FIC: Not Your Average Love Story
Title: Not Your Average Love Story
Author: ???
Pairing: Cassiopeia Black/Horace Slughorn, Cedrella Black/Septimus Weasley
Rating: Teen
Prompt: Horace loves Cassiopeia. The only reasons she's holding on to him is so her parents don't arrange a marriage for her. (It would be cool if Cass was asexual or a lesbian, but maybe she just really doesn't want to get married for whatever reason.)
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Content Information/Warnings: None
Summary: Cassiopeia Black isn't interested in anyone, romantically or sexually. Her family doesn't see that as a viable choice.
Author's Notes: Nowadays, we'd say that Cassiopeia is an aromantic asexual. She doesn't refer to herself as such because Cass was born in 1915; the term was originally used (in 1830) to refer to plants and animals that reproduced without sex and (in 1896) to plants and animals without sex or sex organs. The concept of people who lack interest in or desire for sex is much more recent; Kinsey didn't come up with it until the mid-forties (he called asexuals "gender X"), and the first empirical study using the word "asexual" in the current sense was done in 1983-when Cassiopeia was sixty-eight years old.
Nor is she supposed to be representative of all asexuals. The range of asexuality is huge. She's just herself.
I. Happily Never After-1923
Eight-year-old Cassiopeia Black isn't interested in pairing up with anyone.
She knows that she'll probably marry, because marriage is part of adult business-a lifelong exchange of wealth and property with a person whom you might not even know but to whom you're not so closely related as to cause legal tangles that will last for millennia. She accepts this without question.
However, mildly liking the person whom you marry is, at least among the Blacks and their myriad cousins, a rare and unexpected bonus. Loving the person that you marry only happens in stories…and Cassiopeia can't help but notice that tales of true love almost always end with the death of one or both lovers. On the other hand, living in a perpetual state of (at worst) homicidal loathing to (at best) dull apathy is no better.
Avoiding the entire mess seems the wisest choice.
***
II. Familial Expectations-Sixth Year (1931-1932)
Unfortunately, no one lets her avoid it.
Her mother wants to know (with increasing desperation, as the years go by) if any boys at Hogwarts have caught her eye. Her father demands explanations for why decent pureblood boys aren't interested in her.
Pollux, her nineteen-year-old brother who got married to Irma Crabbe at, Merlin's beard, the age of twelve (and not because Irma had been preggers, either), thinks that their parents should simply arrange a marriage for her the way they did for him. "You're sixteen," he tells her in pompous letters sealed with the family crest. "You aren't getting any younger, after all. And it isn't as if you're the sort who naturally attracts men by being beautiful or witty." All of which is mercilessly accurate and makes Cass want to fling Pollux into an active volcano.
Her sister Dorea-a first-year who already has eleven- and twelve-year-old boys crushing on her-says bluntly that Cassiopeia is nothing but an embarrassment, a social disaster who never goes out on dates and doesn't even care that she doesn't get asked.
It's as if everyone is playing a complicated game whose rules are constantly changing, and they insist that she play, too-but no one will tell her the rules.
Her thirteen-year-old brother Marius thinks that everyone else should just leave her the hell alone, and she heartily agrees. But he's a Squib, so his opinion doesn't count. And she's…well, she's the Black who can't attract anyone. She received Outstandings in six of her O.W.L.s, won the school-wide Duelling Cup, and is a very good Beater…but none of those things matter, because she doesn't have boys fighting to be by her side.
***
III. Pecking Order- Sixth Year (1931-1932)
The other girls in Slytherin whisper about Cassiopeia, and she doesn't know why. And if they aren't whispering, they're questioning her, and, and that puzzles her, too, because they don't seem particularly interested in her answers.
"Haven't you ever been in love?"
"No."
"Haven't you she ever wanted to be in love?"
"No."
"Isn't Abraxes Malfoy absolutely gorgeous?"
"I suppose."
"Why don't you ask him out, then?"
"Because I don't want to go out with him, and he's already dating Persephone Greatorex."
"You could steal him away."
"Weren't you listening? I said I don't want to!"
"Why not? He's quite a catch. Unless…are you only interested in girls, 'Peia?"
There's no point in answering. Most of the girls at Hogwarts-led by that horrible little Hufflepuff, Beatrice Oxspring-have made up their minds that if she's not going after boys, she's the sort who, to quote Beatrice, "follows the tennis at Eastbourne." She doesn't know why being interested in a game means thinking that girls are more desirable than boys, but she can tell from the superior glances and nasty, sniggering laughter that follows her in the halls that plenty of people think that Beatrice and her band of sycophants are right.
It's rather like being slowly pecked to death by ducks. One peck is awful, but you can live with that. But when the pecking never stops, it becomes intolerable.
The only thing keeping her from hexing the ducklings, as she thinks of them, en masse is the conviction that some idiots would take it as proof that the Oxspring beast was right. And Beatrice isn't right. Cass doesn't know what's different about her-or why everyone makes such an everlasting fuss about it-but it isn't that.
She tells herself she doesn't care what they think. She's a Black, and therefore much better than any of them.
And if she manages to have a few subtle, sneaky "accidents" with potions and curses with some of the key ducklings…well, she's a Slytherin, not a martyr.
***
IV. Plans- Seventh Year (1932-1933)
By her seventh year, though, things become unbearable. With unerring timing, her parents, Pollux, Dorea, their cousins, and the girls at school all simultaneously execute their demands that she must become more interested in her looks, must acquire a young wizard-preferably a rich one of good family-as an arm decoration, and must marry him in the most formal and unbreakable of magical marriage ceremonies before he thinks better of it and dashes off to Patagonia.
Being told over and over again that she's defective, unattractive, bereft of charm, and downright abnormal by people who claim that they're just trying to help (but who seem to take inordinate delight in ripping her apart) gets wearing after a while. When it gets to be too much, she flies around the Quidditch pitch or escapes to various glens and groves in the Forbidden Forest. And as she flies over the grounds or curls up with parchment and quill beneath an oak or an ash, she makes plans.
Item #1: Despite the fact that it isn't anyone's business but hers whether she has a boyfriend or gets married, it's obvious that no one is ever going to let up on the subject.
Item #2: Ignoring the nosy idiots doesn't work.
Item #3: Telling them off doesn't work, either.
Item #4: Getting a boyfriend/husband isn't possible. Quite apart from her lack of inclination, she doesn't know how to charm or flirt. She's tried. She can't do it. It's as if everyone else passed their flirting N.E.W.T.s with an Outstanding, and she's still back in the nursery.
Item #5: Therefore, she needs someone to play the part.
But who?
And that's where she always gets stuck.
***
V. Interval-June 1933- April 1935
Her parents aren't in a hurry to arrange a marriage for her after she leaves Hogwarts-not because they've developed a sudden dislike for arranged marriages, but simply because Marius is a bigger problem than she is. For all her flaws, she's a skilled witch, and that, with her bloodlines and the family fortune, will make her desirable to someone. But Marius is as magic-less as a Muggle…and while all pureblood families produce Squibs now and again, few of them admit it. Her parents have been clinging to the notion that Marius is a late bloomer for over a decade…though it's no more plausible now than it was then.
For years, Cassiopeia stays home, doing her best to deflect her parents' rage and frustration from Marius and herself. "Playing Beater," she calls it, for being an unsatisfactory child who can't become satisfactory is quite as painful as getting hit in the arm with an iron Bludger. Worse, really, because Healers treat broken arms. They don't say, "You know, that Bludger that just hit you might have a point."
And then Marius turns seventeen-a legal adult, according to wizarding law. And their parents give up. There's an official disowning ceremony-complete with a Dark spell, cast by their father, that comes close to physically unravelling Marius-followed by Uncle Sirius, the current head of the family, burning Marius's name from the family tapestry. Then, at Uncle Sirius's command, Beaky, their insufferably smug house elf, dumps Marius by some dustbins about three houses away from Twelve Grimmauld Place.
Marius is prepared; he's transferred money from Gringotts to the Muggle world, though how he's done this without their parents noticing, Cassiopeia can't guess. And he has ideas about what he wants to do now that he's free to lead his own life without being a pureblood embarrassment.
