Andy/Yaxley=OTP. Well, at one point in time.
Because celta_diabolica's wishes are my command - here are the Andromeda/Yaxley drabbles posted (and picspam of mah shoes is coming. LOL.)
Drabbles, then. These are something like previews or outtakes from the novel-length Slytherin Gang fic I hope to write someday. They're slightly pretentious and all over the place in voice and POV, but I like them nevertheless.
July 11th, 1966
You are thirteen and he’s a year older the first time he shyly and rather clumsily kisses you in the white gazebo in your mother’s garden. You grin and giddily wrap your arms around him because now you know he does like you, and you’ve liked him for a year now. Happily you tell him that, and he turns bright red and mumbles something about “the same” but not having had the nerve to tell you. You think that’s really silly and wonders why (he is a boy, after all, and they’re never nervous, are they?) - and he blushes again and says that well, you’re a Black, aren’t you? And also because he thinks you’re really pretty, he adds in a mumble. You care more for the latter reason and it’s your turn to blush.
Once you’ve collected yourselves, he takes your hand with a smile and you walk back to the others on the lawn. The boys immediately start teasing him about holding your hand, but he scowls at them and doesn’t let go. He never does, not even when they keep torturing him about it all summer.
September 2nd, 1968
"Have you ever actually gone out with someone else?" the Mudblood asks, prying as usual.
"No," she says icily, not looking at it.
Nevertheless, it snorts. At her!
"But you're going to marry the bloke anyway?"
"Yes," she hisses, not seeing how this is any of its business. "I love him," she adds confidently, relishing in the sound of the words they have started to use over the summer and that she never tires of.
Not appreciative of romance, the Mudblood whistles loudly and vilely out of tune.
"Blimey, Black," it says and she seethes at it addressing her as if she were just anybody. "That's kind of a lot."
"Well it's true," she snaps and furiously continues to scribble the lists and hoping to be able to get away from this stupid Prefect meeting with people with whom she's never spoken and never wished to. And of course the only one who keeps on pestering her despite her giving it the Black look is the Mudblood.
November 20th, 1968
You hadn't even been looking for it that night when it shows up, strutting around as usual, as though proud of its dirty blood and stolen magic. Well, it's nothing you haven't done before, or won’t be doing again as it never learns.
"Lost, are we?”
Lestrange draws blood first as usual, but you’re not far behind, the image of it trailing her, sprouting its usual nonsense all the motivator you need.
"And get the fuck away from my girlfriend!" you eventually spit at the jumped-up Mudblood who refuses to stay down no matter how many times you teach him to. As usual, it laughs, even when its face is covered with its foul blood.
"Listen mate, if your girl is developing better taste, you can't really fault her for it."
You attempt to stomp it out, but the laughter is still ringing in your ears even once she’s back in your arms, gently stroking essence of Murtlap on your knuckles.
November 21st, 1968
"Your boyfriend, cousin and whatever Lestrange might be to you, I can't keep track," it offers, pointing at its black eye and somewhat unaligned nose.
"We're not related," she says automatically. "They always marry abroad." But Evan is her cousin and Dareios is, too, thrice removed on both the Black and the Rosier side, and she feels safe with them.
It rolls its eyes, and she seethes at its seemingly never-ending nerve.
"Well, that's no loss to you. Except for if you find punching skills important in a future husband, because then I suggest you change up."
She ignores it. And as far as she is concerned, very little about Lestrange or even Evan whom she otherwise loves, is good husband material. But that’s not her problem, because she won’t be marrying either, and her Dareios is not like them.
“Look, Black,” it nevertheless continues. “Do you get off on him doing this or something? Because I’d like to know.”
Scandalised (she is not her sister, after all) - she turns towards it, too enraged to speak. As usual, it doesn’t seem fazed.
“So it’s only for the hell of it? Good to know.”
"You shouldn't provoke them!"
It glares at her.
"I was walking through the dungeons!"
"So walk somewhere else."
October 3rd, 1969.
"What was that about?" he demands furiously, gesturing at Ted who for once has sense enough to walk away without further provoking him.
"Nothing," you murmur reassuringly, stroking his chest.
