way unless it's obvious."
Astoria sniffed. Draco hesitated—his eyes darted toward the busy hall below. Angling for privacy, he gestured with his head and slouched up a few more steps.
"George would have to bring her out in public before it mattered," he continued bluntly, "and he won't do that, because your father is an idiot, but he's not dumb."
" I know!" Astoria snapped. "I don't care about about having him fired."
"What're you doing then?" sneered Draco.
"I don't know!" burst Astoria, shivering feverishly. "Maybe I just wanted to watch him suffer! Did you ever think of that?"
Astoria could tell by the look on his face that he hadn't—in fact, she could hardly even believe she'd said it. Far more disconcerting than Draco's surprise, however, was his thorough lack of immediate disgust. Far from disturbed, he almost looked relived.
Draco leaned back against the banister, bright-eyed and flushed. "Huh," he finally scoffed.
Astoria clenched her fists, positively quivering with guilt. After all, he should be disgusted—any good person would be. And yet, Astoria could not quite escape the satisfaction of having finally been heard. How many times had she tried to tell Maudlin about Élise?
"I'm a mess," Astoria choked wetly. "You know that, right?"
Draco's semi-startled gaze caught hers.
"Not really," he muttered awkwardly. "You could be worse."
The fact that his first instinct was to exonerate her—to somehow excuse her—only made her feel more wretched.
"How?" Astoria half cried.
Draco let out a hiss and thought for a second, plainly afraid that she would start weeping. With a surrendering shrug, he confessed, "I don't love my grandparents."
If he was trying to make her feel better, this was not the right way to go about it.
"That's different!" Astoria spluttered. But, almost irresistibly, she added, "Seriously?"
"I mean, I barely knew my father's parents—they died years ago," explained Draco. "But my mother's mother—Druella? Nothing. And my great-grandmother on that side? Even less."
He drew a hand through the air, as if to indicate a nullifying dash across the top-most branches of his family tree.
Astoria could not think of a single thing to say.
"Wait," she finally choked, "did you know her, though?"
"My great-grandmother? Yeah. We used to see her a few times a month," confirmed Draco heartlessly. "I skipped her funeral to go flying with Crabbe."
Astoria's eyes widened and her lip quivered, fighting back either a sob or a nervous laugh; she no longer knew which.
"Of course, mother thought I was too young for funerals, anyway," Draco went on, narrowing his eyes, "but even if she hadn't, I would've tried to get out of it."
"Why?" mouthed Astoria. "What did they do to you?"
"Nothing," admitted Draco, repressing a look of remembered distaste. "But my great grandmother was old. So old that just looking at her made people think about death. And Druella—haven't you ever met her? She's loud and incurably bossy. My parents were never loud, you know—the woman is frankly startling."
"Aren't you Druella's only grandson?" wondered Astoria, uncomfortably aware of how one-sided Draco's sentiment must be.
Unless her understanding of history was very much mistaken, Narcissa's sister Bellatrix had been imprisoned before she could have children. There was another sibling, too—the corners of her mind even supplied a name: Andromeda—who'd been school friends with Belladonna, but her aunt never talked about her. In fact, no one did, leaving Astoria to assume that the third sister probably hadn't married well—or else had forged ties with muggles.
Draco made a careless motion of assent.
"For God's sake!" she hissed. "Your grandmother probably thinks you're the second coming!"
"Yeah," shrugged Draco. "Probably."
Astoria swore.
"Like you have a leg to stand on," he sneered. "You'll never catch me torturing my father for fun!"
"Fine, but my thing is because my father neglects me—" Astoria protested, eager to make him understand, "—your thing is just sociopathic!"
"Yeah?" drawled Draco shamelessly. "You send your grandmother a letter a week, do you? Go to tea with her every Saturday?"
"Shut up!" Astoria stomped her foot. "Does your mother know that you hate Druella?"
"No," jolted Draco, finally betraying an appropriate sense of alarm. "Why the hell would I tell my mother?"
"Why would you tell me?" Astoria persisted, flabbergasted. "Don't tell anybody that—it's mental!"
