This visit had not, at all, gone as Lady Amelia had expected.

That much had been confirmed this morning, when she had caught Cedric Diggory exiting the dining room after breakfast (she, herself, never sat at the breakfast table, taking it in bed as all proper married ladies did) and had attempted to entrap him in small talk.

"How did you find the breakfast, Cedric darling?" she had cooed, trying to look as regal as she could while well aware that her necklace was slightly offset (the early-morning state of disarray, Good Lord!). "Our cook makes the most excellent eggs, didn't you think?"

"Most excellent," Cedric had agreed with a polite smile. "Right at their most tender point."

"It delights me to hear so. And how," she had insinuated, her intent crystal clear as she snuck it into the seemingly-harmless conversation, "did you find the rest of the, ah, of the house during your stay?"

Cedric was quite bright, and he had known exactly what she meant immediately. "I'm sorry, Lady Granger, but I'm afraid I will be unable to give you what you want."

Agog at being caught quite so soon, Lady Granger had feigned puzzlement: "Why, I ever—"

But Cedric had seen through that. "I know it must come across as quite a disappointment, but I will not marry your daughter. Not for any sum, not for any reward. Firstly, because my attention is elsewhere committed; but secondly —and perhaps most importantly— because neither of us are particularly keen on marrying one another."

At this, Lady Amelia had sputtered: "Why, Hermione would— she'd be delighted—"

Cedric had merely tilted his lip further upward, that lopsided smile of his that made one weaken, made one feel as if in presence of a mightier being. "With all due respect, Lady Granger, I hope you will allow me to correct this illusion by telling you that your daughter does not, in the slightest, wish to marry me. I mean no insolence by this, but it might do you well to ask for her thoughts more often. As for myself, though I consider Rosebury House to be a most noble estate and hold the family it houses in the highest regard, I have not the smallest desire to marry into it." His smile had shifted yet again, acquiring a more playful quality. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get done with my packing if the coach is to depart in time for the train station. But thank you, earnestly, for your hospitality. I have not tasted better eggs anywhere else."

And, as if he had not trampled over the sum of her hopes and expectations, as if he had not dashed them through with his smooth politeness, he had given her a small nod and turned to venture up the stairs toward his guestroom.

Now, as she watched him leave with suitcase in tow (carried by one of the hall boys), all Lady Amelia could think about was how perhaps it had been good riddance after all. It was out of spite, and she knew it, for Cedric was truly a rather splendid young man and one anyone would like to have had as a son-in-law, but in her twisted little heart, Lady Amelia preferred the path of haughtiness, ascribing his refusal not to a stroke of will but to an unworthiness of the Granger relation. Better for us, she told herself, and this made her feel slightly better.

Still, she could not bear to see him moving gracefully, almost shining in the late-morning light as he bid his hosts farewell, because to look upon him was to be reminded of what a chance had slipped right through her clutches, and thus to be reminded that her air of superiority was nothing but a fiction.

So Lady Amelia tore her eyes away, and so she didn't see the grateful nod which Hermione exchanged with Cedric as he exited.

Thank you, Hermione mouthed soundlessly as she extended her hand for Cedric to kiss it, as was expected of such a farewell. No problem, he mouthed back as his lips dropped to meet her hand.

Lady Amelia did not see this, just as she did not see the rest of the departures, for at that moment Gramsley, the butler, rushed up to her. "Telephone, m'lady."

His interruption was just as well, because her fiction was beginning to crumble the more she thought about Cedric leaving Rosebury. So she pulled up the skirts of her matronly frock, a (rather ugly) brown floor-length dress with a dotted pattern and lace frills on the sleeves and collar, and swiveled on her heels to turn her back on the door and follow Gramsley into the small corridor by the main foyer where the telephone was.

"Hello?" she said into the receiver, a little too loudly (she was only just beginning to get the hang of this rather new artifact).

"Amelia, darling? Is that you?" a lightly-accented but sprightly voice came over the speaker.

She recognized it immediately: "Aileen, darling! It has been too long!"

"It has indeed!" Aileen, on the other side, laughed. "I managed to get ahold of your number, however. I merely had to go through several pesky operators first."

"Direct dial is such a blessing," Amelia said, parroting the words that she'd heard her husband speak about the telephone before, though in reality she seldom dialed and was therefore unacquainted with whether there was indeed a difference between going through an operator or calling directly.

"I do believe it, but you know old Lord McLaggen— as cheap as a thimble. He'd rather rub elbows with every telephone operator in Scotland than spend a penny on telephonic convenience," Aileen laughed, seeming to delight in poking fun at her husband.

"Well, I'm ever so glad you went through that nuisance to call me," Amelia said, trying to steer the conversation away from the McLaggen marriage, which she had always envied. Lord Angus McLaggen clearly adored his wife (though Aileen, and Amelia would never admit that this is where they differed, was of easier character and sunnier disposition and thus did not make it particularly difficult). "But to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?"

Aileen McLaggen got right to it: "I heard that Orlando turned eighteen scarcely a few days ago, didn't he?"

"He did."

"Well, Angus and I were just discussing the other day how it has been a while since Glencarrion has hosted guests. Then he told me that he'd spoken to Philip, and he'd said his boy had come of age now, and we both thought it might be the perfect occasion to host him up here for a few days. What do you think?"

