"– so proud of you for managing to attend the Yule Ball with a Rosier. Merlin only knows how you managed it, given how that family's nearly as dreadful as the Lestranges when it comes to the whole pureblood superiority nonsense. I must have done something right in my upbringing after all. Finally, the plans are coming to fruition. Pleione, I'm so proud of you. You can't imagine how happy I was to see that picture inEnchanting Epicsthe day after the ball. Although, I must say, the shade of green was a bit too dark for you – you'd have looked far better in emerald. What on earth possessed you?"
Her mother's voice, light and pleased, only added to the knot of nausea growing in Eleanor's stomach as she lay sprawled on the velvet divan, a pillow over her face.
It was late afternoon on the Sunday following the Yule Ball, and Eleanor had barely been home for twenty-two minutes. This time, her mother hadn't been waiting for her on the platform at King's Cross, but had instead sent the butler, Stevens, who had stood dutifully between platforms 9 and 10, looking as if he'd been waiting an age.
The moment Eleanor had collapsed onto the divan, her mother had materialised at her side, delivering her words as though rehearsed a hundred times.
Eleanor already regretted returning home after the ball.
"But the Rosiers! What a wonderful choice, Pleione! Oh, I simply can't wait to run into Constantin at the Ministry. He won't dare ignore me now, not after this. How about a quiet lunch tomorrow in the heart of London, just the two of us? Shall I book somewhere? I hear Chago's has a new salad on the menu."
A low groan escaped Eleanor's lips, and for the first time since her arrival, her mother fell silent.
"What's the matter, Pleione?" Astraea's voice held a new sharpness. "I thought you'd be in a better mood after your victory."
Eleanor flung the cushion off and sat up straighter, her hands curling into fists.
"My victory? Oh, you meanyourvictory, don't you?" She shot her mother a hard look. "That's all I've been hearing from you for the past few hours, how glorious it is foryou. I haven't won anything, Mother!"
Astraea's eyebrow quirked, her gaze cool. "What do you mean?" she asked, her tone so composed it was almost frigid.
A knock on the door broke the tension.
"Excuse me, Miss Seymour. These flowers have just arrived." Stevens entered with an enormous bouquet of lavender roses. The poor man struggled to carry it, his arms trembling beneath the weight.
"Did it come with a card?" Astraea gestured to a side table, her voice soft as she inspected the flowers.
"Yes, ma'am." Stevens produced a small card and handed it over with an air of discomfort. "It says, 'Your voice of all goddesses makes heaven drowsy with harmony. – E.R.'"
Eleanor stared at the card, perplexed. She watched Stevens arrange the flowers into a crystal vase before exiting the room.
Once the door clicked shut, Eleanor glanced at the vase. Without thinking, she seized it and hurled it at the portrait above the fireplace with all the strength she could muster.
"How dare he?"
But as soon as the words left her mouth, a sharp, searing pain struck her cheek. In the blink of an eye, Astraea stood before her, her hand still raised from the slap.
A heartbeat later, Eleanor realised her mother had just struck her.
Astraea raised her wand. "Reparo."
The crystal shards swirled in mid-air, rearranging themselves into a perfect whole, and the roses gently returned to their vase.
"How dare you?" Astraea hissed, her voice low and seething. Her dark eyes flashed with fury.
"How dare you risk all the years of work I've put into this? For what? What has Rosier done to make you act like this? That boy is a gift from Morgana herself—my prayers have been answered."
"I—" Eleanor began, but her words were cut off by another slap.
"No, you will listen," Astraea snapped, her voice ice-cold. "I'm not a fool. I know perfectly well there's someone else you're interested in. And I know exactly who."
Eleanor's eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat.
Astraea smiled, but it was a smile so thin and fake, it could cut glass. "Did you really think I wouldn't keep an eye on you while you were away at school? Did you truly think I would leave everything to chance? That I would waste this opportunity—this one chance—on something so silly as 'young love'?"
Eleanor opened her mouth to speak, but Astraea raised her hand, silencing her instantly.