A suspicious scuffle suddenly echoed off the vaulted ceiling; loud and uncomfortably close, shattering any illusion of privacy.
Startled, Astoria peered down the length of the hall. Near the far end, she could just make out the conjoined shapes Luc of Élise, who were making out so enthusiastically that their limbs appeared to be joined together.
"Élise's room is right next to mine," Astoria muttered, suddenly very tired again. "She walked in on me in the bath this morning. I'll probably have to listen to them all night."
The entire scenario was her own fault, of course, but the fact that she was responsible for it did almost nothing to curb her disgust.
"Stay with me," suggested Draco evenly. "I'm on the other side of the hall."
His expression was composed, but it flickered with underlying suggestion—and maybe even a little defiance. There was obviously a test hidden in his offer: he wanted to know how far he was allowed to push.
Astoria glanced nervously down the staircase. She surveyed the crowd; no Aston, no Maudlin. Neither of them had seen her follow Draco up the steps.
Terrible idea. Like handing an open purse to a pick-pocket. Go to bed.
Ignoring her own advice, Astoria nodded her consent and motioned for him to guide her.
Wordlessly, Draco stepped aside and followed her up the staircase. She could feel his silent presence behind her; oddly warm and a little bit furtive. They located his door and Astoria went inside first. The room was very dark, but she could still make out the outlines of furniture; the illuminated glow of the window behind the curtains, a writing desk. Maudlin had assigned him a much nicer room.
What does that mean? Astoria asked herself, peering about with an unusually focused eye. Why would he feel the need to show off?
Silence rang in her ears. She knew she ought to turn and face Draco, but she couldn't quite bring herself to do it. The power balance she had grown accustomed to was off. They were in his room, and she'd let him take her there. Factually speaking, Draco was bigger and probably also stronger than she was. Astoria wasn't afraid—but that didn't entirely prevent her from feeling vulnerable.
She tilted her head and was surprised to discover that he was already standing very close behind her. Astoria's shoulder brushed against his chest. She tried to turn toward him, but he was already on her. They stumbled a little. When Astoria's fingers found the front of his shirt, she heard his breath hitch.
He was obviously excited—flushed and, from what she could tell, already hard—almost a compliment, really, considering the fact that he had barely touched her. But he was also noticeably tense. Their last encounter had happened in a spur of the moment rush. It hadn't required (or indeed inspired) any artful prowess on his part. Whatever this was—calmer, more intentional and private—it carried all of the awkward pressure of a redemption round. She suddenly understood that he wasn't inherently graceless. He was anxious, in every sense of the word.
For some reason, this realization resonated like thunder inside her chest. She softened with an unexpected surge of sympathy. No matter how messy the first time had been, she felt no desire to make him suffer for it.
His mouth found hers; they fumbled backwards, a tangle of desperate lips and clutching hands.
"Do you hate me?" she whispered, breaking away. "Am I like your grandmother?"
She knew the question was a perverse one before it even left her lips, but she could not quite stop herself from asking it.
"What?" panted Draco sharply. She could almost hear the disturbed frown in his tone. "That's not—no..."
"Okay," Astoria muttered, letting him kiss her again.
The back of her legs bumped against his bed. Astoria instinctively struggled to kick off her shoes, but Malfoy was so intent on pushing her body onto the blankets that she fell back with one wedged sandal still on. He came down after her, knocking something off the dresser.
Astoria's eyes picked out the fallen object on the floor. It was a watch. Irresistibly, her mind conjured up a visual of Maudlin pacing (Time? TIME!) and she began to wonder if Draco was in the middle of a silent boycott on clocks. The thought amused her so much that she giggled.
"What?" muttered Draco, this time self consciously.
"Nothing," Astoria breathed into his shoulder.
Her fingers fumbled with his dinner coat. Draco's knee was between her legs, one hand indenting the mattress above her head, the other struggling with her tights. His body was slightly heavy, reassuring, attentive. The more Astoria rubbed against him, the less she thought. Period. She hooked her calf around his hip and helped him peel the stockings off. They came down, knickers and all. Her bare skin tingled in the chilly air.
