Part First: The Hart Assurgent: Chapter 12

Chapter 12:

Emily had started daydreaming about seeing Lucius Malfoy at the Ministry Ball in the days between Christmas and New Year's Eve – the sort of absurd wish-fulfilment fantasy that has no bearing on reality whatsoever, fuelled by the continuing storms of oestrus hormones that continued all that week. She imagined greeting Lucius on the steps of Malfeasant, which had begun more and more to resemble something like a Muggle "fairy tale" castle, like the Bavarian Neuschwanstein. He was always absolutely thrilled to see her, and no family or wedding ring was ever anywhere in sight. Then she would catch herself and give herself a thorough scolding. Don't be stupid, you're just a family friend.

But a family friend who he kissed fit to curl your toes, said a more devious internal voice. And if Lucius had wanted to kiss her, it was because anyone would be miserable who had to carry the burden of being married to that tyrant Narcissa. Who knew what she was doing to her house-elves at just that moment.

But whatever the basis for feeling the way she did, and whatever the reason he felt the way he did – he was married. She had been married once, and while it lasted, it had been the most precious bond in the world to her. The idea of dallying outside her own marriage had been beyond the realm of possibility; it had simply never occurred to her.

And besides – Lucius had a son, and that son was her student.

And she had taken an oath to protect the meek and defenceless, and look after the welfare of the people.

The situation was impossible.

Yet, fully aware of the circumstances or no, there was no mistaking her own affection – and desire – for him. He had also made it quite clear that he reciprocated.

On the morning of December 31st, Emily had become so agitated and guilt stricken about the whole situation that she had concluded it would be only the most self-indulgent folly to go to the Ministry Ball at all. The temptation to pursue him further would be far too close to the surface, especially in her current hormonally agitated physical state.

She had taken refuge in the library window seat that afternoon beside a stack of books on Transfiguration and Charms, glad of the peaceful quiet. Irma had taken a short holiday after the Yule Ball to spend some time with her family, but she had left her library key with Emily. It was an unutterable luxury to be able to lock herself away in solitude with the vast collection of books in that room.

After she had been reading for a few hours, wrapped in her black fur cloak and sprawled on her stomach with her heels in the air on one of the cushioned window seats, watching the snow coming down outside the window, she was startled by the sound of someone else's key turning in the lock. Professor Snape let himself in, wearing rather dusty robes, and his sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm. A working day for him, then, it seemed. She thought for a moment about Obscuring herself and allowing him to go about his work whilst thinking himself comfortably alone, but then decided against it. Besides, if he thought he was alone, he would be more inclined to linger than he would if he realised she was already in the library.

She glanced up at him at the same time he noticed her; they acknowledged each other's presence with the barest of nods. His attention immediately turned to the stacks in the Restricted Section, and she turned back to her book, content to allow him to do his research undisturbed.

"Professor?" he asked.

"Yes, sir?" She turned toward the sound of his voice, surprised that he had spoken to her at all.

"Regarding the Ministry Ball tonight. What time can you be ready?" he asked desultorily, scanning the titles for something.

"I'm having second thoughts about going, actually," she said. "I was halfway tempted to go up to the hospital wing and let one of the children cough on me, so that I'd be too ill to go. Then I remembered that this is the Second World, and none of them can give me anything." She disconsolately turned a page.

Snape stared at her as if that was the most preposterous thing he had ever heard. "How... tragically inconvenient," he replied, paging through the latest of his crumbly parchment tomes. "And – why would you want to do that, may I ask?"

"Well, the last time I was with Lucius's set, I was rather at the end of my patience with them by Sunday," she said.

Snape shrugged. "So was I – they're always like that. I'm confounded by why you were expecting anything else." He reached for another book, a heavy volume titled Moste Potente Potions, and began rapidly turning pages. "At any rate, I do hope that all this hemming and hawing doesn't mean that you're now expecting me to spend a great deal of time cajoling you into going, because it's nothing to me either way. Please do have the decency to let me know if you really have decided not to go tonight so I can find something else to occupy my time if you decide to spend the evening sulking instead."

Well. There really was no graceful way out after a remark like that, now, was there – and oestrus was, of course, never conducive to helping one better control one's temper.

"All right, I suppose I will go." She closed her book with a vicious little snap and got up from her seat. "And you get to escort me. If I know you, you must be simply a-quiver with delicious anticipation at the thought of that," she said sarcastically.

Snape arched the sinister eyebrow at her. "For my own part, don't think I'm not aware that you would rather chew ground glass than be escorted anywhere by me."

"Well then – till tonight, old chum," she said, folding her arms across her chest and glowering up at him. He had about five or six inches of height on her, so, annoyingly, she had to look upward at him. "Meet you in the entrance hall at six?"

"All right. I know you'll have to move the Earth and stars for this, but could we make it six prompt, as some of us do set some store by punctuality?"

"Be happy to, sir. Do you think you could manage to dress as though you're going to a ball, and not a funeral, as some others of us do set some store by personal appearance?"

"I'll try," he said in tones of purest acid. "You might allow me to recommend that if you plan on wearing something as substantial as what you wore to the Malfoys', and to the Yule Ball, you might want to see Madam Pomfrey for a dose of Pepper-Up Potion now, so as to pre-empt a case of pneumonia." He punctuated that with the most unconcerned little flick of the parchment pages – carefully calibrated for maximum annoying effect, no doubt.

"I can't describe how much I'm looking forward to this," she said through gritted teeth.

"I sympathise entirely, madam," he replied in his silkiest voice.

There was nothing to do in response to that but take her leave of him with a flinty little nod and head back to her own rooms.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Emily took another very long, very cold shower that afternoon. Afterward, wrapped in a thick, swallowing, Scottish-weather bathrobe, combing her wet hair in front of the mirror, she fell to contemplating her own face – and its effect on the crowd of Second-World witches and wizards she would meet that evening at the Ministry of Magic.

Big eyes you've got.

No wizard in her at all, is there?