Cassiopeia recalls this the next day when her father calls her into his study and informs her that now that Marius has been taken care of, he will resume his search for a suitable husband for her.
And suddenly, there's no time left at all.
***
VI. The Roster-April 1935
Cassiopeia spends the day drawing up lists of possible fake boyfriends. Quite a few have to be rejected because they're too closely related to her -cousins who are children of cousins who married cousins. Genetically, it would be like dating her own brother. Cassiopeia grimaces at the thought.
Once she eliminates most of the male purebloods that she's related to-which means that she's eliminated most of the male purebloods in Great Britain and Northern Ireland-she's left with five names.
Derwent Shimpling, three years her senior. Intelligent enough, despite being a Gryffindor who'll take any bet, and with a sense of the absurd…oh. He's now a professional comedian. Her parents would never stand for that. The prospect of having a comedian in the family would only cause them search all the harder for someone suitable.
Galehaut Aspinall. Good Wiltshire family-that would please her parents. A Ravenclaw, so clearly not lacking for brains. But oh, dear. He's a Healer. Her parents disapprove of Healers. Her father in particular is inclined to say (well, shout) that Healers spend entirely too much time healing the wrong sort of people. Cassiopeia assumes that means anyone whose bloodlines don't go back as far as Merlin.
Frederick Cowlishaw. Oh, definitely not. The Cowlishaws have been cursed for thirteen generations. They have the worst luck in the world.
Sarpedon Jessop. Good family, intelligent, sense of humour, works for the Ministry…oh, no. His father works for the Ministry, too, and he once opposed Aunt Belvina's daughter, Araminta Meliflua, who wants to get Muggle-hunting declared legal and who tried to force through a bill that would do just that. As far as the Blacks are concerned, the Jessops are the enemy.
In fact, it seems as if almost everyone is.
Horace Slughorn.
Hmmm.
She'd only listed him in the interests of complete accuracy; she'd never thought of dating her former Potions professor.
On the other hand, she always got on well with him at school. He's of an old pureblood family (not rich, but old), and bright, inventive and curious. Quite a social climber-but then, ambition is a Slytherin tradition, and there's something to be said for being well-connected. It's certainly better than viewing the entire world as your foe. And, from an aesthetic standpoint, he does have nice blond hair.
He isn't exactly what she had in mind. But then, there aren't a lot of other choices, are there?
It's settled, then. She has a target. Now, if only she can convince him to go along with this insane plan.
***
VII. Conspiracy-April 1935, One Week Later
"Pardon me?" Professor Slughorn asks with just a trace of disbelief in his voice. "You want me to be a make-believe boyfriend?"
They're sitting in the professor's office, drinking very fine tea out of thin, antique china teacups. She suspects that the tea is a gift from one of his highly placed allies, though she's not sure about the chinaware.
"Yes," she says, trying to sound calm. "I realize that it sounds like an imposition, but I truly do need your help. And I believe that we could both benefit."
Professor Slughorn looks intrigued. "How?"
Cassiopeia nearly smiles. This is one advantage of dealing with Slytherins; they focus on the practical aspects of problems. Taking a deep breath, she plunges into her story.
"You may remember that I never had a boyfriend or a suitor or whatever you wish to call it. That hasn't changed. I don't really want one. Or a girlfriend, either, if you were wondering."
The blush on the professor's face says that he was wondering just that. For a moment, Cassiopeia feels a flicker of irritation, but she presses on.
"Unfortunately, my parents are incapable of imagining a woman being…well, anything, including respectable…without being married. Since no one is remotely interested in me nor I in anyone, my father and mother are ready to rush me into marriage with the first pureblooded man who's marginally willing. And they'll make sure that the wedding ceremony is not only traditional but ancient, binding my magic to his so inextricably that I'll never get shut of him." She shudders. "It's everything I've dreaded since my father made my brother Pollux get married when he was a second-year at Hogwarts."
A shadow of distaste crosses his face at this. "I did hear a story about a Black who married far too young, but I thought that was no more than rumour."
Cassiopeia shakes her head. "It happened."
"That can't have been legal."
She doesn't bother to reply to this. The Blacks have never been sticklers for the law according to the Ministry, and he knows it as well as she does.
"I'm astonished that they didn't try something similar with you before you even arrived at Hogwarts."
Cassiopeia pictures a frightened child bride temporarily rendered adult by an Aging Potion and has to force herself not to be violently ill. "Marius spared Dorea and me that, at least."
This is the part she's been dreading, for there's no way to avoid mentioning her Squib brother. Her parents have been committed to founding a new dynasty of powerful wizards for years; only deep shame could have deflected them from this, even for a short while. And it doesn't help to know that almost all purebloods will understand Marius being a shame and a disgrace, or that half of them will think that he should have been drowned at birth.
If Horace Slughorn says anything approaching that, she'll cast the Entrail-Expelling Curse on him. She's had her fill of that attitude in the past three years, she truly has.
She stumbles through an abbreviated explanation; she isn't supposed to know what become of Marius after he was disowned, after all. Professor Slughorn doesn't say about exterminating those born without magic, though he does mention that Squibs generally have quite a difficult time functioning in the Wizarding World, which couldn't smack of "I don't know what to say" any louder. Still, it's polite, even if it is like announcing that jonquils bloom in springtime.
Still, he's not repulsed by the idea of dating the sister of a Squib. That's something. She should be grateful for that-except that she has no desire to be grateful for common courtesy.
Biting her tongue, she moves on to discussion of things they can do to entertain themselves. They will have to socialize publicly; it's the only way that they'll convince anyone that they're really a couple.
As it turns out, they've got a large range of things that they enjoy. Both of them like plays and concerts and Quidditch. Professor Slughorn-Horace-loves magical opera and antique anything; Cassiopeia is mad for enchanted ballets and galleries of charmed pictures. They don't like many of the same books, but each is willing to give what the other likes a chance.
"And of course there will be parties," says Horace cheerfully. "Everyone invites me. You do like parties, don't you, Cassiopeia?"
"I adore them." It's a lie, but an optimistic one; she thinks she'd like a party if she ever went to one. She's simply never been to any that wasn't an enormous family gathering.
Horace beams. "Excellent! Would you like to go to one next week? The Minister of Magic is having a soirée, and I think you'll love it."
Not quite able to believe her ears, Cassiopeia slowly nods.
And as simply as that-without upset or debate-they agree to try.
***
VIII. Complications-December 1935
About eight months later, during Hogwarts' Christmas holidays, Horace spoils everything.
All right, perhaps that isn't quite fair, but things have been going smoothly. They've spent a fair amount of time together, exchanging letters and starting to become real friends. Her parents are delighted that she's finally acquired a suitor. Even Pollux has conceded that Horace is quite a decent catch-not many Galleons, sadly, but an honoured old pureblood family. Dorea is the only one who isn't thrilled, and this has more to do with Cassiopeia dating Dory's Head of House/Potions professor than anything else. Well…that and nomenclature.
"You'll be Cassiopeia Slughorn." During the summer, Dorea reminds her of this at least twenty times a day. "Honestly, Cass. I don't know how you'll bear it."
"That sort of thing doesn't matter when you're in love," Cassiopeia retorts each time. "You needn't fret, Dory. I'll be happy."
And each time, Dorea snorts at this. "If you're in love, I'm a Norwegian Ridgeback."
But she doesn't make much fuss about this, which is a relief. The last thing Cassiopeia wants is word getting back to her parents that Horace isn't really a suitor at all.
Then Uncle Sirius holds a Christmas party at the Blacks' country estate. Everyone is invited-not just the Blacks, but all of their pureblood cousins, which amounts to most of the old pureblood families-the Crabbes, the Flints, the Gamps, the Prewetts, the Yaxleys, the Crouches, the Rosiers, the Longbottoms and so on-as well as a few "new money" relatives like the Malfoys. Granted, not everyone attends. The Lovegoods, as usual, are travelling…somewhere in the pampas of Argentina, according to rumour. Gideon Potter sends his regrets, as his wife Asenath has a nasty case of Wimbling Snuffboxes, which surprises no one-Asenath is always gripping her wand the wrong way and spraining or straining the area between her thumb and her wrist. (Though everyone also agrees that "snuffbox" is a very silly name for it.)