At about the same time, something in her mind seemed to slip; a sticky gear, long out of sync, finally knocked into place.
Fuck it.
She pushed herself up onto her hands and pulled down her dress, wriggling the garment toward her hips. Ironically, despite the fact that she and Draco had already slept together, this was still the first time she'd ever stripped in front of him. The realization made her feel awkward. She tried to push the dress toward her ankles, but Draco's body was in the way. She settled for dragging his shirt out of his pants and halfway over his head.
Still half blinded by his collar, Draco hitched himself up so that her legs were around his waist again. She finished tugging his shirt off. The sudden sensation of his skin against the inside of her thighs went straight to her head, dialing back the volume of her mind to an easily ignored whine.
The volume of the outside world was less obliging: she could hear voices in the hallway again—Maudlin this time. He was still shouting. God, why was he always shouting?
Astoria turned her head, distracted, praying that he was on his way to bed. What if he decided to search for her—or, even worse, for Draco? He would certainly be in for an unpleasant surprise if he barged in on them...
"Don't," Draco murmured. She could feel his fingers on the side of her neck, her jaw. "It doesn't matter—"
Astoria squirmed, unpleasantly reminded of Luc's attempt to reclaim Élise's attention in the garden earlier that evening. She thought about the Veela-swift brutality of Élise's slap. Why didn't anybody ever pay attention to the right person?
"Just look at me..." muttered Draco, his breath gusting against her ear. Then, lower still: "Please."
Astoria tilted her face toward the sound of his voice. Maudlin continued to rant—but, for the first time ever, she gave herself permission to ignore him.
0o0
A yellow haze was just beginning to permeate her eyelashes when Astoria awoke the next morning. It was already warm and the air in the room was heavy with the scent of greenery; she caught a whiff of lavender on the pillowcase. For a long moment, she lay absolutely still, taking stock of every sensation: the soft, unfamiliar languor of her body; the steady and reassuring rhythm of Draco's breathing; her slow, sleepy pulse.
It was the first morning since leaving home that she had not woken up in a state of panic. Everything—from her heart to her bones—thanked her for it.
Gradually, however, reality began to permeate her daze: she was not in her own room and, for an aspiring alcoholic, Maudlin was a very early riser. They had fought the night before, which meant that there was already a good chance he was on the prowl. If she wanted to avoid lying, she really ought to return before he discovered that she was missing...
But Draco's arm was still draped across her chest, his fingers curled against her collar bone. As subtly as possible, Astoria began to feel around between the sheets, trying to locate her dress with her feet.
"Hmm?" Draco grunted, stirring slightly.
"Shh," Astoria whispered. "It's morning. I should go."
Spotting her dress, she reached over his sleeping body and tugged it into her grasp.
Still only half-conscious, Draco rolled over. Sensing her shadow, he reached blindly upward and trailed his hand through her hair. The touch was so soft that Astoria froze to watch him out of the corner of her eye. He thumbed the end of a loose lock and pressed it against his arm, perhaps comparing the color against his own. For two people with similar skin tones, they really did have wildly different shades of hair: Draco's particular white-blond reflected the light like fresh snow—Astoria's matte brown simply absorbed it.
Draco sucked in a satisfied, nasal shudder and his eyelids fluttered shut. His grip slackened and dropped away.
A frisson of joy and horror shocked Astoria into stillness. The gesture was clearly thoughtless—he wasn't even awake—but it still startled her. Friends did not stroke each other's hair that way. Even Theodore—the person she trusted the most in the world—wouldn't have done it. In a strange way, his simple hair fondling struck her as being more intimate than their shared nudity.
Astoria slid gracelessly out of bed and pulled her dress over her head. She turned to squint at Draco's sleepy outline. His eyes were still closed, his brow slightly creased—the only indication that he was aware of anything at all.
He's not your boyfriend, Astoria forced herself to remember. It only seems that way right now. Think about how you'll feel when you go home again.
Home again. The idea was like a gut-punch; it nearly knocked the breath out of her. What are you going to do when you go home? She couldn't hide this forever—she was lucky she'd managed it so far.
Astoria squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Later. She would figure it all out later, when she had to. She always did...