Same sort of disconcertingly feral look as the mother had. Those ears and those eyes really are uncanny, poor thing.

Looking into the mirror, she silently spoke a word – in another moment, the face looking back at her was entirely human. This was the face her students had seen while she lectured at University, and that Severus Snape had seen in King's Cross Station.

Still her own face, but subtly different – altered with a visual Glamour. Rounded ears, normal-sized pupils and irises. The most finely stylised, otherworldly elements of her real face diminished into comfortable human normalcy. A pretty face, but not startlingly beautiful or disturbingly alien. A face that might provoke goodwill or even desire, but not fear or instant lust.

And she knew that her escort for the Ministry Ball that evening had – however briefly – liked this face.

Then, just as quickly as the pensive mood had come upon her, it was replaced with a surge of defiance. She dispelled the Glamour with a word so that her true face reappeared: point-eared, wide-pupiled, arch-browed, fine-boned, normal. Reaching for her comb and tube of Muggle shine gel, she slicked her hair sleekly down, combing it well back from her ears. Then she opened a drawer and went for the makeup she rarely used, and powdered her usually pale skin to an even more startling pallor, then darkened her blonde brows and eyelashes to set off those disconcertingly feral eyes all the more.

And after a moment's rummaging, she found a jar carved from abalone shell. Inside was a silvery powder finely ground from certain iridescent and luminescent minerals, which had been the favourite cosmetic of the Faery Court for centuries. Mixed with sweet almond oil, it gave her skin a very subtle sparkle and shine. She rubbed a bit onto her shoulders and chest, and just the smallest film on her eyelids.

There. And as far as choosing dress robes – she was suddenly tired of her usual black. Something else was in order this evening. When she was finished dressing, she took a quick look in the mirror, and knew that if she had gone to a Court event looking like this, she would have been swamped with enough attention to salve anyone's bruised ego.

"Well, look at you, all dressed up and sparkly this evening," her mirror remarked approvingly. "Have a good time, dear."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

At precisely 5:51 p.m. that evening (she arrived early out of sheer obstinacy), Emily was waiting on the steps of the great entrance hall, coiffed, gloved, scarved, and cloaked. And at precisely 5:53 p.m., her escort met her there.

At first glance, she thought he had gotten turned out rather well. Then, she thought, as he drew closer and her eyes were drawn back to him admiringly – he actually looked rather wonderful. His habitual distinction of bearing made even slightly shabby black scholar's robes look distinguished, she had to admit, but in well-cut evening robes of blue-black velvet – his black hair smooth and glossy, with that classical profile, and the haughty lift to his chin – no, she would not be in the slightest embarrassed to have this man on her arm.

"Does this scrutiny mean that I've not passed inspection, then?" he asked contentiously.

"You're fine. No worries."

"Thank you so very much," he growled. "Shall we?"

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Albus Dumbledore had been talking with Filius Flitwick and Minerva McGonagall on the steps of the Great Hall about that evening's New Year's Eve festivities planned for the students. He watched Hogwarts' Potions master and Defence Against the Dark Arts mistress make their way down the hall steps and out the great front doors with a gleam of approval in his eyes.

"They do make a rather handsome couple, don't they," he remarked. "Hades and Persephone."

"Oh, yes, what with her so fair and him so dark. Severus was looking awfully well this evening – I haven't seen him get so nicely turned out in years," Professor McGonagall replied.

"It's a shame they don't get along," Professor Flitwick said. "Did you hear them on the day of the First Task?" He shook his head and chuckled.

"Yes, that is a shame," the Headmaster agreed.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Once they had reached the gate that marked the end of anti-Apparition wards that surrounded Hogwarts, Emily turned to Snape with a stiffly polite nod.

"All right, I'll meet you in front of the Ministry visitors' entrance in a moment then – " and was gone. Her surroundings changed from the gate, the woods, and the green fields to a decidedly seedy urban neighbourhood. There were several storefront offices, a dumpster that badly needed emptying, and a rough-looking pub. Snape appeared next to her in a moment.

This unimpressive street looked mildly familiar because she had been here a little over three months ago. She looked around for the visitors' entrance to the Ministry, which of course was –

A dilapidated red callbox, with several broken windowpanes. Into which, she suddenly realised, she was going to have to go – with Professor Snape. That worthy gentleman indicated the door with an abrupt, "All right, go ahead."

This – this was simply too much. After the emotional strain and histrionics of the previous week and that afternoon, she couldn't possibly have tried to prevent the reaction that followed. She fixed him with a drop-dead stare – and then doubled over laughing. Professor Snape looked at her quizzically for a moment, then turned back to the callbox – and then realisation broke across his face, followed a second later by a furious scowl.

"Oh, contain yourself – it's not that funny," he snapped, leaning a shoulder against the box door with an air of elaborate impatience.

"Come on," she gasped. "Even you have to admit this is sort of an unbelievable coincidence."

"There are a lot – of callboxes – in Britain," Snape said through gritted teeth. "If you're going to be overcome with hysterics every time circumstances require you to enter one of them, you're going to have limited your communication options somewhat."

"All right, all right... begging your pardon, sir," she said, pressing her handkerchief hard against her lips to stifle the giggles that kept wanting to erupt uncontrollably. She motioned to the callbox door with a respectful bow. "Please – after you."

"Thank you," he replied. Once inside, he pulled a slip of parchment with out of his pocket and first glanced rather self-consciously at her, then back to the parchment slip, and then to the telephone keypad, then at last haltingly entered a number. Apparently he hadn't had much further experience with public telephones since the night she showed him how to use a phone card.

The usual calm female voice said: "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

"Severus Snape and Emily Swain, arriving for the charity ball," Snape said tersely.

"Thank you," said the disembodied voice. "Visitors, please take the badges and attach them to the front of your robes."

Snape extracted two square silver badges from the telephone's returned change slot and handed one to Emily, then fastened the other to his lapel. Her badge read: Emily Swain, Ball Guest.