"Didn't look it," he snarls, and in a way you do enjoy that he gets this jealous this easily.
"You're the one I want," you whisper huskily and wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him senseless just to show how much - no matter what.
He groans and pushes you into the nearby broom closet.
Shagging in broom closets is of course something your sister and Lestrange do and not you, but a few moments later you can't for the life of you remember why not.
Later you can think of one reason - the environment is in no way useful for cuddling afterwards. This is likely to be something that never has fazed your sister and Lestrange who probably have never even considered the concept, but you find it a problem, because a Black daughter is not comfortable on a stone floor. And the common room is too crowded and the dormitories are out of the question with your cousin living in his and him not being allowed in yours. It takes you several hits to the head with various of Filch's foul cleaning supplies that keep falling off their shelves and him almost throwing his back out trying to catch one before it hits you until you get a brainwave and with a bold grin suggest that you sneak out to the Rosiers' Hogsmeade cottage. You see the shock and amazement in his eyes (because this, too, is something that the two of you usually leave to your more lecherous relatives). But you feel carefree and bold and want to keep doing forbidden things now that you've got a taste for it (and it's not like Slughorn will let either of you go down for it anyway, especially not you.)
Hand in hand you run through the castle and down the passageway out, and once you're finally in the village and away from Dumbledore's paranoia and restrictions he Apparates you right into the house. And you don't care what your sister says - it is so much better in a proper bed with nothing threatening to fall down and hit you over the head. There are oceans of time and space and it's toe curling and amazing and the best rush as usual comes from how much you love him and that he loves you back just as much (maybe even more.) And you fall asleep in his arms, thinking about how amazing it will be once you are finally married and don't have to steal these moments.
June 26th, 1970.
"I mean, I like Bella all right," Lestrange says bracingly, smoking as ever - "but if it came to choosing, there's no doubt about it. Nothing's more important."
Rosier takes a cigarette from him and says something about being relieved about that, at least (but could they still tone down the orgies around him, because she is his cousin and it's fucking disgusting?) - but you don’t really hear it.
Why are they talking about this again? They - you more like it, as you know you are supposed to be participating. As you struggle not to look at either of the smokers by the fireplace, you never notice Lucius doing the same with a contemplative look on his face.
"So, Yaxley," Lestrange's voice cuts through your thoughts just as expected, and you swiftly but voicelessly and with no wand curse him about fifty times.
"What?" you ask, buying time and feigning disinterest and confusion all at once in a manner you’ve got rather good at. But not good enough.
"You know what," Lestrange laughs, voice and eyes as usual sharp as blades even when he is laughing. He and Bella can both smell insecurity from miles away, and you are of the firm belief that a major reason for their usual close proximity to each other is the fact that they have yet to expose the other.
"Don't have that problem," you say shortly, hoping it will be insinuating enough to set Lestrange off on another rant about loyalty in general and Bellatrix in particular, probably getting a note about their not-about-feelings-arrangement in too, because you have not heard it for two years from both of them, nor do you all know it by heart.
It's not.
"Well neither do any of us," Lestrange says as though speaking to a ten year-old, "that is why this is a hypothetical debate."
You snort.
"Well it's fucking stupid."
Smiling slightly like he always does when catching a scent to pry on, Lestrange raises an eyebrow.
"Why the excessive reaction to an innocent way of killing time?" he asks silkily, and you vow that you will if not throw him off the Astronomy Tower then at least slam him into a wall one of these days. “We have absolutely nothing better to do in the remaining hours we have to spend in this hell hole, and I’m bored out of my mind. Humour me,” he adds dryly and blows out a cloud of smoke.
"I just don't care for irrelevant discussions," you say and stand up, forcing yourself to sound offhand but still strict and confident which is the only way to at least momentarily throw Lestrange off course.
"You sure about that?" you hear the still silky voice call out. "That it is completely irrelevant to you?"
"'course," you snap and flee, proving the exact opposite to your ever attentive audience.
Precisely as intended, the doubt and fear grabs you the minute the adrenaline wears off and you stop in the middle of the corridor, not knowing where to go. Not knowing where she is. With whom she is.