And, of course, no one dreams of inviting the Weasleys. They not only have a Muggle cousin, they aren't ashamed of it!
Cassiopeia nearly bites her tongue in half every time she hears this.
So it's something of a shock when Cassiopeia, clad in rose-pink robes that lend a little colour to her complexion, attends with Horace…and her cousin Cedrella appears on the arm of a handsome, dark-haired wizard with a cleft in his chin. Thanks to Marius, who's now living in the Muggle world, Cassiopeia knows exactly who the young man is, or at least who he looks like: a Muggle actor named Laurence Olivier.
And Cedrella is gazing at him with the expression of an extraordinarily satisfied cat.
Septimus Weasley, of course. It has to be. Cedrella's been sneaking about with him for a year or more. Septimus is the only one of Cedrella's friends who would need a disguise spell (it can't be Polyjuice Potion, surely-where would they get Olivier's hair?) to attend this party; he's about as welcome among the Blacks as dragon pox.
"They look very much in love, don't they?" Horace murmurs in her ear, and Cassiopeia, hoping that the evening isn't going to end in bloodshed, nods reluctantly.
What follows is the most difficult party of Cassiopeia's life. Oh, she and Horace do well enough; they dance beautifully (if a trifle awkwardly, as she's somewhat taller than he is), dine together, and talk and laugh with everyone. It should be perfect. But one look at Cedrella and Septimus, and she knows herself to be a fraud. How can anyone look at her and think that she's in love with Horace? Cedrella and Septimus are part of each other; it's impossible to miss. Not to mention that the air between them fairly sizzles.
Equally impossible to miss but twice as painful is the wistful look in Horace's eyes when he glances at them.
I told him, she reminds herself. I told him from the beginning that I wanted us to pretend to be in love. I told him why. And he agreed. He knew what he was getting into. He has no reason to be disappointed now.
None of this makes her feel any better.
Then Horace draws her aside. "I think that we need to go talk." And he motions her to follow him through a large doorway-the one leading to the estate library.
To Cassiopeia, this sounds like the crack of doom. No Black ever wants to talk unless he or she is furious, insulted or both. She trudges after him, sure that they're about to have a very public falling out that her relatives will be talking about for the next fifty years.
She nearly collides with him when he stops suddenly, turns to face her, pulls her face towards his, and kisses her on the mouth.
She's read about kisses. It seems as if every author has described them at some point or other. They're supposed to be tender yet exciting, intense, almost psychedelic. And she knows that doesn't have anything to do with whether or not you love the person; she's read plenty of books where characters who hated each other or were indifferent to each other kissed, and they had the same reaction.
This kiss is like having a piece of warm liver pressed against her lips…a liver with a slimy tongue that's trying to invade her mouth.
She tries to keep her mouth closed, but that only makes the slimy liver-tongue more insistent. After resisting for a few minutes, she decides wearily that it's easier to let him stick his tongue in her mouth and get this over with.
His tongue tastes of white wine, stuffed mushrooms and sharp cheese, and for a moment, she feels like she's going to retch. Then he pulls back to look at her, and she can tell from his expression that he thinks he's pulled off the world's most amazing coup and that now she'll realize how much she's loved him all along.
She'd slap him if it weren't for three things. First, they're standing under a mistletoe sprig; she can't really fault him for doing what's traditional. Second, they seem to have attracted an audience; they can't possibly keep up this charade if they don't act like a typical loving couple. And third…even she can see that stupid, useless hope in his eyes.
IX. Unrequited-December 1935-September 1939
Cedrella and Septimus elope shortly after that. The ensuing fury is a welcome distraction-and since this leads to Father and Uncle Sirius hosting yet another ceremony in which a Black's name is burned off the family tapestry, that's saying something.
The problem, simply, is Horace. She doesn't know whether he's fallen in love with her or convinced himself from the beginning that she loved him and just didn't know how to express it, but either way, she wishes he'd stop.
Mentally thanking Marius for telling her about post office boxes, she writes to him about this mess, if only because she has to tell somebody and she has few friends among women her age. Most of the women she knows either aren't especially close to her or are busy getting married or having children. And there's no one to talk to at home. Dorea is still off at Hogwarts: Pollux has only become stuffier over the years; his wife Irma has never wanted much to do with the one person in the family willing to mediate between her parents and a Squib; and Pollux's and Irma's children are, well, children. As she grew up, she became less close to her mother. And as for her father…he's keeping her on a very short leash.
If it weren't for Horace, she wouldn't see anyone at all. She'd barely be allowed to leave the house. Under the circumstances, she really should appease him.
She doesn't want to appease him. She just wants things to go back to the way they were. For she does like him enormously-just not romantically. And she senses that she's never, ever going to be attracted to him…or to anyone. No one's to blame. It's just the way that she is.
She also has a terrible feeling that his pride will never let him believe that.
The relationship limps along, somehow, for the next four years. That's when the war starts.
***
X. War Bride-Autumn 1939-Spring 1940
It's hard to disregard Muggles when they're dropping bombs on London, but her parents and brother do their best. Pollux and Irma spend their days fretting about what the Muggles are doing to witches and wizards in Scotland and whether or not fourteen-year-old Walburga and twelve-year-old Alphard would be safer at home, despite the bombs. And no wonder-the Daily Prophet is filled with stories each day about Muggles conspiring with Grindelwald to shatter the will of the Wizarding World and to kill anyone who might have the backbone to resist. Her mother, who loathes the newspapers, chooses to believe that the Muggles are all under the Imperius Curse; they couldn't possibly be desirable as allies, but the Dark Lord might use them as tools.
But her father decides that Grindelwald is not involved at all. "The Muggles have decided to kill us all with the equivalent of fire spells, " he says over and over again. "I don't want anyone leaving this house. The spells on this house will protect you as long as you're under its roof. You'll be safe if you don't go outside. "
This isn't a problem for Dorea, now twenty. She gets married that year to Gideon and Asenath Potter's son Charlus, a thin, brown-eyed, good-natured pureblood with perpetually messy brown hair, and moves far from London. But her father's command leaves Cassiopeia stranded at Twelve Grimmauld Place with four other adults, all convinced that Muggles are going to kill them, a frightened spoiled child of ten, and an increasingly infirm house elf. And with nothing but terror and confusion and speculation from the Daily Prophet (albeit speculation dressed up as fact), the fear and hatred of Muggles grows worse among Cassiopeia' s relatives…that is, all purebloods…every day.
The "romance" starts unravelling, too-or perhaps it's just that this years'-long engagement has worn thin. Horace can't visit nearly as often; the Ministry started restricting flying brooms after two or three Muggle pilots saw witches and wizards soaring above rural villages and racing past the white cliffs of Dover. Owl mail seems to be slower as well; there's a persistent rumour that Aurors and Unspeakables are checking all magical letters and packages for secret, coded messages to Grindelwald's followers. Aware of all these things and not liking them one bit, her parents start making noises about how she really needs to get married now-to her cousin Regulus, if she's had a falling out with Horace-and move to Scotland where she'll be safe and happy.
She can tell by the way that they talk that they imagine the Wizarding World around Hogwarts to be pristine and perfect, completely untouched by the war. So she decides to oblige them. Halfway, at any rate.
It isn't nearly as difficult as it should be to gather her documents together, pack her clothes and buy a ticket on the Hogwarts Express. Nor is it hard to write her parents a note saying that she's eloping to Scotland to be with Horace, because she isn't getting any younger and she does want to be happy.
The last part isn't even a lie.
The train trip to Scotland takes a day, and by the time she arrives in Hogsmeade, she's utterly exhausted. The next day, however, she goes to Hogwarts to talk to Horace. Once again, he's in his office, and she feels an odd sense of dejá vu.
She notes as she walks in that his hair is much thinner than it was four years ago and that he's somewhat plumper than anyone she's seen in London for quite some time. Muggles and wizards alike are living on rationed food these days; she can't remember the last time she saw butter or sugar on the table. What little there is goes for cooking ingredients; there's none to spare.