"Visitors to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium," the imperturbable female voice continued. Emily wondered briefly how was she going to go about registering her little-used wand, seeing as how it was sitting in its case somewhere in one of her trunks back at Hogwarts.

The callbox gave a lurch and began descending – in a second its interior was completely dark. The state of being in a tiny, enclosed, underground space in total darkness with him as her only companion, standing a few inches away in complete silence, was not the least unnerving situation in which she had ever found herself. But a treacherous little tail-end-of-oestrus part of her remembered that his skin smelled wonderful – like wood resin and smoke – and that if she had extended her hand about eight inches ahead of her, she could have laid it on his chest.

Seven years at Beauxbatons, seven years at Cambridge, two decorations for valour – and now I'm stuck in a broken, pitch-black Second-World callbox with you, she thought, scowling at the space in the darkness where she knew Professor Snape was. She leaned against the callbox door, feeling the alien thrumming of heavy machinery resonating in her bones, and was profoundly grateful that there were only eight months, three weeks, two days, and a little less than six hours until she could go home, where no one would expect her to ride in tiny boxes that propelled one underground by means of large hydraulic mechanisms, and where she would never again run into Professor Severus Snape.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The first time Emily had seen the Ministry Atrium, she had thought it quite beautiful – a huge hall all done in gleaming dark wood, with a high, arched ceiling of brilliant blue, covered with ever-changing golden magical symbols – until she spotted the Fountain of the Magical Brethren, which depicted a giant idealised witch and wizard being gazed upon adoringly by statues of a house-elf, a goblin, and a centaur. Emily had been extremely pleased to discover that there was no figure of a Faerie included and briefly amused herself by imagining all of the holy havoc that would have been wrought upon such a figure by her expatriate countryfolk, if there had been, while waiting in line for a fireplace going to the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

Now, people in dress robes were appearing out of the row of imposing fireplaces on one side of the hall and were standing around talking in well-dressed bunches all around the Atrium. As she passed, Emily saw a young, slender witch with vivid bubble-gum pink hair pop out of one of the fireplaces wearing trailing black lace robes over a short black frock and fishnet stockings, followed a moment later by a tall black wizard in crimson silk robes, with a shiny bald skull and a large gold hoop earring in one ear. She watched the pink-haired witch disappear into the crowd with an amused smile – it was good to know that she wouldn't be the most conspicuous-looking person at the Ball that night.

Professor Snape didn't seem in the mood to linger over people-watching in the Atrium. He hurried to the opposite end of the hall toward a desk marked SECURITY, so that Emily had to quicken her pace to follow him. As she progressed the length of the hall, she could feel eyes following them and whispered conversations breaking out as they passed.

A security wizard in peacock-blue robes came up to meet Snape as he approached the desk, and the Professor handed over his wand as though he was used to the procedure. The guard put the wand through some sort of quantifying procedure involving an elaborate brass instrument that vibrated and spat out bits of parchment, then handed it back to him. Next he turned to Emily.

"Your wand, please... miss?" His gaze had gotten as far as her ears, and then stopped.

"Um... I don't generally carry one," she said in what she hoped was a pleasant and helpful tone.

The security wizard cocked his head at her as if he hadn't quite heard her correctly. "Sorry?"

"She didn't bring hers," Snape supplied quickly.

The security wizard nodded, then picked up a clipboard on his desk. He glanced at Professor Snape's silver badge, then Emily's, and then paged through his guest list to the S's – "Ah, I've got Professor Severus Snape... and Lady Emily Swain-Tumnus. Would that be you, miss?"

"Um... yes, it would be, thank you." Peripherally, Emily could feel Professor Snape looking very intently at the side of her face.

The security wizard motioned them through a doorway flanked by tall golden gates at the far end of the Atrium. They followed another group of people in evening clothes into one of about two dozen elevators with old-fashioned grille doors. Emily could feel people turning to look at her in the elevator, while attempting not to appear as though they were actually doing so.

It seemed to take a very long time to reach the ballroom level.

"Level Ten, Diplomatic Reception Hall, Conference Rooms, Grand Ballroom, Hanging Gardens," said the same female voice from the callbox lift, in what now seemed like very smarmy and self-satisfied tones.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Just outside the entrance to the ballroom, a small group of house-elves in peacock-blue tea towel uniforms were standing at the entrance to a cloakroom, very politely all but mugging people with offering to take their coats. Emily handed her wraps to a hovering elf, revealing bare-armed robes of intricate silver lace over a long gown of lustrous dove-grey, both made of gossamer spidersilk. Her only ornaments were the proudly displayed colours of her Fianna armlet, and a corsage of Lucius's blue horn lilies.

Turning back to Professor Snape, she discovered his attention focused on her already. "What? Still afraid I'll catch pneumonia, then?"

"I suppose you're now going to tell me that pneumonia is a human's disease and you're not susceptible to it," Snape replied caustically.

"Yes, I probably would have pointed that out eventually," she said, shrugging. "Shall we head inside?"

He dutifully offered her his arm.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The huge Grand Ballroom was just as impressive as the Atrium – it comfortably held the five-hundred-some guests attending the New Year's Eve Ball and could have held more with space to spare. Its walls were panelled with vast expanses of mottled grey and silver marble into which huge bronze torches were set, and the vast domed ceiling reflected a gently swirling night sky filled with stars, planets, and every sort of celestial body imaginable seen from dramatically close up. Emily craned her head back to watch the play of a particularly exciting asteroid field approaching a florescent red nebula, until Professor Snape gave her a brusque nudge to keep her from walking into a heavyset grey-haired wizard with an extravagant moustache.

The organisation committee of the Daughters of Wendelin had outdone themselves. Fifty round white-draped tables, set with fine china and silver and lit by floating silver tapers, were set up around an expansive dance floor that seemed to be made of glass lit from beneath with soft blue light. A small orchestra was playing Mozart concertos as ambient music for the cocktail hour preceding dinner. Hundreds of witches and wizards dressed in their evening best were standing around chatting animatedly as house-elves in peacock-blue towels embroidered with the silver Ministry seal circulated with trays of champagne.