The hall outside his room was marginally brighter and cooler. It restored her to a sense of calm. Eager to avoid being seen, Astoria hoisted her sandals in her hands and jogged the length of purple carpet.
Her bedroom was exactly as she had left it, only tidier. House Elves had straightened up her luggage and made her bed; the sheets lay turned down, untouched and inviting. Suddenly a little afraid that this was the sort of thing the Mendel servants might report back to Aston, Astoria took the precaution of rumpling her pillows before ducking into the bathroom.
She unloaded both shoes under the tub (her clumsy toss earning a gong-like clang) and bent over turn on the tap. An early breakfast suited her right down to the ground. She was already hungry and she wanted an opportunity to assess Maudlin's behavior before Draco arrived. So far, in almost every regard, her morning was proceeding without a hitch—a rather shocking streak of luck considering her recent track record.
"Is Miss planning to do something particular with her hair?" shrilled a squeaky voice behind her. "Because Lavender is bringing nothing but her combs and pins."
Astoria shot up straight, spraying a handful of water across the bath mat.
Several feet away, a frail and very frightened elf stood shivering in the shadow of the sink.
"Oh, Miss!" the tiny thing pleaded. "I is sorry! I is not meaning to scare you!"
"S'alright," Astoria grunted, privately afraid the elf might drown itself if she said otherwise. "I just wasn't expecting..."
"Lavender, Miss," the elf edged forward. "Master Maudlin is sending me. I is thinking you knew I was coming."
"No," Astoria frowned. "He didn't say anything."
A dark thought occurred to her.
"Did he ask you to watch me?" she demanded.
"No!" winced Lavender, wringing her apron with her fragile hands. "I is doing hair, Miss! Just hair!"
"I—" Astoria paused, more confused than ever. "Are we going out today? Am I supposed to be dressing well?"
"He is only ordering me to help," answered Lavender primly. "He is not giving me any further instructions."
Seeing nothing else for it, Astoria waited for the elf to turn around and lay out her tools before quickly shedding her clothing and slipping into the bathwater. The soap was more familiar than than the one she'd used the day before—undoubtedly a brand that she had packed herself.
Several minutes and three savage brush pulls later, Astoria found herself fully dressed; her hair magically dry, trimmed and perfectly pinned. Lavender had made quick work of her and it was still the best that she had looked in ages.
"Miss is wanting lipstick for color," Lavender warned, tucking combs and irons into her pockets. "You is not sleeping enough."
Astoria's focus in the mirror shifted away from her own reflection to study the elf. For all of her slightly affected mannerisms (she was rather snobbish for a house elf) Lavender appeared to be quite young. Her beaky face was thin and taunt—quite the opposite of Bonky, who prowled Belladonna's halls wearing nothing but a potato sack and a scarf of his own jowls.
"There you are!" cried Maudlin robustly, causing Astoria her second jolt before breakfast. "I've been looking for you!"
Astoria pivoted, instinctively raising a hand to protect the delicate knot of hair at the base of her neck.
"Does that door even lock?" she sighed. "It's like I can't have a bath alone."
"Huh?" quirked Maudlin. "Oh!" He turned to study the doorknob and shrugged.
Astoria drummed her fingers against the sink. A tiny pop! near the radiator warned her that Lavender had vanished. They were alone.
"You sent your elf to dress me," accused Astoria. "Was I embarrassing you?"
"What?" demanded Maudlin, still distracted by the useless lock. "No, no! I just—I noticed that you didn't bring your aunt's. I thought you could use the help."
"I've never traveled with my aunt's elf," insisted Astoria suspiciously. "And you've never loaned me one."
"Really?" frowned Maudlin, bustling further into the room. "That mad! Well, in any case, you can have Lavender for now. She usually tends to my mother, but mother's spa prohibits personal staff. Something about 'embracing inner serenity through simplicity'."
He flashed a set of air quotes before checking the edge of the tub for moisture. His fingers came away damp, but he sat down anyway.
"You know, I'm not sure I caught the dates of your visit?" he continued. "Draco leaves this weekend. And Lord knows how long Alec will stay..."