Clearly, then, Horace is spending his time with people who can get fine food despite rationing-and most of them aren't Old Guard purebloods. The Old Guard isn't even trying to adapt to rationing or bombings or air raid shelters; they seem to be trying to ignore the war into nonexistence. She hopes that Horace's new friends are more logical than this. They certainly seem better prepared.
"Cassiopeia!" His face lights up. "It's good to see you! Have you…er…considered my last offer?"
Cassiopeia closes the office door behind her, settles herself on the chair next to Horace's desk and delicately removes her gloves. "As a matter of fact, my parents believe that I've eloped to Scotland. I imagine that they'll be disabused of that notion fairly quickly, but I needed them to believe it so that I could escape. Living with eternally angry people-most of whom had resumed their marriage-related nagging-was becoming somewhat intolerable."
Frowning, he seats himself at his desk. "Why do they think that you've eloped?"
"Most likely because of the note I left saying that I had," Cassiopeia replies in a dry tone. "I apologize for that. It was the only thing I could say that wouldn't drive them to cast the Full-Body Bind at me as I walked out the door."
"I think you're exaggerating." His gentle tone causes her to snarl internally. "Your home isn't a prison."
"My home- " Cassiopeia starts to say, not sure how she's going to end the sentence. Then she closes her mouth , hesitates for a moment, and then takes a deep, deep breath. "My home isn't a home. It's…it's an arena, a place of constant testing where you can't let any difference show. Because 'difference' is the same as 'weakness' to a lot of the audience. Merlin's beard, Horace, you know that! That's why I've needed a make-believe suitor for years!"
"I don't have to be a make-believe one. I could give you a better home."
Cassiopeia closes her eyes and counts to ten. "Horace. I'm nearly twenty-five. I don't want a husband or children. It's not just that I don't want you-I don't want anyone that way. My parents know that, but they persist in treating me as if someday I'm going to wake up with an insatiable desire for a husband, bushels of…" Here she scrambles for a suitable euphemism; Horace becomes so perturbed when she uses words he deems to be "crude." "Bushels of intimate encounters, and at least twelve children. That's not who I am."
He fiddles with a quill made from a peacock's feather as he carefully avoids looking at her. "People can change."
She gives him what she hopes is a steely glare. "Really. Suppose you were born a Squib and your family insisted that you had gobs of magic. And not only them, but the entire Wizarding World kept telling you the same thing. It doesn't matter how often you prove that magic just isn't part of you-everyone insists that of course it's part of you and of course you love it, because everyone loves it. You're just lazy. Or a late bloomer. Or maybe you're simply not trying hard enough, and you could be the greatest wizard since Merlin if you just put forth a bit more effort.
"Imagine how exhausting it would be if that was what everyone demanded of you, day in, day out. Not just your family. Not just society. Books. Art. Celestina Warbeck's songs. Holidays. Even certain food, which is supposed to make you more magical. And you can't cast a spell or brew a potion to save your life. It's a demand that you can't possibly satisfy…and no one even realizes that it is a demand. They just think that's the way things are meant to be. No one thinks that expecting everyone in the world to have the same skills or tastes is silly. No. If you can't do or be whatever everyone expects, it's not the expectation that's wrong. Something's wrong with you."
Belatedly, she realizes that Horace is staring at her. Small wonder, considering that she just committed heresy. Apparently, she'd picked up more ideas from Marius than she'd realized.
"When did you become a Squib supporter?" Horace asks at last, running one hand through his thinning hair.
Well, in for a Knut, in for a Galleon. "Since I was born with a brother who's one. And don't change the subject. You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. "
"Oh, come now. Love and marriage aren't bad things."
"I never said that they were!" Cassiopeia retorts. "I don't mind if anyone falls in love or gets married-why would I? If they want to, good! I just get tired of everyone telling me that marriage and children are not only my destiny, but my inevitable destiny-and one that I should be delighted about, at that. I don't like people assuming that they know what's best for me…or disregarding how I feel because they want me to choose something else." She gives him what she hopes is a very pointed look.
Horace quickly glances away, muttering something about having hoped that she'd come around someday, because they could be happy-
"Don't you pretend that I'm someone that I'm not. You're my friend. You know me better than that."
Frowning, he changes the subject. "How long a holiday are you taking?"
Give me strength. "I'm not 'on holiday', Horace. I left. I'm not going back to Twelve Grimmauld Place…though as long as I behave properly, that shouldn't be a problem. "
"Your father will loathe you living away from the family. He'll think it quite disreputable."
"Yes. So will Pollux. I believe I can find a way around that, though. War work, maybe. Neither of them can object to me doing my bit. At least not publicly." She's heard rumours about a village near Inverness filled with cryptographers who specialize in codes based on ancient runes. One of her best subjects, that. Cassiopeia smiles at the thought.
To her surprise, Horace doesn't smile back. "So…you shan't need me any longer."
But I already explained this! "Horace," she says, taking his hands in hers, "I'm always going to need you as a friend. Or didn't it occur to you that I could have just as easily taken a train to Wales or Cornwall?"
His expression says it all.
"Besides," she adds, "I enjoy spending time with you. I just enjoy it more when you're not pressing me to marry you."
"I can't get over it instantly."
"I don't expect that." But I hope, she thinks, that you will eventually.
***
XI. Hearts and Flowers-February 1941
They leave it at that.
Predictably, her parents are furious with her; they fear that she's ruined her chances with Horace, running off to him like that. Even her completely honest assertion that yes, she's staying in Scotland to help with the war effort doesn't satisfy them. Horace manages to placate them, though, convincing them that he will be happy to wed her when he becomes Headmaster of Hogwarts…implying that she couldn't possibly marry a mere teacher. Since Headmaster Dippet has been in charge for decades (and seems to be immortal), this gives her parents hope while essentially postponing the matter forever.
While at the decoder village, Cassiopeia worries for weeks that Horace is only pretending to go along with what she wants. She can't see any sign that he's clinging to how he feels, but she hadn't known he was falling for her until he'd kissed her, either. And she doesn't think that putting his feelings aside will be easy. She can't put aside her lack of romantic feelings, after all.
Life goes on. She works. She learns, after considerable trial and error, to cook; before, the family house elf had always taken care of the cooking. She makes friends with several of the witches she works with . She and Horace owl each other, meet in Hogsmeade when they have a free Saturday, and attend parties when they have the time, money and transportation…all three of which are increasingly rare, as the war goes on. She even manages to find a Muggle post office and hire a post office box so that she can continue mailing Marius. But she still wonders, on occasion, if everything really is all right or if he's just very, very good at hiding how he truly feels.
Months pass.
Then, the day after Valentine's Day, he staggers off the Knight Bus and marches up to her door, a sizable parcel in one hand and a bouquet under the other arm.
"Sorry I couldn't be here yesterday," he puffs after she invites him in. "Friday lessons, you know. But I didn't want you to think I'd forgotten you."
For a moment, Cassiopeia is uneasy…but then he hands her the bouquet and she takes a good look at it. Irises. Chrysanthemums. Daisies.
One thing that Blacks learn early is how to communicate in ways that don't look like communication. Cassiopeia is well-versed in the language of flowers, relished by Victorian witches and Edwardian wizard-spies. And she's told Horace all about it.
Mentally, she translates each flower into its message. Irises: cherished friendship. Chrysanthemums: you are a wonderful friend. Daisies: loyalty.
"Thank you," she says, smiling down at him. "That's lovely."
"You're welcome," he replies with a bow. "Now, please, open the parcel."
She raises an eyebrow, but does as he asks. The parcel contains a box of heart-shaped gingerbread cookies, each one bearing the bust of a Greek man drawn in icing.
For a moment, she's puzzled. Greek love? He can't be alluding to that, can he?
But then, it's as if a torch illuminates her mind. And, understanding, she smiles. It's not the nationality that matters; it's the man's identity. And while there are quite a lot of famous Greeks, there's only one whose name is appropriate when talking about love. Only one whose name would send the right message-that she doesn't have to be afraid any longer, that he's gotten past it, and that everything is all right.