Emily spotted Narcissa Malfoy in the crowd almost immediately. Mrs. Malfoy wore magnificent robes of translucent black silk that framed her white shoulders in a flattering portrait neckline, rustling over full, lace-trimmed petticoats of the same silk. The gold of her elaborately upswept hair nearly eclipsed the sparkle of a diamond necklace and bracelets that would have looked right at home on Marie Antoinette. She carried herself like a tyrannical queen, too, haughtily and imperiously – as if everyone she looked upon was her subject, whose heads she could have lopped off with a word of command. Narcissa was undeniably a very beautiful woman, and her formal costume was splendid, but her expression again somewhat spoiled the effect of her beauty. Sometime during the year, Emily had overheard one of the Gryffindors describing Draco's mother as always looking as though she was smelling something bad – a description which now struck her as wholly descriptive and appropriate, if impertinent. Tonight, Narcissa's look was so sour that the merely bad smell must have ripened into something truly horrid.

Lucius Malfoy appeared a moment later at his wife's side, but seemed oblivious to her sulk as he mingled with the assembled company, many of whom seemed to be waiting for a word with him. He looked ineffably elegant in black velvet dress robes, his white-blonde hair swept back and tied with a black velvet ribbon at the nape of his neck. Emily felt her heart give another embarrassing little splash inside her chest at the sight of him.

The genteel not-quite-staring and murmuring behind hands followed Emily as Professor Snape led her through the group, nodding the occasional terse greeting to people he apparently knew. She knew her face must be flaming whitely with blushing, but held her chin up and carried herself as befitted one of Gwydion's knights. After a few long glances around the room, she thought she could guess the reason for all the looks and whispers – it indeed appeared as though she was the only Faerie present. Yes, I'm at your Ministry ball, and you can all just get used to me, thanks, she thought, smiling pleasantly at no one in particular.

"Well, Severus!" Lucius Malfoy approached them through the crowd. "Quite the dashing rogue tonight, old man. Maybe this is the decade we'll finally see you take a turn on the dance floor?"

"Not bloody likely," Snape replied. "Good evening, Lucius."

Malfoy laughed, and cordially shook his cousin's hand, then turned to Emily.

"My dear. You look absolutely stunning – as always." He greeted her affectionately, laying a gentle hand on her bare shoulder and putting a lingering kiss on her cheek. Scent of clean hair, some wildly expensive shaving lotion, and a very long whiff of testosterone. His eyes lingered on her pale, downcast face, then moved down to the blue lilies on the bodice of her gown.

"Did you like those?" he asked softly, caressing the petals of a velvety blossom with a sensitive fingertip; a gesture which felt as though he had touched her bare skin.

"To tell you the truth – on Christmas morning, I looked out my window and all that darkness and snow made me feel like crying," she said, downplaying her more histrionic, hormone-sodden real reaction. "And then you sent me these gorgeous lilies and made my whole day. Thank you so much."

"My pleasure, dear, really," Lucius said, with an indulgent smile. "Did they put you two at our table, by any chance? The Minister of Magic is sitting with us, you know, and you really should meet him."

"I haven't heard. Professor, do you know where – " She turned back in the direction of her escort to ask him, but sometime during Lucius's greeting, Snape had vanished into the crowd and was nowhere in sight.

"Well, obviously he was needed elsewhere." She turned back to Malfoy, addressing him in an undertone. "Lucius – why did you have to arrange for me to be escorted by Professor Snape? You have to have noticed he can't stand me." But she was not anywhere near distressed enough to not shiver the touch of his hand lingering on her arm.

"Because he sets me off so nicely by contrast, of course," he said, aside to her, with lazy smile. "I couldn't possibly let you come with a young, handsome, charming man – you might actually find someone like that interesting, and I wanted you looking at me tonight. I'm terribly vain that way, you know."

"Yes, come to think of it, you are, aren't you," she said with a teasing laugh that said she found his vanity absolutely adorable.

"You've found me out, I'm afraid." He lightly drew his fingertips down the inside of her arm as he released her from his friendly greeting – just the subtlest small caress, certain to go unnoticed by any casual observer, but in her easily excitable state, it made her skin prickle deliciously. Even on the last day of oestrus, at this proximity to a man she found this desirable, who was so openly attracted to her – it was impossible not to respond to him.

Lucius took two flutes of champagne from a passing house-elf's tray and put one in her hand. "You know, I've just realised something, darling – I do think you're the only one of the Fae at this event. I'm sorry, I should have mentioned that to you... "

"It's all right – I didn't realise that myself until today. But if you could pull off being one of so few wizards at Court the way you did, I think I can manage this," she said, smiling.

"And if anyone could epitomise all that which is most splendid about Faekind, it's you, love," Lucius said with disarming sincerity, clinking his champagne glass against hers – and making her blush furiously again.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Professor Snape had spotted some of the usual Malfeasant set sitting at tables next to one of the cocktail bars and, after accepting a glass of champagne from one of the hovering house-elves, had greeted them with a curt nod. Mr. Goyle came up next to him and struck up a conversation about – of course – the Triwizard Tournament. He glanced back at Lucius and Professor Swain, who had been joined by Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson. Beatrice Parkinson looked extremely pretty that night, in empire-waisted robes of violet silk, with a Queen Alexandra collar of sapphires encircling her neck.

Felina Rosier was sitting across from Menzentius Malfoy and Walden Macnair, sipping a glass of champagne and surveying the other women at the ball with her usual sort of critical eye. "Did you see that ridiculous creature with the pink hair? I'm amazed that they even let her in, myself. But Narcissa looks stunning this evening, don't you think?" she asked, turning toward Menzentius. "Oh, look, it's that everlasting Beatrice Parkinson. Just look at her making up to Lucius's pet Faerie – but then she always does get infatuated with anything exotic, doesn't she? One would think Emmitt would cure her of that sort of thing. And would you look at what the pet Faerie thinks are dress robes?" She smoothed her own robes of high-collared black velvet and lace with a virtuous look. "I've no idea why the woman always has to appear at formal occasions in a negligée. And what is that thing on her arm?"