"You're nearly pureblood, Pleione. More pure than I could ever hope to be. You're perfect, the finest witch our family has ever produced. Almost as pure as we can get. You're ready to marry back into the 28, to take what's rightfully ours. I won't let you ruin it all for the sake of a blood traitor. You're royalty, and you'll act like it."
Astraea's face was inches from her own, her dark eyes glowing with a dangerous intensity.
"Do you understand me?"
Eleanor lowered her gaze, shame crawling up her neck. "Yes, Mother."
With a soft stroke of her hand against Eleanor's cheek, Astraea's expression shifted, searching her daughter's face for something more.
"Good," she said coldly. "Now, go to your room, write a thank-you note to Rosier. If he's the Pureblood gentleman he's supposed to be, he'll invite you to a society event. I think the Parkinsons' gathering would be perfect."
With a final, curt pat on her cheek, Eleanor was dismissed. She trudged to her room, slowly, feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders. Three letters waited for her on the desk. One to George, one to Emil, and one to Berenice. But only two of them ever made it out of her room that night. The third, for Berenice, ended up in the flames, her tears falling as the scorched paper curled up into blackened ashes.
The next morning, as predicted, an invitation from Emil Rosier arrived, tucked into a thick, elegant envelope.
"Oh, I know just the dress to get you fromWitch Weekly's Page Three!" Astraea exclaimed, her eyes alight with excitement as she skimmed over the parchment. "This isperfect. Please accompany me to the Parkinson estate tonight at eight o'clock."
Eleanor's stomach churned. The Parkinson estate. She could already feel the weight of the Purebloods' gazes on her, their eyes boring into her, judging her every move.
Astraea, oblivious to her daughter's discomfort, waved the letter in front of her. "Do try to look a bit more enthusiastic, Pleione. I don't want to see you looking so glum tonight."
"You'll come too, won't you?" Eleanor asked, a glimmer of hope rising in her chest. Her toast almost fell from her hand.
"Tss, be more careful," Astraea scolded, though her lips curled into a smile. "Of course I will. You're underage, after all, and need a proper chaperone. Who better than your own mother?"
At a quarter past eight that evening, Eleanor and Astraea arrived at the grand gates of the Parkinson estate. Astraea wore a simple black gown that accentuated her ash-blonde hair and regal bearing, while Eleanor was dressed in a white gown that made her skin seem almost luminous.
"Chin up, shoulders back. We belong here," Astraea instructed, her tone brisk and commanding.
They were ushered into the grand ballroom, where the air buzzed with the hum of quiet conversations between Purebloods and Ministry officials.
"Ah, welcome, Madam Fawley, Miss Seymour," greeted Cadmus Parkinson, a tall, thin man with sharp features. "I assume you've received your invitation from Emil Rosier?"
"Indeed, Mr. Parkinson." Astraea flashed her most dazzling smile. "My daughter was invited, of course. I'm just here as her chaperone."
"Of course, Madam Fawley. Allow me to introduce you to Solon Rappaport. I believe you haven't met?"
A small wizard with grey eyes and white hair looked up from where he stood talking to a group of people.
"Madam Fawley," he said, extending a hand. "I've heard so much about you."
Astraea's smile grew even brighter as they exchanged pleasantries, and before long, Emil appeared beside Eleanor.
"Madam Fawley, it's a pleasure to finally meet you," he said, his tone smooth as silk. "I'm Emil Rosier, eldest son of Constantin. I believe you're on the Committee for the Protection of Nearly Extinct Creatures with my father?"
Eleanor felt a shiver run down her spine as his eyes met hers. His gaze seemed to pierce right through her.
"Shall we have a drink?" Emil asked, guiding her to a quiet sitting room with a flickering fire. "I've heard quite a few rumours about you, Miss Seymour."
Eleanor stiffened, raising an eyebrow. "Oh? Which of the many rumours caught your attention?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
"Oh, too many to pay attention to," Emil replied smoothly, though his gaze never wavered from hers.
"But there's one particular name that keeps coming up in relation to the Quidditch Cup," Emil continued, sitting opposite her in an armchair. The firelight caught his icy blue eyes, making them almost glow.
"Sirius Black."