Eventually, you find her on the second floor, talking and laughing with your sister. Despite your usual hesitations on the matter, you send Alex off in the general direction of where you think she might find Rabastan (“Don’t worry, he’s a lot more like you than me. Won’t dare to touch her until they’re about thirty,” you hear Lestrange’s oft expressed, very vaguely comforting sentiments) - so there will only be one of your girls to worry about for the time being.
“All packed?” she smiles, and you nod.
“Think you’ll miss it?”
“I’ll miss you,” you say honestly, because the castle means nothing to you right now.
You stop walking and she leans against you with a light sigh.
“Didn’t we say we’d worry about that in August?”
“I know,” you whisper, still feeling frantic. “I’m sorry, but….” Summer used to mean several months of the reassurance of knowing that she was safe, either with you or with her sisters and Rosier, but these days nothing feels reassuring anymore.
October 5th, 1970
It is far worse than she had expected it to be. Not only does she miss him enough to cry herself to sleep for all of September until she slowly becomes used to it (and Bella threatens to murder her), but everything has suddenly changed. Without the three of them there, things are different.
Bella has taken over, of course, Wilkes somewhat sourly by her side and Lucius preparing for next year. That is not the news - it merely makes her sister even more distant than before (when she doesn't threaten her on her life so she'll get to sleep.) No, the difference is in everyone else, the whole school.
She has never noticed how hostile they all are. And since no one is stupid enough to try and get back at Bella for whatever they think Rodolphus, Evan and Dareios have done, she, Cissy and Alexandra get the brunt of it instead. She would have thought Rabastan would too, but he has surprised her and doesn't let them. He has changed a lot and she barely recognises him anymore, which hurts as she’s always thought of him rather like a younger brother; another who was a bit quiet and preferred things that way. But not now; now, he seems to pick fights with as much fervor as his brother and Evan ever, and he prefers Lucius’ company to hers. Thinking back, she can see how it had started already over the holidays when she and Dareios were too busy trying to make the summer last forever. Instead of flying or spending time with them, he had begun trailing his brother and Evan and, as they'd all become aware of - clearly learning a thing or two.
Yes, Rabastan manages fine. But Andromeda feels lost, and scared. Because this is not the world she knows or wants, and yet she apparently has to live in it. Even when it threatens her whole world order.
"So perhaps you can think for yourself, for once," Ted says brusquely when he finds her sobbing and once again asks why, the crassness in his voice making her flinch. For all his good temper, he too seems to have a bone to pick.
She doesn't want to think for herself. She doesn't dare to. She has too many dreams, too many hopes that rely on everything staying as it always has been. He gets the edited version of that, but it’s not edited enough.
"Do you ever listen to yourself?" he asks, almost bewildered. "You'd rather not use your head because he might not like it?"
"It's not just about him!"
Isla. Phineas. Marius. Cedrella. Marks like cigarette burns, seldom-asked questions and even rarer answers; ranks closed forever.
"What if they all leave me?" she says in a hoarse whisper, for the first time saying it out loud and not believing that she does.
She has so many dreams reliant on being part of it - them. They've always protected her - Dareios and Evan, her father and mother, her aunt and uncle. What would she do if they didn't?
June 28th, 1971
She has never imagined that she would hesitate even for a second, or ever need to consider when he finally asks her. But she does.
For a moment, she does hesitate. For a brief moment, she knows she shouldn’t say yes.
But then she says yes of course she will, and she cries just like she always thought she would. And their parents are ecstatic (because even though their world is changing right in front of their eyes, purebloods still marry young and purely) - and the ball is gorgeous, and Rodolphus publishes it the next day so everyone will know. It is official, and done.
And she never has to be unsure anymore, because she is back in her world where she knows how things go.
July 5th, 1971
They can barely keep their hands off each other these days. People chuckle about honeymoon phases and almost newlyweds, but they know better.
They are savouring it.
July 26th, 1971
She spends her days praying for something that will make it possible to stay, to stop it all from crashing down around her and ending. And she does everything in her power for it not to.