"Lucius said something about the Fae liking to tattoo themselves. It's some sort of cultural tradition for them," Walden Macnair said. From the appraising look on his face, he didn't share any of Mrs. Rosier's objections to the way either Beatrice Parkinson or Professor Swain looked that evening.

"One good stiff breeze, and we'll see if she has any more tattoos, eh?" Menzentius Malfoy craned forward in his seat.

"Ah, Menzentius. Always such a model of chivalry," Professor Snape observed acidly.

"Yeah, well, show me a lady, and I'll speak well of her. Lucius told me the story about that little bit of pixie dust," Menzentius said with a nasty smile. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it – what a woman's got that makes men kill each other over her."

"Oh, yes, I heard about that too," Mrs. Rosier sniffed. "If that's what passes for widows' mourning where she's from, then they're a lot of merry Faeries indeed."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Lucius spotted someone through the crowd and turned to Emily. "Emmitt, Beatrice, do excuse us – there's someone Emily just has to meet." Taking her arm, he led her over to a roundish, middle-aged wizard with prosperous jowls and wavy grey hair, wearing dress robes of dark green pinstriped silk and a burgundy silk tie with a large emerald tie pin.

"Emily, dear, may I present Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic? Minister Fudge, this is Lady Emily Swain-Tumnus, Master-At-Arms of the Third Kingdom's Fianna."

Leave it to Lucius to use the most high-flown honorifics to which she could lay claim, and pronounce them with such relish, at that. But she could see why he had been as formal as possible about this introduction – the Minister of Magic was the highest-ranking official in Britain's Wizarding world. And as the only one of Gwydion's kin, the only member of the Fianna – the only Faerie – present, she realised that she would not be seen as making a merely social appearance that evening. It appeared that she had, somehow, become the representative of all of her people – and she was not going to let them down. Her chin lifted and spine straightened, and she came forward to make Minister Fudge's acquaintance with all the dignity and glamour of her proud, ancient race.

"Minister Fudge, sir." She clasped his hand with a respectful small bow. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Lady Emily. Thank you for joining us tonight," the Minister said warmly. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"

"I'm teaching at Hogwarts School this year."

"Really! Which subject do you teach?"

Just then, a very short, heavyset witch in frilly, pale pink robes and a little beribboned pink headband in her hair (really a terribly girlish look for a lady of her age) with very wrinkled, pouchy eyes sidled up to the Minister's side and gave a little, insistent cough. "Hem, hem."

The Minister of Magic turned to the short witch with a patient smile. "Lady Emily, may I introduce my undersecretary, Miss Dolores Umbridge? Dolores, this is Lady Emily Swain-Tumnus, a visiting professor from Arcadia."

"Miss Umbridge," Emily said politely, shaking Miss Umbridge's hand. Unfortunately Miss Umbridge had a much stronger grip than her appearance would indicate, and her hand was covered with knobbly rings – the bite of which Emily felt even through her own hand's layer of sword callus.

Like the security guard downstairs, Miss Umbridge's gaze got as far as Emily's ears, then stopped. "Good evening, my Lady," she said, in a high, breathy voice.

Emily turned back to Minister Fudge. "I'm teaching a session of Defence Against the Dark Arts – "

"Hem, hem," came the little, insistent cough again. Both Emily and the Minister of Magic turned back to Miss Umbridge.

"But I thought Alastor Moody was teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts this year," Miss Umbridge said. Her tone put Emily in mind of a little girl protesting that her kitten was up a tree.

"Professor Moody is teaching the required session, the regular wand-based curriculum," Emily said. "I'm teaching an elective session that expands on the required curriculum – "

"Which is not... wand-based? Then how does it work?" Miss Umbridge asked sweetly, as if she was talking to a very small, dim child.

"Well, the Faery magical canon was created for use with Words of Power, and my students are attempting to create those for themselves."

Minister Fudge turned back to her with bright, interested eyes. "Tell me, Professor, is a Word of Power anything like a Faerie's True Name?"

"They are two different names for the same thing, sir."

The Minister looked very boyish and nostalgic for a moment. "I read so many Faery stories when I was a boy... so True Names are real, then... ?"

"Yes, sir. Some of those old stories are true," Emily said, smiling warmly.

Just then, Dolores Umbridge suddenly discovered that she had an urgent question to ask Fudge, and Lucius Malfoy, regarding Lucius's department at the Ministry – an urgent private question, as she told Emily with a sweet, girlish little giggle.

"Oh, pardon me, madam." Emily excused herself with a polite nod.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

After Lucius, the Minister, and the ubiquitous Miss Umbridge had moved off, Emily made her way back to one of the cocktail bars for more champagne. From somewhere down the bar, a woman's pleasant voice said, "Hey, there. Have we met?"

It was the pink-haired witch Emily had seen in the Atrium, who now came up to her with a broad smile, with what looked like a half-drunk pint of Guinness in her hand. She had very merry brown eyes, and her lipstick was candy pink as well. Her accent was pure Carnaby Street.

"I don't think so," Emily replied. "I would remember you if we had."

"I'd remember you too, I'm thinking. Anyway, those are some sweet robes, mate. I like your ink, too," she said, glancing at the Fianna armband. There was a sense of comfortable familiarity coming from the other woman, as if they were both privy to some inside knowledge no one else around them knew. It was a bit odd, but in these circumstances, rather pleasant.

"Thanks," Emily said, smiling back.

"I just love the whole Faery thing – you've really dressed the part, too. I've done that look sometimes when I was hitting the clubs – invariably gets you a lot of attention, as I'm sure you've noticed," the other woman said with a grin and a wink. "Anyway, it's really cool to meet another one of us – I thought I already knew every other Metamorphmagus between here and Moscow." She put out a slender hand with black-polished fingernails. "Nymphadora Tonks. But I just go by Tonks."