I love you platonically.
Author: ???
Pairing: Cassiopeia Black/Horace Slughorn, Cedrella Black/Septimus Weasley
Rating: Teen
Prompt: Horace loves Cassiopeia. The only reasons she's holding on to him is so her parents don't arrange a marriage for her. (It would be cool if Cass was asexual or a lesbian, but maybe she just really doesn't want to get married for whatever reason.)
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Content Information/Warnings: None
Summary: Cassiopeia Black isn't interested in anyone, romantically or sexually. Her family doesn't see that as a viable choice.
Author's Notes: Nowadays, we'd say that Cassiopeia is an aromantic asexual. She doesn't refer to herself as such because Cass was born in 1915; the term was originally used (in 1830) to refer to plants and animals that reproduced without sex and (in 1896) to plants and animals without sex or sex organs. The concept of people who lack interest in or desire for sex is much more recent; Kinsey didn't come up with it until the mid-forties (he called asexuals "gender X"), and the first empirical study using the word "asexual" in the current sense was done in 1983-when Cassiopeia was sixty-eight years old.
Nor is she supposed to be representative of all asexuals. The range of asexuality is huge. She's just herself.
I. Happily Never After-1923
Eight-year-old Cassiopeia Black isn't interested in pairing up with anyone.
She knows that she'll probably marry, because marriage is part of adult business-a lifelong exchange of wealth and property with a person whom you might not even know but to whom you're not so closely related as to cause legal tangles that will last for millennia. She accepts this without question.
However, mildly liking the person whom you marry is, at least among the Blacks and their myriad cousins, a rare and unexpected bonus. Loving the person that you marry only happens in stories…and Cassiopeia can't help but notice that tales of true love almost always end with the death of one or both lovers. On the other hand, living in a perpetual state of (at worst) homicidal loathing to (at best) dull apathy is no better.
Avoiding the entire mess seems the wisest choice.
***
II. Familial Expectations-Sixth Year (1931-1932)
Unfortunately, no one lets her avoid it.
Her mother wants to know (with increasing desperation, as the years go by) if any boys at Hogwarts have caught her eye. Her father demands explanations for why decent pureblood boys aren't interested in her.
Pollux, her nineteen-year-old brother who got married to Irma Crabbe at, Merlin's beard, the age of twelve (and not because Irma had been preggers, either), thinks that their parents should simply arrange a marriage for her the way they did for him. "You're sixteen," he tells her in pompous letters sealed with the family crest. "You aren't getting any younger, after all. And it isn't as if you're the sort who naturally attracts men by being beautiful or witty." All of which is mercilessly accurate and makes Cass want to fling Pollux into an active volcano.
Her sister Dorea-a first-year who already has eleven- and twelve-year-old boys crushing on her-says bluntly that Cassiopeia is nothing but an embarrassment, a social disaster who never goes out on dates and doesn't even care that she doesn't get asked.
It's as if everyone is playing a complicated game whose rules are constantly changing, and they insist that she play, too-but no one will tell her the rules.
Her thirteen-year-old brother Marius thinks that everyone else should just leave her the hell alone, and she heartily agrees. But he's a Squib, so his opinion doesn't count. And she's…well, she's the Black who can't attract anyone. She received Outstandings in six of her O.W.L.s, won the school-wide Duelling Cup, and is a very good Beater…but none of those things matter, because she doesn't have boys fighting to be by her side.
***
III. Pecking Order- Sixth Year (1931-1932)
The other girls in Slytherin whisper about Cassiopeia, and she doesn't know why. And if they aren't whispering, they're questioning her, and, and that puzzles her, too, because they don't seem particularly interested in her answers.
"Haven't you ever been in love?"
"No."
"Haven't you she ever wanted to be in love?"
"No."
"Isn't Abraxes Malfoy absolutely gorgeous?"
"I suppose."
"Why don't you ask him out, then?"
"Because I don't want to go out with him, and he's already dating Persephone Greatorex."
"You could steal him away."
"Weren't you listening? I said I don't want to!"
"Why not? He's quite a catch. Unless…are you only interested in girls, 'Peia?"
There's no point in answering. Most of the girls at Hogwarts-led by that horrible little Hufflepuff, Beatrice Oxspring-have made up their minds that if she's not going after boys, she's the sort who, to quote Beatrice, "follows the tennis at Eastbourne." She doesn't know why being interested in a game means thinking that girls are more desirable than boys, but she can tell from the superior glances and nasty, sniggering laughter that follows her in the halls that plenty of people think that Beatrice and her band of sycophants are right.
It's rather like being slowly pecked to death by ducks. One peck is awful, but you can live with that. But when the pecking never stops, it becomes intolerable.
The only thing keeping her from hexing the ducklings, as she thinks of them, en masse is the conviction that some idiots would take it as proof that the Oxspring beast was right. And Beatrice isn't right. Cass doesn't know what's different about her-or why everyone makes such an everlasting fuss about it-but it isn't that.
She tells herself she doesn't care what they think. She's a Black, and therefore much better than any of them.
And if she manages to have a few subtle, sneaky "accidents" with potions and curses with some of the key ducklings…well, she's a Slytherin, not a martyr.
***
IV. Plans- Seventh Year (1932-1933)
By her seventh year, though, things become unbearable. With unerring timing, her parents, Pollux, Dorea, their cousins, and the girls at school all simultaneously execute their demands that she must become more interested in her looks, must acquire a young wizard-preferably a rich one of good family-as an arm decoration, and must marry him in the most formal and unbreakable of magical marriage ceremonies before he thinks better of it and dashes off to Patagonia.
Being told over and over again that she's defective, unattractive, bereft of charm, and downright abnormal by people who claim that they're just trying to help (but who seem to take inordinate delight in ripping her apart) gets wearing after a while. When it gets to be too much, she flies around the Quidditch pitch or escapes to various glens and groves in the Forbidden Forest. And as she flies over the grounds or curls up with parchment and quill beneath an oak or an ash, she makes plans.
Item #1: Despite the fact that it isn't anyone's business but hers whether she has a boyfriend or gets married, it's obvious that no one is ever going to let up on the subject.
Item #2: Ignoring the nosy idiots doesn't work.
Item #3: Telling them off doesn't work, either.
Item #4: Getting a boyfriend/husband isn't possible. Quite apart from her lack of inclination, she doesn't know how to charm or flirt. She's tried. She can't do it. It's as if everyone else passed their flirting N.E.W.T.s with an Outstanding, and she's still back in the nursery.
Item #5: Therefore, she needs someone to play the part.
But who?
And that's where she always gets stuck.
***
V. Interval-June 1933- April 1935
Her parents aren't in a hurry to arrange a marriage for her after she leaves Hogwarts-not because they've developed a sudden dislike for arranged marriages, but simply because Marius is a bigger problem than she is. For all her flaws, she's a skilled witch, and that, with her bloodlines and the family fortune, will make her desirable to someone. But Marius is as magic-less as a Muggle…and while all pureblood families produce Squibs now and again, few of them admit it. Her parents have been clinging to the notion that Marius is a late bloomer for over a decade…though it's no more plausible now than it was then.
For years, Cassiopeia stays home, doing her best to deflect her parents' rage and frustration from Marius and herself. "Playing Beater," she calls it, for being an unsatisfactory child who can't become satisfactory is quite as painful as getting hit in the arm with an iron Bludger. Worse, really, because Healers treat broken arms. They don't say, "You know, that Bludger that just hit you might have a point."
And then Marius turns seventeen-a legal adult, according to wizarding law. And their parents give up. There's an official disowning ceremony-complete with a Dark spell, cast by their father, that comes close to physically unravelling Marius-followed by Uncle Sirius, the current head of the family, burning Marius's name from the family tapestry. Then, at Uncle Sirius's command, Beaky, their insufferably smug house elf, dumps Marius by some dustbins about three houses away from Twelve Grimmauld Place.
Marius is prepared; he's transferred money from Gringotts to the Muggle world, though how he's done this without their parents noticing, Cassiopeia can't guess. And he has ideas about what he wants to do now that he's free to lead his own life without being a pureblood embarrassment.