They spend most of their time in bed or in some stage of foreplay or afterglow so they won't have to talk about it. They have even become reckless about birth control, and she savours every moment of it (it really does feel better without the magical barrier) and she desperately harbours the fantasy that one of the children they have been planning for years now (a Greek name, always) - will make him reconsider. Not be in the heat of it, at least. She tells herself that she could live with that.
But it doesn't work. Her body refuses to - or has sense enough not to - oblige her no matter how reckless she is, and the Mark is always visible on his bare arm even when she tries not to look at it.
She stops listening to the WWN, and she stops reading the Prophet in order to pretend that it doesn't exist, that it's not happening and that they're not destroying the world. But most of the censoring of the Prophet happens over dinners with her sister and Lestrange, and she can't block it or them out no matter how much she tries to concentrate on planning her wedding instead. She tries to shut down all of her active brain functions and become a homemaking robot, becoming an expert in household spells in the process. But something always throws her off.
The whispers in Diagon Alley when she tries to cling onto her well-rehearsed role as haughty society lady, but it no longer comes naturally. Her sister's manic laughter, or Lestrange's smirks about this or that life destroyed. The fact that every time he doesn’t tell her about his day, she knows what it has entailed. On those nights she doesn’t need to feign not feeling well or being tried. Because she is nauseous (but not for the reason she so desperately craves) and exhausted by the charade.
But the night always seems to re-set the world, magically cleanse him of it all and reinforce her abilities to repress. Come the morning, she will be in his arms again, loving him desperately and praying that he comes straight home from the Ministry.
August 28th, 1971
"Good on you," he suddenly hears a voice cut through the sounds of his own retching and the sobs he's not even trying to hold back.
"You're better off," it continues, and as he slowly turns to face the door, he finds Lestrange there, leaning against the doorframe.
"I'm what?" he whispers hoarsely, seemingly having lost all ability to speak.
"Better off," Lestrange repeats, clearly thinking he's being slow. "We all knew it was coming," he continues coolly. "Dead weight - good thing that you finally cut it off."
The next thing he knows, he has shoved Lestrange up against the bathroom wall and before he realises he's doing it, he has slammed his head against the tiles.
I must really get on posting and finalising more of my short-not-going-anywhere-stuff; not everything needs to be massive to be done, and my folders could use some cleaning up. To say the least!
Drabbles, then. These are something like previews or outtakes from the novel-length Slytherin Gang fic I hope to write someday. They're slightly pretentious and all over the place in voice and POV, but I like them nevertheless.
July 11th, 1966
You are thirteen and he’s a year older the first time he shyly and rather clumsily kisses you in the white gazebo in your mother’s garden. You grin and giddily wrap your arms around him because now you know he does like you, and you’ve liked him for a year now. Happily you tell him that, and he turns bright red and mumbles something about “the same” but not having had the nerve to tell you. You think that’s really silly and wonders why (he is a boy, after all, and they’re never nervous, are they?) - and he blushes again and says that well, you’re a Black, aren’t you? And also because he thinks you’re really pretty, he adds in a mumble. You care more for the latter reason and it’s your turn to blush.
Once you’ve collected yourselves, he takes your hand with a smile and you walk back to the others on the lawn. The boys immediately start teasing him about holding your hand, but he scowls at them and doesn’t let go. He never does, not even when they keep torturing him about it all summer.
September 2nd, 1968
"Have you ever actually gone out with someone else?" the Mudblood asks, prying as usual.
"No," she says icily, not looking at it.
Nevertheless, it snorts. At her!
"But you're going to marry the bloke anyway?"
"Yes," she hisses, not seeing how this is any of its business. "I love him," she adds confidently, relishing in the sound of the words they have started to use over the summer and that she never tires of.
Not appreciative of romance, the Mudblood whistles loudly and vilely out of tune.
"Blimey, Black," it says and she seethes at it addressing her as if she were just anybody. "That's kind of a lot."
"Well it's true," she snaps and furiously continues to scribble the lists and hoping to be able to get away from this stupid Prefect meeting with people with whom she's never spoken and never wished to. And of course the only one who keeps on pestering her despite her giving it the Black look is the Mudblood.
November 20th, 1968
You hadn't even been looking for it that night when it shows up, strutting around as usual, as though proud of its dirty blood and stolen magic. Well, it's nothing you haven't done before, or won’t be doing again as it never learns.