"Emily Swain. I mostly go by Emily," Emily said, shaking Tonks's hand. "But I have to tell you, I'm not a Metamorphmagus. I've read about them in school, but I'm not one myself."

"How did you get the Faery ears, then... ?" A second later, Tonks's eyes got perfectly round. "No way."

Emily nodded, still smiling – then silently spoke a word under her breath – and looked back at Nymphadora Tonks in the Glamoured exact likeness of Tonks herself, bubble-gum hair, fishnets, black fingernails and all. She shook out her pink hair, grinning mischievously. The real Tonks took a step back and squealed like a little girl, one hand pressed over her mouth. Then she started laughing so hard that several people stopped to stare at the two identical women giggling in front of the bar. "Cor – that's bloody brilliant! I've so never met a real Faerie before," she said, sounding delighted.

"I've never met a real Metamorphmagus before," Emily said, twirling a lock of pink hair around her finger. "I've heard Metamorphmagi can make their appearances into anything they want – not an illusion like this, but true shapechanging."

"Sure can – let's see – " Tonks furrowed her brow in concentration for a moment, and in another second had given herself pointed ears and big brown doe eyes. "How do I look?"

"Pretty close! You should go to a club like that sometime, I understand you can get lots of attention that way," Emily said roguishly, making Tonks laugh again.

Tonks inclined an ear toward Emily. "Do they feel right?"

"That's quite good – only the frill isn't that bony, it's cartilaginous. Faery ears squash just like human ears do."

"Cool – thanks. So can you tell me why you're here, then?" Evidently Tonks was current on her Fae etiquette.

"I'm teaching at Hogwarts." As they fell to chatting again, Tonks seemed entirely comfortable with the extraordinary circumstances of talking with someone who was wearing her appearance, while Emily found it comfortingly familiar to be talking to someone who looked like a member of her own tribe. There was an instant camaraderie in meeting another kind of shapechanger, so far from home, especially one who was so open and unselfconscious about it.

"Really, teaching what?"

"Defence Against the Dark Arts. Headmaster Dumbledore wanted the students to learn some Faery magic."

"So no way. I thought you had to get invited to the Faerielands or something to learn Faery magic – they sure didn't have those classes when I was in school. I would have been all over a class like that," Tonks said, a bit wistfully.

"It's a really new development, apparently – the staff at International Magical Cooperation didn't quite know what to do with me when I turned up to get my work papers."

The tall black wizard in the crimson silk robes who had arrived with Tonks came up to the two of them. "Pardon me, Tonks, they're starting dinner," he said to Emily, then said, "Pardon me, miss," to Tonks. Then he glanced from Emily to Tonks, then back again, with a confused expression. "Tonks?"

Emily dispelled the Tonks Glamour with another laugh, reappearing as her real red-gold-haired, lace-gowned self; Tonks scrunched up her face and returned her eyes and ears to their usual state. The wizard looked only slightly disconcerted, as though such things were fairly common when one worked with Nymphadora Tonks.

"Be right there, Kingsley. All right – you have to send me an owl sometime. Let me see if I've got my new cards... here we go." After some decidedly clumsy juggling of her tiny beaded evening purse and pint glass – at one point, Emily had to grab the glass to keep the beer from tipping onto the floor – Tonks took a business card embossed with the Ministry seal out of her bag and handed it to Emily. "Pretty cool, huh? I just got them."

Emily glanced down at the card in her hand –

Nymphadora Tonks

AUROR

Auror Headquarters

Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Ministry of Magic

London

United Kingdom

"We have to go get a coffee or something, all right, Emily?"

"Or maybe hit a club?" she asked, grinning.

"I love it. Let's." Tonks chugged the remainder of her Guinness in one long pull, then set the empty glass down on the bar. "Cheers, mate."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

After Tonks had gone off to her table with her friend Kingsley, Emily cast around for a moment for her own party. Lucius stood up and waved her to a table on the left of the dance floor. As Lucius had said, the Minister of Magic was sitting with them, between Narcissa and Mrs. Parkinson, but the odious Dolores Umbridge, thankfully, was not. Emily found herself seated beside Mr. Parkinson, with the merry Mrs. Parkinson just beyond, and Walden Macnair and his wife on her other side. Lucius, Mrs. Rosier, and Professor Snape completed the group. Professor Snape seemed to be in another of his stonily silent moods that evening, but his penetrating black gaze missed nothing.

"So, Lady Emily, please do tell me how you came to teach at Hogwarts," Minister Fudge asked in a pleasant voice as the salad course was being served. "The Faery magical arts have always been such a mystery – and now Lucius tells me that the Nine Sovereigns have declassified some of them."

"Originally, it was Albus Dumbledore's idea," she answered. "He's been one of King Gwydion's greatest friends going back over a hundred years. When Dumbledore became Headmaster, he and Gwydion used to talk about teaching Faery magic at Hogwarts. But then about two years ago, Dumbledore brought up the idea again – and this time, the King agreed and persuaded all of the other sovereigns to agree to it as well."

"Fascinating, just fascinating," the Minister said. "That I should live to see the day... " He nodded his head, smiling excitedly.

"I've been wondering – how did Gwydion talk Queen Mab into releasing information?" Lucius Malfoy asked.

Emily turned to Malfoy. "Oh, figured her for the holdout, did you? How did you guess?"

"Probably because if the Seventh Kingdom had its way, you'd all still be speaking nothing but ancient High Arcadian and writing on wax tablets with sharp sticks?"

"I think she might actually have some moral objections to wax tablet writing as well," Emily replied. "But no matter – Gwydion did end up wheedling her round in the end."

Lucius turned to the Minister of Magic. "Queen Mab, you see, Cornelius, is known for being the most conservative monarch in the Faerielands – it's a real coup for Gwydion to have persuaded her to allow some of the Faery arts to be taught outside their borders." He turned back to Emily. "But then, your great-uncle is just about the most gracious man I ever met, Professor. Believe me, lads, you haven't lived until you've been one of the guests of honour at a welcome banquet at his Court. It's really quite overwhelming. But fortunately, I had Buckminster Swain's daughter sitting next to me explaining everything for me."