"Till the end of the month," supplied Astoria tartly.
"Well, that should be fine," gusted Maudlin nervously, pawing his hands on his pants. "Mother won't be back until August."
Astoria stared at him, baffled and just a little annoyed.
"You're mad at me," he finally sighed. "You have been all week and I don't know why."
Astoria bit back a reflexive desire to respond affirmatively: 'yes'.
"Because of the thing with the Veela and the wine?" she snorted. "Maudlin, we both know you'll drink anything..."
"Just because I'll drink anything doesn't mean that I can't differentiate between the good and the bad!" Maudlin argued sharply. "In any case, that's not the point! Merlin— it's like I can't see ten feet in front of my own face, Astoria. Half the time I can't separate my friends from the people who hate me. Everything is a blur!"
"That's because you've been drunk since Paris," she deflected.
"Yeah," Maudlin allowed, staring evasively at the wall behind her. "You know, you of all people should understand—you're high-strung. The next time you get drunk, try staying that way. It's marvelous..."
He tapered off, looking very withdrawn and glum.
"Maudlin," Astoria began.
"I'm not trying to annoy you," he persisted quietly, finally meeting her eye. "I don't want to make you unhappy. I've just been so..." He paused, struggling for the right words.
This time it was Astoria who couldn't quite look at him. If she was being honest with herself, his drunkenness—although undoubtedly aggravating—was very much a scapegoat. The real problem was that Astoria had done nothing but deceive him since arriving. She'd lied to him about Élise, she'd lied to him about Draco—hell, she'd even lied to him about her wardrobe. And here she was, liable to keep on doing so for the foreseeable future. Her anger—if it could even be called that—was actually little more than misplaced guilt.
"It's fine," she whispered, surprised to hear her voice crack. "I'm not angry."
Maudlin's shoulders sagged with relief. He seemed to be on the edge of saying something else when a second loud pop! near the door drew his attention. Astoria turned to look as well. House Elves rarely ever made noise unless they were expected...
"What?" called Maudlin, failing to disguise the hard edge of his annoyance.
It was Lavender.
"Pardon," she squeaked, "but Miss is having a visitor."
"Really?" scoffed Maudlin incredulously. He shot a look at Astoria over his shoulder. "Who?"
"A Miss Cassandra Rowle," intoned Lavender. "I is telling her to wait in the library."
"Are you kidding me?" sneered Maudlin, bounding to his feet. "Is there some kind of solstice happening today? Why does nobody ever warn me?"
Lavender fixed Maudlin with a stern, almost insolent look. Then, having done her duty, she rather hilariously Disapparated without a word.
"I'm going to like her," Astoria smirked.
"Yeah?" snapped Maudlin. "Don't get too attached. I might still have to kill her off to give Rowle a convincing elf funeral!"
"For Merlin's sake," muttered Astoria, bending toward the mirror for one last look. "Are you coming?"
"Fuck no! Have at it—" Maudlin burst, raising both hands in surrender, "—she's all yours!"
0o0
Astoria found Cassandra waiting for her on a sofa in the first floor library. Dwarfed by the nearest table's giant bouquet of tea roses and dressed in a pale blue skirt-suit, she looked more prim and fox-like than ever. Behind her, the drapes had all been pulled back, revealing a surprising—but symbolically fitting—stripe of purple storm clouds in the distance. Meanwhile, in the foreground, a silver tea service glistened invitingly and a brown package, roughly the size of a human infant, rested on Cassandra's lap.
She looked up when Astoria entered, already glaring as though she wished the earth would swallow her whole.
"What's that?" Astoria demanded rudely, gesturing toward the suspicious package. "It can't be a bomb—the elves wouldn't have let you in if it was ticking."
"Hah!" projected Cassandra brightly, her brown eyes shining in a way that made Astoria's stomach churn. "It's for you!."
She tossed the heavy manila envelope—for that was what it was—onto the table, where it landed like a stone, rattling the china and loosening several of the tea rose's petals.
"Alright," Astoria twitched, "funny. Why don't you cut to the chase and tell me what's in it? You're obviously here because of it and I want to know where the ax is going to fall."