"Lost, are we?”
Lestrange draws blood first as usual, but you’re not far behind, the image of it trailing her, sprouting its usual nonsense all the motivator you need.
"And get the fuck away from my girlfriend!" you eventually spit at the jumped-up Mudblood who refuses to stay down no matter how many times you teach him to. As usual, it laughs, even when its face is covered with its foul blood.
"Listen mate, if your girl is developing better taste, you can't really fault her for it."
You attempt to stomp it out, but the laughter is still ringing in your ears even once she’s back in your arms, gently stroking essence of Murtlap on your knuckles.
November 21st, 1968
"Your boyfriend, cousin and whatever Lestrange might be to you, I can't keep track," it offers, pointing at its black eye and somewhat unaligned nose.
"We're not related," she says automatically. "They always marry abroad." But Evan is her cousin and Dareios is, too, thrice removed on both the Black and the Rosier side, and she feels safe with them.
It rolls its eyes, and she seethes at its seemingly never-ending nerve.
"Well, that's no loss to you. Except for if you find punching skills important in a future husband, because then I suggest you change up."
She ignores it. And as far as she is concerned, very little about Lestrange or even Evan whom she otherwise loves, is good husband material. But that’s not her problem, because she won’t be marrying either, and her Dareios is not like them.
“Look, Black,” it nevertheless continues. “Do you get off on him doing this or something? Because I’d like to know.”
Scandalised (she is not her sister, after all) - she turns towards it, too enraged to speak. As usual, it doesn’t seem fazed.
“So it’s only for the hell of it? Good to know.”
"You shouldn't provoke them!"
It glares at her.
"I was walking through the dungeons!"
"So walk somewhere else."
October 3rd, 1969.
"What was that about?" he demands furiously, gesturing at Ted who for once has sense enough to walk away without further provoking him.
"Nothing," you murmur reassuringly, stroking his chest.
"Didn't look it," he snarls, and in a way you do enjoy that he gets this jealous this easily.
"You're the one I want," you whisper huskily and wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him senseless just to show how much - no matter what.
He groans and pushes you into the nearby broom closet.
Shagging in broom closets is of course something your sister and Lestrange do and not you, but a few moments later you can't for the life of you remember why not.
Later you can think of one reason - the environment is in no way useful for cuddling afterwards. This is likely to be something that never has fazed your sister and Lestrange who probably have never even considered the concept, but you find it a problem, because a Black daughter is not comfortable on a stone floor. And the common room is too crowded and the dormitories are out of the question with your cousin living in his and him not being allowed in yours. It takes you several hits to the head with various of Filch's foul cleaning supplies that keep falling off their shelves and him almost throwing his back out trying to catch one before it hits you until you get a brainwave and with a bold grin suggest that you sneak out to the Rosiers' Hogsmeade cottage. You see the shock and amazement in his eyes (because this, too, is something that the two of you usually leave to your more lecherous relatives). But you feel carefree and bold and want to keep doing forbidden things now that you've got a taste for it (and it's not like Slughorn will let either of you go down for it anyway, especially not you.)
Hand in hand you run through the castle and down the passageway out, and once you're finally in the village and away from Dumbledore's paranoia and restrictions he Apparates you right into the house. And you don't care what your sister says - it is so much better in a proper bed with nothing threatening to fall down and hit you over the head. There are oceans of time and space and it's toe curling and amazing and the best rush as usual comes from how much you love him and that he loves you back just as much (maybe even more.) And you fall asleep in his arms, thinking about how amazing it will be once you are finally married and don't have to steal these moments.
June 26th, 1970.
"I mean, I like Bella all right," Lestrange says bracingly, smoking as ever - "but if it came to choosing, there's no doubt about it. Nothing's more important."
Rosier takes a cigarette from him and says something about being relieved about that, at least (but could they still tone down the orgies around him, because she is his cousin and it's fucking disgusting?) - but you don’t really hear it.
Why are they talking about this again? They - you more like it, as you know you are supposed to be participating. As you struggle not to look at either of the smokers by the fireplace, you never notice Lucius doing the same with a contemplative look on his face.