Emily smiled at Lucius, then turned back to Cornelius Fudge. "He's giving me too much credit, sir. The only thing that threw him at all was when they asked him to carve the flaming roast of peacock, stuffed with squab, stuffed with grouse, served with a garnish of its tail feathers. And that's a pretty involved dish even for us." The Minister laughed, exchanging merry looks with Mrs. Parkinson.

"And what a hash I would have made of it if you hadn't helped, too. At first I thought it was wonderful luck that someone had put Emily on my right, but then she told me that she'd sneaked in early and swapped the place cards around. One would think she was trying to take me under her wing," Lucius said, smiling indulgently at her. Beside him, Narcissa Malfoy frowned down at her wineglass with a look of delicate unamusement.

Emily blushed furiously – she had indeed swapped the place cards so as to sit next to her father's friend's handsome son – but was not about to let provocation like that go by unanswered. "Actually, that was just so I could look after you in case you turned out to have no head for wine," she told him, then addressed the others at the table. "Tithe pages are absolutely notorious for fading a bit early on their first night at Court."

"That is, of course, Lady Emily's extremely polite way of saying that she and her friends had drunk me under the table by the cheese course," Lucius said. The Minister laughed again, appreciatively.

"Don't let him fool you, Minister Fudge – we didn't really drink Lucius under the table. He was sort of... more next to it, as I recall." Emily turned back to Malfoy as everyone at the table laughed uproariously – all but Narcissa, Felina Rosier, and Professor Snape. "And we did wake you up in time for dessert," she said virtuously.

"Oh, come off it, dear – you woke me up to drink whiskey shots," he said, shaking his head at her in mock-reproach. Again, their companions at table roared with laughter – with the same exceptions.

"Lucius – I would never have disturbed you just to drink a shot of ordinary whiskey," she assured him. "However – that was a fifty-year-old Seventh Kingdom usquebaugh – I couldn't possibly have let you sleep through that, or you'd never have forgiven me."

"Oh, absolutely, quite right," Malfoy agreed.

"I would hope someone would awaken me for that too – even if I have no idea what it is," Fudge said brightly, and everyone laughed again.

The Minister of Magic had quite a few more questions, regarding the political situation that had led to Emily's arrival at Hogwarts, regarding King Gwydion and his progressive attitudes toward sharing information, regarding Faery Court life, and the practice of the Tithe. Emily found it very easy to answer all of his questions with Lucius sitting across from her helping to explain and interspersing their shared narrative with amusing quips and anecdotes about his own time at Court. The Minister of Magic clearly respected, even admired, Lucius, and that favour now appeared to be extending to her.

But Narcissa Malfoy didn't seem to be enjoying the direction this conversation was going at all. She jumped in with a new topic after dinner, as the house-elves were serving a sorbet course. "I've been reading your father's book, Professor," she said pleasantly.

"Really, which one?" Emily turned toward her.

"Champions of the Red Branch: A History of the Fianna," Narcissa replied.

"Oh, yes, that was his first book for Gwydion. My mother helped with that one," Emily offered.

"That's lovely," Narcissa said. "I found it quite fascinating – especially what was said about the Order of the Morrigan."

"Yes, that's the Third Kingdom's military order," Emily said.

"'Kill and Die by the Will of the Mother of War' – that's your order's motto, isn't it?" Narcissa asked. Something in her tone made that motto seem very sinister indeed. Minister Fudge glanced toward Emily with a faintly worried expression. Across the table, she could feel Professor Snape's gaze boring into her.

"Well... that's the very literal English translation. The original Old Arcadian dialect is more nuanced than that. It comes out more like Defend With Thy Last Breath the Just and Righteous Fury of the Mother of Us All, in our native tongue," Emily replied. The Minister nodded understandingly.

"And the Morrigan is your people's Goddess of War?" Narcissa asked brightly.

"Not exactly, madam. She is one aspect of the Mother Goddess, the one who dispenses wisdom, justice, and... vengeance, when it is warranted. Are you familiar with the ancient Greek goddesses Athena and Nemesis and the god Ares? The Morrigan occupies a similar place in our religion."

"Oh, yes, of course," Narcissa said, nodding, and taking a delicate sip of her elderflower wine. It was entirely probable that Narcissa would have voiced the same agreement if Professor Swain had announced that Athena, Nemesis, and Ares were the patron deities of sculling, dirigibles, and runcible spoons.

"I must say, Lady Swain, I'm still amazed to find that Faeries allow their women into active combat. What a very... liberal and egalitarian society it must be," Mrs. Rosier said. Of course, being Felina Rosier, she made it sound as though liberalism and egalitarianism were synonymous with nihilism and terrorism.

"Well, you're rather failing to take all the relevant factors into account in that opinion, madam," Emily replied, trying to keep her voice very neutral. "Amongst humans, the males of the species are generally stronger than the females, so it's thought that men are better physically qualified for combat. Amongst Faeries, the difference in the amount of dense muscle that a female can put on as opposed to the males of her tribe is negligible, so there isn't a significant difference in strength between the genders."

"But wouldn't you call it a tragedy if a child's mother is killed in a battle?" Narcissa interjected plaintively.

"Of course it is," Emily agreed readily. "But then I would call it a tragedy if anyone is killed in battle – whether it's someone's parent, or spouse, sister, brother, or someone with no kin at all. No one under my command is readily expendable to me – when we engage the enemy in any sort of action, it's my job to keep them all alive."

There was another of those horrible, judgmental lulls in the conversation – only this time, the focus of the group's disapproval was Narcissa, not herself. Lucius regarded his wife with a look of faint disapproval, and she wilted instantly.

"How... very admirable," Narcissa said stiffly, her cream-white cheeks mottling pink.

"Well, you see, Narcissa... all service is entirely voluntary. If a woman decides to leave and have a baby, or even decides to leave entirely because she wants to care for her children – there's no stigma in that," Emily said in a conciliatory tone. "That's not uncommon – my first lieutenant's wife did that, actually. You remember Bill and Mary Blake from my wedding – both very tall, with black and orange fur – "

"Oh, yes," Narcissa said, as if she would much prefer if the topic was allowed to drop.