Cassiopeia recalls this the next day when her father calls her into his study and informs her that now that Marius has been taken care of, he will resume his search for a suitable husband for her.
And suddenly, there's no time left at all.
***
VI. The Roster-April 1935
Cassiopeia spends the day drawing up lists of possible fake boyfriends. Quite a few have to be rejected because they're too closely related to her -cousins who are children of cousins who married cousins. Genetically, it would be like dating her own brother. Cassiopeia grimaces at the thought.
Once she eliminates most of the male purebloods that she's related to-which means that she's eliminated most of the male purebloods in Great Britain and Northern Ireland-she's left with five names.
Derwent Shimpling, three years her senior. Intelligent enough, despite being a Gryffindor who'll take any bet, and with a sense of the absurd…oh. He's now a professional comedian. Her parents would never stand for that. The prospect of having a comedian in the family would only cause them search all the harder for someone suitable.
Galehaut Aspinall. Good Wiltshire family-that would please her parents. A Ravenclaw, so clearly not lacking for brains. But oh, dear. He's a Healer. Her parents disapprove of Healers. Her father in particular is inclined to say (well, shout) that Healers spend entirely too much time healing the wrong sort of people. Cassiopeia assumes that means anyone whose bloodlines don't go back as far as Merlin.
Frederick Cowlishaw. Oh, definitely not. The Cowlishaws have been cursed for thirteen generations. They have the worst luck in the world.
Sarpedon Jessop. Good family, intelligent, sense of humour, works for the Ministry…oh, no. His father works for the Ministry, too, and he once opposed Aunt Belvina's daughter, Araminta Meliflua, who wants to get Muggle-hunting declared legal and who tried to force through a bill that would do just that. As far as the Blacks are concerned, the Jessops are the enemy.
In fact, it seems as if almost everyone is.
Horace Slughorn.
Hmmm.
She'd only listed him in the interests of complete accuracy; she'd never thought of dating her former Potions professor.
On the other hand, she always got on well with him at school. He's of an old pureblood family (not rich, but old), and bright, inventive and curious. Quite a social climber-but then, ambition is a Slytherin tradition, and there's something to be said for being well-connected. It's certainly better than viewing the entire world as your foe. And, from an aesthetic standpoint, he does have nice blond hair.
He isn't exactly what she had in mind. But then, there aren't a lot of other choices, are there?
It's settled, then. She has a target. Now, if only she can convince him to go along with this insane plan.
***
VII. Conspiracy-April 1935, One Week Later
"Pardon me?" Professor Slughorn asks with just a trace of disbelief in his voice. "You want me to be a make-believe boyfriend?"
They're sitting in the professor's office, drinking very fine tea out of thin, antique china teacups. She suspects that the tea is a gift from one of his highly placed allies, though she's not sure about the chinaware.
"Yes," she says, trying to sound calm. "I realize that it sounds like an imposition, but I truly do need your help. And I believe that we could both benefit."
Professor Slughorn looks intrigued. "How?"
Cassiopeia nearly smiles. This is one advantage of dealing with Slytherins; they focus on the practical aspects of problems. Taking a deep breath, she plunges into her story.
"You may remember that I never had a boyfriend or a suitor or whatever you wish to call it. That hasn't changed. I don't really want one. Or a girlfriend, either, if you were wondering."
The blush on the professor's face says that he was wondering just that. For a moment, Cassiopeia feels a flicker of irritation, but she presses on.
"Unfortunately, my parents are incapable of imagining a woman being…well, anything, including respectable…without being married. Since no one is remotely interested in me nor I in anyone, my father and mother are ready to rush me into marriage with the first pureblooded man who's marginally willing. And they'll make sure that the wedding ceremony is not only traditional but ancient, binding my magic to his so inextricably that I'll never get shut of him." She shudders. "It's everything I've dreaded since my father made my brother Pollux get married when he was a second-year at Hogwarts."
A shadow of distaste crosses his face at this. "I did hear a story about a Black who married far too young, but I thought that was no more than rumour."
Cassiopeia shakes her head. "It happened."
"That can't have been legal."
She doesn't bother to reply to this. The Blacks have never been sticklers for the law according to the Ministry, and he knows it as well as she does.
"I'm astonished that they didn't try something similar with you before you even arrived at Hogwarts."
Cassiopeia pictures a frightened child bride temporarily rendered adult by an Aging Potion and has to force herself not to be violently ill. "Marius spared Dorea and me that, at least."
This is the part she's been dreading, for there's no way to avoid mentioning her Squib brother. Her parents have been committed to founding a new dynasty of powerful wizards for years; only deep shame could have deflected them from this, even for a short while. And it doesn't help to know that almost all purebloods will understand Marius being a shame and a disgrace, or that half of them will think that he should have been drowned at birth.
If Horace Slughorn says anything approaching that, she'll cast the Entrail-Expelling Curse on him. She's had her fill of that attitude in the past three years, she truly has.
She stumbles through an abbreviated explanation; she isn't supposed to know what become of Marius after he was disowned, after all. Professor Slughorn doesn't say about exterminating those born without magic, though he does mention that Squibs generally have quite a difficult time functioning in the Wizarding World, which couldn't smack of "I don't know what to say" any louder. Still, it's polite, even if it is like announcing that jonquils bloom in springtime.
Still, he's not repulsed by the idea of dating the sister of a Squib. That's something. She should be grateful for that-except that she has no desire to be grateful for common courtesy.
Biting her tongue, she moves on to discussion of things they can do to entertain themselves. They will have to socialize publicly; it's the only way that they'll convince anyone that they're really a couple.
As it turns out, they've got a large range of things that they enjoy. Both of them like plays and concerts and Quidditch. Professor Slughorn-Horace-loves magical opera and antique anything; Cassiopeia is mad for enchanted ballets and galleries of charmed pictures. They don't like many of the same books, but each is willing to give what the other likes a chance.
"And of course there will be parties," says Horace cheerfully. "Everyone invites me. You do like parties, don't you, Cassiopeia?"
"I adore them." It's a lie, but an optimistic one; she thinks she'd like a party if she ever went to one. She's simply never been to any that wasn't an enormous family gathering.
Horace beams. "Excellent! Would you like to go to one next week? The Minister of Magic is having a soirée, and I think you'll love it."
Not quite able to believe her ears, Cassiopeia slowly nods.
And as simply as that-without upset or debate-they agree to try.
***
VIII. Complications-December 1935
About eight months later, during Hogwarts' Christmas holidays, Horace spoils everything.
All right, perhaps that isn't quite fair, but things have been going smoothly. They've spent a fair amount of time together, exchanging letters and starting to become real friends. Her parents are delighted that she's finally acquired a suitor. Even Pollux has conceded that Horace is quite a decent catch-not many Galleons, sadly, but an honoured old pureblood family. Dorea is the only one who isn't thrilled, and this has more to do with Cassiopeia dating Dory's Head of House/Potions professor than anything else. Well…that and nomenclature.
"You'll be Cassiopeia Slughorn." During the summer, Dorea reminds her of this at least twenty times a day. "Honestly, Cass. I don't know how you'll bear it."
"That sort of thing doesn't matter when you're in love," Cassiopeia retorts each time. "You needn't fret, Dory. I'll be happy."
And each time, Dorea snorts at this. "If you're in love, I'm a Norwegian Ridgeback."
But she doesn't make much fuss about this, which is a relief. The last thing Cassiopeia wants is word getting back to her parents that Horace isn't really a suitor at all.
Then Uncle Sirius holds a Christmas party at the Blacks' country estate. Everyone is invited-not just the Blacks, but all of their pureblood cousins, which amounts to most of the old pureblood families-the Crabbes, the Flints, the Gamps, the Prewetts, the Yaxleys, the Crouches, the Rosiers, the Longbottoms and so on-as well as a few "new money" relatives like the Malfoys. Granted, not everyone attends. The Lovegoods, as usual, are travelling…somewhere in the pampas of Argentina, according to rumour. Gideon Potter sends his regrets, as his wife Asenath has a nasty case of Wimbling Snuffboxes, which surprises no one-Asenath is always gripping her wand the wrong way and spraining or straining the area between her thumb and her wrist. (Though everyone also agrees that "snuffbox" is a very silly name for it.)