"So, Yaxley," Lestrange's voice cuts through your thoughts just as expected, and you swiftly but voicelessly and with no wand curse him about fifty times.
"What?" you ask, buying time and feigning disinterest and confusion all at once in a manner you’ve got rather good at. But not good enough.
"You know what," Lestrange laughs, voice and eyes as usual sharp as blades even when he is laughing. He and Bella can both smell insecurity from miles away, and you are of the firm belief that a major reason for their usual close proximity to each other is the fact that they have yet to expose the other.
"Don't have that problem," you say shortly, hoping it will be insinuating enough to set Lestrange off on another rant about loyalty in general and Bellatrix in particular, probably getting a note about their not-about-feelings-arrangement in too, because you have not heard it for two years from both of them, nor do you all know it by heart.
It's not.
"Well neither do any of us," Lestrange says as though speaking to a ten year-old, "that is why this is a hypothetical debate."
You snort.
"Well it's fucking stupid."
Smiling slightly like he always does when catching a scent to pry on, Lestrange raises an eyebrow.
"Why the excessive reaction to an innocent way of killing time?" he asks silkily, and you vow that you will if not throw him off the Astronomy Tower then at least slam him into a wall one of these days. “We have absolutely nothing better to do in the remaining hours we have to spend in this hell hole, and I’m bored out of my mind. Humour me,” he adds dryly and blows out a cloud of smoke.
"I just don't care for irrelevant discussions," you say and stand up, forcing yourself to sound offhand but still strict and confident which is the only way to at least momentarily throw Lestrange off course.
"You sure about that?" you hear the still silky voice call out. "That it is completely irrelevant to you?"
"'course," you snap and flee, proving the exact opposite to your ever attentive audience.
Precisely as intended, the doubt and fear grabs you the minute the adrenaline wears off and you stop in the middle of the corridor, not knowing where to go. Not knowing where she is. With whom she is.
Eventually, you find her on the second floor, talking and laughing with your sister. Despite your usual hesitations on the matter, you send Alex off in the general direction of where you think she might find Rabastan (“Don’t worry, he’s a lot more like you than me. Won’t dare to touch her until they’re about thirty,” you hear Lestrange’s oft expressed, very vaguely comforting sentiments) - so there will only be one of your girls to worry about for the time being.
“All packed?” she smiles, and you nod.
“Think you’ll miss it?”
“I’ll miss you,” you say honestly, because the castle means nothing to you right now.
You stop walking and she leans against you with a light sigh.
“Didn’t we say we’d worry about that in August?”
“I know,” you whisper, still feeling frantic. “I’m sorry, but….” Summer used to mean several months of the reassurance of knowing that she was safe, either with you or with her sisters and Rosier, but these days nothing feels reassuring anymore.
October 5th, 1970
It is far worse than she had expected it to be. Not only does she miss him enough to cry herself to sleep for all of September until she slowly becomes used to it (and Bella threatens to murder her), but everything has suddenly changed. Without the three of them there, things are different.
Bella has taken over, of course, Wilkes somewhat sourly by her side and Lucius preparing for next year. That is not the news - it merely makes her sister even more distant than before (when she doesn't threaten her on her life so she'll get to sleep.) No, the difference is in everyone else, the whole school.
She has never noticed how hostile they all are. And since no one is stupid enough to try and get back at Bella for whatever they think Rodolphus, Evan and Dareios have done, she, Cissy and Alexandra get the brunt of it instead. She would have thought Rabastan would too, but he has surprised her and doesn't let them. He has changed a lot and she barely recognises him anymore, which hurts as she’s always thought of him rather like a younger brother; another who was a bit quiet and preferred things that way. But not now; now, he seems to pick fights with as much fervor as his brother and Evan ever, and he prefers Lucius’ company to hers. Thinking back, she can see how it had started already over the holidays when she and Dareios were too busy trying to make the summer last forever. Instead of flying or spending time with them, he had begun trailing his brother and Evan and, as they'd all become aware of - clearly learning a thing or two.
Yes, Rabastan manages fine. But Andromeda feels lost, and scared. Because this is not the world she knows or wants, and yet she apparently has to live in it. Even when it threatens her whole world order.