"Oh my God," moaned Casandra. "Right on you, if you don't shut up! Don't you realize that you never stop talking?"
"Sort of a funny sentiment from someone who came all this way to see me," Astoria snapped, approaching the table. An arrangement of muffins, pasty, and mini quiches abutted a fanned out display of fashion and business periodicals. None of it appealed to her while Cassandra was present.
"They're donation forms," explained Cassandra at last, bringing a teacup to her lips. "For the Sisters of the Eastern Star."
Astoria sloshed two fingers of tea into a cup and tossed it back like a shot.
"What's that got to do with me?" she sniffed stubbornly, eager to get on to her proper breakfast in a different room.
"You're still a member aren't you?" returned Cassandra slowly, adopting a very condescending drawl. "And I'm still president until the end of the summer—so like it or not, I'm calling on you for help."
"Ask Emilie," Astoria sniped. "I'm on vacation."
"Emilie's in Paris," hissed Cassandra, reaching her limit. "I'm here, so you'll just have to do."
"While we're on that subject, why are you here?" demanded Astoria insolently. "Why not go to Paris? Or London? Or wherever else your family has a house and leave me alone!"
"It's not my place to tell my great aunt where she should or shouldn't summer!" Cassandra snapped, the tremor of her irritation no longer even superficially disguised.
A silence descended. This was a load of crock and they both knew it. Cassandra was in Monaco because Roland Yaxley was in Monaco—end of story. For a moment, the truth of Cassandra's embarrassingly hopeful motive hung in the air between them like a lightning-rod.
"You don't even want my help," huffed Astoria, relying on nothing but fast conjecture. "Your great aunt put you up to it because she's a mad as a hatter!"
In the blink of an eye, Cassandra stiffened. The effect would have been one of bloodless rage if only she hadn't gone red in the face at the exact same moment.
"Who told you that?" she demanded, her voice low and rigidly controlled.
A rumble of fear warned Astoria to cover her bases.
"Nobody told me," she lied. "The woman wore a pince-nez and a pair of opera gloves to the beach!"
Cassandra's eyelashes fluttered and Astoria braced herself, privately certain that the time for a cat fight had finally come. But then, without warning, Cassandra slumped back against the couch and let out a long, defeated breath.
"Alright," she allowed regretfully, eyes still flickering. "Fine."
The sudden humanization of Cassandra's features was unnerving. Astoria knew all about mad aunts—they were a bread and butter staple in her own home. She began to feel her first pangs of regret.
"But since you've worked it all out for yourself, you must also realize that I'm not leaving here until you take that envelope and agree to a schedule," concluded Cassandra crisply, finishing off her tea.
"Donation letters?" Astoria finally relented. "I don't even know what you want me to do with them. Keep track of the money?"
"Spoken like a true amateur bookie!" laughed Casandra coldly. "Wouldn't that be fitting? No, I want you to write thank you letters. One for each benefactor, ideally personalized—but don't get imaginative. I hate to think what your idea of flattery looks like."
"There's got to be a hundred forms in there!" Astoria protested hotly. "You expect me to write a different note for each?"
"Use magic," Cassandra shrugged. She put her empty tea cup down, stood up and trod on Astoria's foot—hard and very much on purpose.
"I can't use magic!" Astoria snapped, stifling a well-merited grimace even as her foot ached. "I'm underage."
Cassandra already knew this, but she still managed to force her wicked grin into a polite, apologetic smile.
"Then I suppose you'll be doing them by hand." She paused and frowned. "You can spell, can't you?"
"Alright, enough!" Astoria hissed. "You handle the letters—it'll take me four days to do what you could get done in ten minutes. Give me something else to do."
"Hmm," Cassandra mused, running her hand over the display of magazines beside the untouched breakfast tray (apparently neither of them were comfortable enough to eat). "No. They're mostly English families—I'm sure they'll appreciate a native Sister's signature."
She flipped open the thickest periodical and began to scan the index. Astoria looked on in wonder. What was she doing—checking up on the fall line? Couldn't she do that at home? Emilie might be in Paris, but surely there was someone else more suited to the task perusing the news with her?