And, of course, no one dreams of inviting the Weasleys. They not only have a Muggle cousin, they aren't ashamed of it!
Cassiopeia nearly bites her tongue in half every time she hears this.
So it's something of a shock when Cassiopeia, clad in rose-pink robes that lend a little colour to her complexion, attends with Horace…and her cousin Cedrella appears on the arm of a handsome, dark-haired wizard with a cleft in his chin. Thanks to Marius, who's now living in the Muggle world, Cassiopeia knows exactly who the young man is, or at least who he looks like: a Muggle actor named Laurence Olivier.
And Cedrella is gazing at him with the expression of an extraordinarily satisfied cat.
Septimus Weasley, of course. It has to be. Cedrella's been sneaking about with him for a year or more. Septimus is the only one of Cedrella's friends who would need a disguise spell (it can't be Polyjuice Potion, surely-where would they get Olivier's hair?) to attend this party; he's about as welcome among the Blacks as dragon pox.
"They look very much in love, don't they?" Horace murmurs in her ear, and Cassiopeia, hoping that the evening isn't going to end in bloodshed, nods reluctantly.
What follows is the most difficult party of Cassiopeia's life. Oh, she and Horace do well enough; they dance beautifully (if a trifle awkwardly, as she's somewhat taller than he is), dine together, and talk and laugh with everyone. It should be perfect. But one look at Cedrella and Septimus, and she knows herself to be a fraud. How can anyone look at her and think that she's in love with Horace? Cedrella and Septimus are part of each other; it's impossible to miss. Not to mention that the air between them fairly sizzles.
Equally impossible to miss but twice as painful is the wistful look in Horace's eyes when he glances at them.
I told him, she reminds herself. I told him from the beginning that I wanted us to pretend to be in love. I told him why. And he agreed. He knew what he was getting into. He has no reason to be disappointed now.
None of this makes her feel any better.
Then Horace draws her aside. "I think that we need to go talk." And he motions her to follow him through a large doorway-the one leading to the estate library.
To Cassiopeia, this sounds like the crack of doom. No Black ever wants to talk unless he or she is furious, insulted or both. She trudges after him, sure that they're about to have a very public falling out that her relatives will be talking about for the next fifty years.
She nearly collides with him when he stops suddenly, turns to face her, pulls her face towards his, and kisses her on the mouth.
She's read about kisses. It seems as if every author has described them at some point or other. They're supposed to be tender yet exciting, intense, almost psychedelic. And she knows that doesn't have anything to do with whether or not you love the person; she's read plenty of books where characters who hated each other or were indifferent to each other kissed, and they had the same reaction.
This kiss is like having a piece of warm liver pressed against her lips…a liver with a slimy tongue that's trying to invade her mouth.
She tries to keep her mouth closed, but that only makes the slimy liver-tongue more insistent. After resisting for a few minutes, she decides wearily that it's easier to let him stick his tongue in her mouth and get this over with.
His tongue tastes of white wine, stuffed mushrooms and sharp cheese, and for a moment, she feels like she's going to retch. Then he pulls back to look at her, and she can tell from his expression that he thinks he's pulled off the world's most amazing coup and that now she'll realize how much she's loved him all along.
She'd slap him if it weren't for three things. First, they're standing under a mistletoe sprig; she can't really fault him for doing what's traditional. Second, they seem to have attracted an audience; they can't possibly keep up this charade if they don't act like a typical loving couple. And third…even she can see that stupid, useless hope in his eyes.
IX. Unrequited-December 1935-September 1939
Cedrella and Septimus elope shortly after that. The ensuing fury is a welcome distraction-and since this leads to Father and Uncle Sirius hosting yet another ceremony in which a Black's name is burned off the family tapestry, that's saying something.
The problem, simply, is Horace. She doesn't know whether he's fallen in love with her or convinced himself from the beginning that she loved him and just didn't know how to express it, but either way, she wishes he'd stop.
Mentally thanking Marius for telling her about post office boxes, she writes to him about this mess, if only because she has to tell somebody and she has few friends among women her age. Most of the women she knows either aren't especially close to her or are busy getting married or having children. And there's no one to talk to at home. Dorea is still off at Hogwarts: Pollux has only become stuffier over the years; his wife Irma has never wanted much to do with the one person in the family willing to mediate between her parents and a Squib; and Pollux's and Irma's children are, well, children. As she grew up, she became less close to her mother. And as for her father…he's keeping her on a very short leash.
If it weren't for Horace, she wouldn't see anyone at all. She'd barely be allowed to leave the house. Under the circumstances, she really should appease him.
She doesn't want to appease him. She just wants things to go back to the way they were. For she does like him enormously-just not romantically. And she senses that she's never, ever going to be attracted to him…or to anyone. No one's to blame. It's just the way that she is.
She also has a terrible feeling that his pride will never let him believe that.
The relationship limps along, somehow, for the next four years. That's when the war starts.
***
X. War Bride-Autumn 1939-Spring 1940
It's hard to disregard Muggles when they're dropping bombs on London, but her parents and brother do their best. Pollux and Irma spend their days fretting about what the Muggles are doing to witches and wizards in Scotland and whether or not fourteen-year-old Walburga and twelve-year-old Alphard would be safer at home, despite the bombs. And no wonder-the Daily Prophet is filled with stories each day about Muggles conspiring with Grindelwald to shatter the will of the Wizarding World and to kill anyone who might have the backbone to resist. Her mother, who loathes the newspapers, chooses to believe that the Muggles are all under the Imperius Curse; they couldn't possibly be desirable as allies, but the Dark Lord might use them as tools.
But her father decides that Grindelwald is not involved at all. "The Muggles have decided to kill us all with the equivalent of fire spells, " he says over and over again. "I don't want anyone leaving this house. The spells on this house will protect you as long as you're under its roof. You'll be safe if you don't go outside. "
This isn't a problem for Dorea, now twenty. She gets married that year to Gideon and Asenath Potter's son Charlus, a thin, brown-eyed, good-natured pureblood with perpetually messy brown hair, and moves far from London. But her father's command leaves Cassiopeia stranded at Twelve Grimmauld Place with four other adults, all convinced that Muggles are going to kill them, a frightened spoiled child of ten, and an increasingly infirm house elf. And with nothing but terror and confusion and speculation from the Daily Prophet (albeit speculation dressed up as fact), the fear and hatred of Muggles grows worse among Cassiopeia' s relatives…that is, all purebloods…every day.
The "romance" starts unravelling, too-or perhaps it's just that this years'-long engagement has worn thin. Horace can't visit nearly as often; the Ministry started restricting flying brooms after two or three Muggle pilots saw witches and wizards soaring above rural villages and racing past the white cliffs of Dover. Owl mail seems to be slower as well; there's a persistent rumour that Aurors and Unspeakables are checking all magical letters and packages for secret, coded messages to Grindelwald's followers. Aware of all these things and not liking them one bit, her parents start making noises about how she really needs to get married now-to her cousin Regulus, if she's had a falling out with Horace-and move to Scotland where she'll be safe and happy.
She can tell by the way that they talk that they imagine the Wizarding World around Hogwarts to be pristine and perfect, completely untouched by the war. So she decides to oblige them. Halfway, at any rate.
It isn't nearly as difficult as it should be to gather her documents together, pack her clothes and buy a ticket on the Hogwarts Express. Nor is it hard to write her parents a note saying that she's eloping to Scotland to be with Horace, because she isn't getting any younger and she does want to be happy.
The last part isn't even a lie.
The train trip to Scotland takes a day, and by the time she arrives in Hogsmeade, she's utterly exhausted. The next day, however, she goes to Hogwarts to talk to Horace. Once again, he's in his office, and she feels an odd sense of dejá vu.
She notes as she walks in that his hair is much thinner than it was four years ago and that he's somewhat plumper than anyone she's seen in London for quite some time. Muggles and wizards alike are living on rationed food these days; she can't remember the last time she saw butter or sugar on the table. What little there is goes for cooking ingredients; there's none to spare.