"So perhaps you can think for yourself, for once," Ted says brusquely when he finds her sobbing and once again asks why, the crassness in his voice making her flinch. For all his good temper, he too seems to have a bone to pick.
She doesn't want to think for herself. She doesn't dare to. She has too many dreams, too many hopes that rely on everything staying as it always has been. He gets the edited version of that, but it’s not edited enough.
"Do you ever listen to yourself?" he asks, almost bewildered. "You'd rather not use your head because he might not like it?"
"It's not just about him!"
Isla. Phineas. Marius. Cedrella. Marks like cigarette burns, seldom-asked questions and even rarer answers; ranks closed forever.
"What if they all leave me?" she says in a hoarse whisper, for the first time saying it out loud and not believing that she does.
She has so many dreams reliant on being part of it - them. They've always protected her - Dareios and Evan, her father and mother, her aunt and uncle. What would she do if they didn't?
June 28th, 1971
She has never imagined that she would hesitate even for a second, or ever need to consider when he finally asks her. But she does.
For a moment, she does hesitate. For a brief moment, she knows she shouldn’t say yes.
But then she says yes of course she will, and she cries just like she always thought she would. And their parents are ecstatic (because even though their world is changing right in front of their eyes, purebloods still marry young and purely) - and the ball is gorgeous, and Rodolphus publishes it the next day so everyone will know. It is official, and done.
And she never has to be unsure anymore, because she is back in her world where she knows how things go.
July 5th, 1971
They can barely keep their hands off each other these days. People chuckle about honeymoon phases and almost newlyweds, but they know better.
They are savouring it.
July 26th, 1971
She spends her days praying for something that will make it possible to stay, to stop it all from crashing down around her and ending. And she does everything in her power for it not to.
They spend most of their time in bed or in some stage of foreplay or afterglow so they won't have to talk about it. They have even become reckless about birth control, and she savours every moment of it (it really does feel better without the magical barrier) and she desperately harbours the fantasy that one of the children they have been planning for years now (a Greek name, always) - will make him reconsider. Not be in the heat of it, at least. She tells herself that she could live with that.
But it doesn't work. Her body refuses to - or has sense enough not to - oblige her no matter how reckless she is, and the Mark is always visible on his bare arm even when she tries not to look at it.
She stops listening to the WWN, and she stops reading the Prophet in order to pretend that it doesn't exist, that it's not happening and that they're not destroying the world. But most of the censoring of the Prophet happens over dinners with her sister and Lestrange, and she can't block it or them out no matter how much she tries to concentrate on planning her wedding instead. She tries to shut down all of her active brain functions and become a homemaking robot, becoming an expert in household spells in the process. But something always throws her off.
The whispers in Diagon Alley when she tries to cling onto her well-rehearsed role as haughty society lady, but it no longer comes naturally. Her sister's manic laughter, or Lestrange's smirks about this or that life destroyed. The fact that every time he doesn’t tell her about his day, she knows what it has entailed. On those nights she doesn’t need to feign not feeling well or being tried. Because she is nauseous (but not for the reason she so desperately craves) and exhausted by the charade.
But the night always seems to re-set the world, magically cleanse him of it all and reinforce her abilities to repress. Come the morning, she will be in his arms again, loving him desperately and praying that he comes straight home from the Ministry.
August 28th, 1971
"Good on you," he suddenly hears a voice cut through the sounds of his own retching and the sobs he's not even trying to hold back.
"You're better off," it continues, and as he slowly turns to face the door, he finds Lestrange there, leaning against the doorframe.
"I'm what?" he whispers hoarsely, seemingly having lost all ability to speak.
"Better off," Lestrange repeats, clearly thinking he's being slow. "We all knew it was coming," he continues coolly. "Dead weight - good thing that you finally cut it off."
The next thing he knows, he has shoved Lestrange up against the bathroom wall and before he realises he's doing it, he has slammed his head against the tiles.
I must really get on posting and finalising more of my short-not-going-anywhere-stuff; not everything needs to be massive to be done, and my folders could use some cleaning up. To say the least!