"They've printed the pictures from the minister's ball," Cassandra continued distractedly, ignoring Astoria's glower. "I don't know why I even bother looking—they never mention me..."
Then don't, thought Astoria savagely.
"Here, see!" she flourished the first two-page spread in Astoria's direction. "Not a single picture of me, but three of Luc's Veela girl. Absolutely disgraceful..."
Against her better judgement, Astoria inclined her head to have a better look. She recognized the navy carpet and the golden filaments at once—Draco had bled all over them. As for Élise, she appeared just as magnificent in print as she did in life; an impossible confluence of fluid motion and moon-struck lighting. Without meaning to, Cassandra and Astoria both snorted in unison.
Cassandra scowled at this bit of shared synergy and turned another page. After only a cursory scan of the photographs, she let out a second sound of bitter irritation. This time Astoria did not join her.
"Classic!" snapped Cassandra, tapping the offending page so hard that she indented the paper with her perfectly rounded fingernail. "You left your own country less than a week ago, and there you bloody well are!"
She was correct. There, in the middle-most photograph, cushioned between Maudlin's and Draco's masked faces, stood Astoria's photographic image.
Astoria was almost too stunned to retort. Appearing in a fashion magazine was something of a shallow childhood dream. Even now, in Cassandra's stepping radius, she could not prevent a flush of shameless satisfaction from mounting her cheeks. It wasn't even a bad picture! Her mask concealed the fact that she had been drinking and her robes were a vision—flaring like blood in the metallic cast of so much candlelight. But the longer she looked, the more Astoria's triumph faded to uneasiness.
Perhaps the old saying was true: a picture really was worth a thousand words and this one was speaking volumes. On the right, Maudlin appeared to be sneaking a sip of champagne over and over again in miniature. Draco, bored and contemptuous, stood at a hovering angle behind Astoria's body; his tiny photographic eyes darted compulsively toward her tiny photographic face. And Astoria—although the camera did not show it—was plainly fixated on the picture gallery. Exactly where Élise had spent the bulk of her evening...
"I'm between Maudlin and Draco," Astoria finally ventured, eager to shove the magazine out of sight. "That's the only reason my photograph was used."
"I see that," snapped Cassandra. Bending the page at an angle, she read the caption out loud, "On the left: Maudlin Mendel and unknown date (Lestrange?)."
"He wasn't even my date," Astoria protested, knowing it wouldn't help. "The writer just assumed I was."
The peaceful magic holding Cassandra in place finally broke. She dropped the magazine, scooped up the folder full of receipts and slapped them into Astoria's hands on her way out.
0o0
Ok, first things first: let's address updates! I know I've been very off-schedule lately—but honestly, up until the end of May, I was working a weird side job with super irregular hours. I haven't lost any interest in this story, but I don't handle constantly shifting sleep patterns well and it's hard to find the energy to write when I'm exhausted! Thankfully, I'm back at my normal summer job now (with mostly consistent, day-time hours) and I'm very optimistic about being able post more often. Secondly (and very much on the same note) I also want to come right out and say that this story will never be abandoned without warning. I can tell the long periods between updates makes some of you very nervous. BUT, barring my untimely demise, an update will always come.
ALSO, on a slightly more technical note, it's probably also worth pointing out that chapters that take place during the summer or over a beak usually take longer to create—probably because they more closely resemble original fiction. The HP books provide a very helpful timeline of events, but when the characters leave Hogwarts, I'm forced to rely mostly on my own plot contrivances and settings. Ideally, everybody will be back at school within a few chapters (and my posting will be back on a twice monthly schedule).
Until then: #Dracodoesn'tlovehisgrandmother.
As always, reviews are just the best. I read and treasure them all! I'm going to be very busy this upcoming week (I have seven days off so I'm going on a mini-holiday!) but I'll make time to come back and give this chapter a second edit (I impulsively uploaded knowing how much moving around I'll be doing). Seriously, though, if anyone has any questions they're dying to ask, now is the time! The flip-side of vacation is that I'll be extremely reachable 'till next weekend!