"I think it sounds lovely," Amelia said, somewhat bitter at the fact that this invitation seemed not to include her, "but I'd have to ask Orlando and his father—"

"Oh, please," Aileen interrupted her cheerfully. "It has been a dreadfully long time since we've seen him, and I know that Cormac would very much enjoy having someone his age around for a few days."

At this, a keen interest sparked in the back of Lady Amelia's mind. She turned on her sweetest, most artificial voice, almost lowering into a coo: "And how is dear Cormac?"

If Aileen had divined any intention in Amelia's voice, she didn't let it on. "Quite well, you know, growing into quite the handsome young man! He's been rather busy lately, what with learning the business of running the estate, he's practically become his father's shadow on their weekly tours of Glencarrion and the surroundings."

"It sounds busy, but no doubt he can handle it, at his age and everything," Amelia continued. She made her next question sound as innocent as possible: "And how old is he, again?"

"Twenty-five," Aileen said proudly.

The nagging idea in Lady Amelia's mind had come to fruition. Oh, Orlando was going up there, but not solely on friendly business. And as she glanced toward the door, where the Diggorys' carriage was turning to head for the main road, she began to think that perhaps it had been a blessing in disguise after all. He could, as she now began to see, be replaced quite easily. So she chose her next words very carefully: "It might do Orlando good to be around someone who's learning to take charge of an estate. But speaking of older children, I presume you remember my daughter, Hermione...?"

Memories, Draco had always thought, were like particularly loved walking shoes, or like a steadfast quill: they were reliable, but they easily wore out with use. So as he sat in the carriage, looking out at Rosebury House as the coachman readied the horses to follow the Diggorys' coach, he tried not to think about last night as hard as he could. Harry had come back after dinner, and this time, Draco hadn't had to ask him to stay.

But it was to no avail. He couldn't stop savoring the phantom taste of Harry's kiss on his thin, pale lips; he couldn't stop shivering every time he thought about the warmth of his bare skin against his own; he couldn't stop ruing the absence of Harry's wide hand on the small of his back, where he knew Draco was most sensitive... He tried to shake the thought from his head. No, the more he called upon that memory know, the more faded it would be when he tried to recall it later, once he was alone and back in drafty Ashcroft Manor, away from his warmth, from his breath, from his touch—

No! He must stow it, stow it and keep it under lock and key until he truly craved it. He tried, instead, to sate himself on the sight of Harry chatting casually with Orlando by the large front oaken doors, his hair looking tousled as ever. He probably hadn't even run a comb through it since it had rolled around on the pillows— Drat. It was of no use. Even the smallest sight, the smallest thought, of Harry was enough to hail Draco back to the last two nights.

But could he really be blamed? When you've been to heaven and back over the space of some thirty-six hours, a heaven that was denied you for months and which you feared you'd ever recover, can you really be blamed for wanting to relive it?

And to think Harry was going to stay for a few more days! He'd depart for London soon, but upon Orlando's request, Lord Black had agreed to stay back until Tuesday before returning to Grimmauld Place. To think of Harry sleeping alone, splayed out in that messy sleeping style of his, in a lush bed all to himself, made Draco so angry it nearly hurt. And he couldn't keep looking at Harry, he just couldn't, because if he did, that thought would be concreted into longing and it would hurt even more.

His gaze dropped instead to the impeccable floor of the carriage, trying to fixate on anything, be it a poorly-wiped bootprint or the slightest iota of dust, that might distract him from his yearning. So concentrated was he on trying to do it that he didn't see his father standing out the carriage door until he knocked angrily on the little window in the door, which Draco hastened to open.

"Distracted?" Lucius sneered as Draco opened it.

"No, father."

"Good. Then you will know that we're not leaving right now."

"We're not?" Draco asked dumbfoundedly. Was this for real?

"No, we're not," Lucius enunciated slowly, mockingly. "Lord Philip and I have some estate business we have to tend to, concerning the affairs of Ashcroft and Rosebury. We're seeking to build an outpost in London, as we have only houses there, but nothing official. Considering that Lord Black is here, and he seems to be quite the expert at urban construction thanks to his Grimmauld Place, Lord Philip believed this might be a good opportunity to discuss while we were all still here. Against my better wishes, I happened to agree."

In other instances, Draco would've internally sighed as his father's condescension toward someone he was very clearly benefiting from, but he was too awestruck to do much else other than sit and gape at Lucius.

Lucius grew impatient: "Well, did you hear me or not, Draco? Get out of the coach!"

Draco scrambled out of the cab, nearly tripping over his own feet as he did so, and steadied himself once he felt his feet dig into the gravel around Rosebury House. He wasn't leaving. He was staying, and what's more, Harry was too.

Evoking a measure of dignity and forcing his spine into ramrod-straightness, Draco walked slowly back toward Rosebury House, no longer taking heed as his father scolded the footmen for how they were unloading their luggage. He was staying.

"Staying after all, Master Malfoy?" the butler, Gramsley, asked politely as he reached the small cohort of people by the door.

"It appears so," Draco gave him an uncharacteristic thin-lipped smile as he continued to make for the house.

As Draco passed Harry, he heard an ever-so-slight mutter escape Harry's lips, a sultry whisper that made the hairs on the back of Draco's neck bristle with anticipation. "Lucky me."