Clearly, then, Horace is spending his time with people who can get fine food despite rationing-and most of them aren't Old Guard purebloods. The Old Guard isn't even trying to adapt to rationing or bombings or air raid shelters; they seem to be trying to ignore the war into nonexistence. She hopes that Horace's new friends are more logical than this. They certainly seem better prepared.
"Cassiopeia!" His face lights up. "It's good to see you! Have you…er…considered my last offer?"
Cassiopeia closes the office door behind her, settles herself on the chair next to Horace's desk and delicately removes her gloves. "As a matter of fact, my parents believe that I've eloped to Scotland. I imagine that they'll be disabused of that notion fairly quickly, but I needed them to believe it so that I could escape. Living with eternally angry people-most of whom had resumed their marriage-related nagging-was becoming somewhat intolerable."
Frowning, he seats himself at his desk. "Why do they think that you've eloped?"
"Most likely because of the note I left saying that I had," Cassiopeia replies in a dry tone. "I apologize for that. It was the only thing I could say that wouldn't drive them to cast the Full-Body Bind at me as I walked out the door."
"I think you're exaggerating." His gentle tone causes her to snarl internally. "Your home isn't a prison."
"My home- " Cassiopeia starts to say, not sure how she's going to end the sentence. Then she closes her mouth , hesitates for a moment, and then takes a deep, deep breath. "My home isn't a home. It's…it's an arena, a place of constant testing where you can't let any difference show. Because 'difference' is the same as 'weakness' to a lot of the audience. Merlin's beard, Horace, you know that! That's why I've needed a make-believe suitor for years!"
"I don't have to be a make-believe one. I could give you a better home."
Cassiopeia closes her eyes and counts to ten. "Horace. I'm nearly twenty-five. I don't want a husband or children. It's not just that I don't want you-I don't want anyone that way. My parents know that, but they persist in treating me as if someday I'm going to wake up with an insatiable desire for a husband, bushels of…" Here she scrambles for a suitable euphemism; Horace becomes so perturbed when she uses words he deems to be "crude." "Bushels of intimate encounters, and at least twelve children. That's not who I am."
He fiddles with a quill made from a peacock's feather as he carefully avoids looking at her. "People can change."
She gives him what she hopes is a steely glare. "Really. Suppose you were born a Squib and your family insisted that you had gobs of magic. And not only them, but the entire Wizarding World kept telling you the same thing. It doesn't matter how often you prove that magic just isn't part of you-everyone insists that of course it's part of you and of course you love it, because everyone loves it. You're just lazy. Or a late bloomer. Or maybe you're simply not trying hard enough, and you could be the greatest wizard since Merlin if you just put forth a bit more effort.
"Imagine how exhausting it would be if that was what everyone demanded of you, day in, day out. Not just your family. Not just society. Books. Art. Celestina Warbeck's songs. Holidays. Even certain food, which is supposed to make you more magical. And you can't cast a spell or brew a potion to save your life. It's a demand that you can't possibly satisfy…and no one even realizes that it is a demand. They just think that's the way things are meant to be. No one thinks that expecting everyone in the world to have the same skills or tastes is silly. No. If you can't do or be whatever everyone expects, it's not the expectation that's wrong. Something's wrong with you."
Belatedly, she realizes that Horace is staring at her. Small wonder, considering that she just committed heresy. Apparently, she'd picked up more ideas from Marius than she'd realized.
"When did you become a Squib supporter?" Horace asks at last, running one hand through his thinning hair.
Well, in for a Knut, in for a Galleon. "Since I was born with a brother who's one. And don't change the subject. You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. "
"Oh, come now. Love and marriage aren't bad things."
"I never said that they were!" Cassiopeia retorts. "I don't mind if anyone falls in love or gets married-why would I? If they want to, good! I just get tired of everyone telling me that marriage and children are not only my destiny, but my inevitable destiny-and one that I should be delighted about, at that. I don't like people assuming that they know what's best for me…or disregarding how I feel because they want me to choose something else." She gives him what she hopes is a very pointed look.
Horace quickly glances away, muttering something about having hoped that she'd come around someday, because they could be happy-
"Don't you pretend that I'm someone that I'm not. You're my friend. You know me better than that."
Frowning, he changes the subject. "How long a holiday are you taking?"
Give me strength. "I'm not 'on holiday', Horace. I left. I'm not going back to Twelve Grimmauld Place…though as long as I behave properly, that shouldn't be a problem. "
"Your father will loathe you living away from the family. He'll think it quite disreputable."
"Yes. So will Pollux. I believe I can find a way around that, though. War work, maybe. Neither of them can object to me doing my bit. At least not publicly." She's heard rumours about a village near Inverness filled with cryptographers who specialize in codes based on ancient runes. One of her best subjects, that. Cassiopeia smiles at the thought.
To her surprise, Horace doesn't smile back. "So…you shan't need me any longer."
But I already explained this! "Horace," she says, taking his hands in hers, "I'm always going to need you as a friend. Or didn't it occur to you that I could have just as easily taken a train to Wales or Cornwall?"
His expression says it all.
"Besides," she adds, "I enjoy spending time with you. I just enjoy it more when you're not pressing me to marry you."
"I can't get over it instantly."
"I don't expect that." But I hope, she thinks, that you will eventually.
***
XI. Hearts and Flowers-February 1941
They leave it at that.
Predictably, her parents are furious with her; they fear that she's ruined her chances with Horace, running off to him like that. Even her completely honest assertion that yes, she's staying in Scotland to help with the war effort doesn't satisfy them. Horace manages to placate them, though, convincing them that he will be happy to wed her when he becomes Headmaster of Hogwarts…implying that she couldn't possibly marry a mere teacher. Since Headmaster Dippet has been in charge for decades (and seems to be immortal), this gives her parents hope while essentially postponing the matter forever.
While at the decoder village, Cassiopeia worries for weeks that Horace is only pretending to go along with what she wants. She can't see any sign that he's clinging to how he feels, but she hadn't known he was falling for her until he'd kissed her, either. And she doesn't think that putting his feelings aside will be easy. She can't put aside her lack of romantic feelings, after all.
Life goes on. She works. She learns, after considerable trial and error, to cook; before, the family house elf had always taken care of the cooking. She makes friends with several of the witches she works with . She and Horace owl each other, meet in Hogsmeade when they have a free Saturday, and attend parties when they have the time, money and transportation…all three of which are increasingly rare, as the war goes on. She even manages to find a Muggle post office and hire a post office box so that she can continue mailing Marius. But she still wonders, on occasion, if everything really is all right or if he's just very, very good at hiding how he truly feels.
Months pass.
Then, the day after Valentine's Day, he staggers off the Knight Bus and marches up to her door, a sizable parcel in one hand and a bouquet under the other arm.
"Sorry I couldn't be here yesterday," he puffs after she invites him in. "Friday lessons, you know. But I didn't want you to think I'd forgotten you."
For a moment, Cassiopeia is uneasy…but then he hands her the bouquet and she takes a good look at it. Irises. Chrysanthemums. Daisies.
One thing that Blacks learn early is how to communicate in ways that don't look like communication. Cassiopeia is well-versed in the language of flowers, relished by Victorian witches and Edwardian wizard-spies. And she's told Horace all about it.
Mentally, she translates each flower into its message. Irises: cherished friendship. Chrysanthemums: you are a wonderful friend. Daisies: loyalty.
"Thank you," she says, smiling down at him. "That's lovely."
"You're welcome," he replies with a bow. "Now, please, open the parcel."
She raises an eyebrow, but does as he asks. The parcel contains a box of heart-shaped gingerbread cookies, each one bearing the bust of a Greek man drawn in icing.
For a moment, she's puzzled. Greek love? He can't be alluding to that, can he?
But then, it's as if a torch illuminates her mind. And, understanding, she smiles. It's not the nationality that matters; it's the man's identity. And while there are quite a lot of famous Greeks, there's only one whose name is appropriate when talking about love. Only one whose name would send the right message-that she doesn't have to be afraid any longer, that he's gotten past it, and that everything is all right.
I love you platonically.