Lucius continued to look annoyed, and Narcissa was looking apologetically at him, while Mrs. Rosier seemed put out to have lost her ally against the ideological enemy across the table. Emily was suddenly very, very tired of this conversation. So she looked down at her plate and silently spoke a word under her breath.

As she intended, the talk continued – but gradually, she faded out of it. When she spoke, every other person at the table heard her making only totally unobjectionable, neutral comments and reacted as such, seeming to lose the ability to fully focus on her. She would have had to actively seek the others' attention to make them notice her again. When she was sure that her Deceivre effect was firmly in place, she closed her eyes, let out a long breath of relief, and took a healthy gulp of wine.

Then she glanced across the table into the fathomless, and very aware, black eyes of Severus Snape, regarding her with keen scrutiny across the table.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Professor Snape wasted no time in confronting Emily after dinner was over – and he seemed to consider her use of magic at dinner as much of an affront as he did her use of Obscurantis some months earlier. He caught up to her at one of the cocktail bars, after the bartender had handed her another flute of champagne.

"Well, that was interesting, what you did at dinner," he said in his usual silken undertone – which was of course worse than anyone else shouting at her. "One minute Narcissa and Felina were grilling you, and the next everyone started acting as though you were part of the wallpaper. So am I right in assuming that you pulled your favourite trick of somehow making everyone ignore you, was that it?"

She turned to stare him in the eyes, anger pounding at her temples. "Yes, that's it exactly," she replied caustically. "Mrs. Rosier's usual brand of charm started to wear on me, and I decided to drop out of her notice." And I should have been able to drop out of your notice too, she thought, regarding him warily.

"Excusing yourself from the table would have had the same effect, no doubt," Snape observed.

"And give that cow the satisfaction of thinking she'd chased me away? I should say not," she retorted.

"There are those who might thank you to perhaps not use such arts against us involuntarily. I, for one, find it unutterably rude, not to mention coercive," Snape growled.

"Coercive? Spare me – as if it ever hurts anyone in the slightest to ignore me. And Deceivre has other uses as well, you know – it allows my horse to hear me saying things like, 'Good morning,' and 'Where does it hurt?' in her language."

"Be that as it may – I reserve the right to dislike it, madam," he replied heatedly.

"Yes, sir, you've established that very clearly, thank you," she said in a lowered tone, turning away from him with a sharp twinge of guilty conscience.

"And as for that shrew Felina Rosier, I'm bewildered as to why you let her annoy you so much," he said, less harshly. Someone who knew Severus Snape extraordinarily well would have noticed the new note of commiseration in his voice when he mentioned Mrs. Rosier – as if he loathed her as much as Emily herself did.

But Emily did not know Snape extraordinarily well – and she was only thinking how very easy it was for him to brush an antagonist off, here amongst his kin and his peers, in his own homeland. "Well, I'm endlessly bewildered as to why the two of you aren't married, since you seem to have so very much in common," she replied in a gay, cutting voice. "Good evening, sir."

Seeing as how she turned away from him and made her way into the crowd at that moment, she missed the look of utter revulsion that crossed the Professor's face at her suggestion that perhaps he take Mrs. Rosier as his wife due to their apparent compatibility. He glanced at Evan Rosier's dark, sullen, overripe widow, some paces across the ballroom, closed his eyes, and grimaced. Then he glanced indignantly back at Emily, to whom Mr. Gilbert Whimple of the Experimental Charms Division now appeared to be introducing himself by the dance floor. She didn't seem put off by his horns one bit.

"Severus, my dear," said a familiar female voice off to his right, "why aren't you dancing? I don't think I've seen you out on the floor at anything this year. Or any year, for that matter."

Speak of the devil. Sweet Mistress Rosier was approaching him, her eyes very bright, and her lips very red.

"Bloody hell," he cursed inaudibly into his brandy glass. Then he turned to her with a thin smile of greeting. "Good evening, Felina."

"I see you're acquainted with that woman," Mrs. Rosier said.

"We both teach at Hogwarts," he answered dismissively.

"Yes, I know – as a matter of fact, I sent a letter to Priscilla Swain the other day, and mentioned that her sister Emily was teaching at Hogwarts," Mrs. Rosier said. "I received the most extraordinary answer back." She looked provocatively at Snape – evidently now he was supposed to ask what that extraordinary answer was.

She seemed to be aggressively waiting for him to prompt her to elaborate, so he gamely asked, "Oh, yes, what was that?"

"She wrote – 'That creature may have the same father as I do – but she'll never be my sister!' Isn't that just awful?" Her tone sounded as though one half-sister's disowning of another half-sister was the most deliciously entertaining thing she had ever heard.

"Yes, awful," Snape replied shortly. He glanced sideways at Mrs. Rosier, as if he found her choice of conversational sallies distasteful.

"My Lady Swain can play up to the Minister all she wants, but Narcissa tells me that the pure-blooded Swains barely acknowledge her as a member of their family. When Buckminster married her mother, there wasn't even a proper marriage certificate issued. At least, they say he married her mother – but I know for certain that it wasn't in a church," Mrs. Rosier said, with a contemptuous laugh. "I've also heard that when he transferred all of his assets, he left an embarrassing amount of the money to her. His pure-blooded children contested that, of course. They wanted her to produce a birth certificate and a marriage licence – something that established that she was in fact Buckminster Swain's legitimate daughter. She didn't have either one – apparently Faeries don't even regularly issue them! It was just the saddest thing – "

"Thank you, Felina, but I really could have lived without hearing that," Snape interrupted curtly. "I can't imagine why everyone keeps thinking that simply because I work with someone that I must be interested in hearing every last sordid detail of her biography. I didn't realise I was so well known for gossiping about my colleagues." He glanced in Emily's direction with a flicker of anxiety in his eyes. She was now talking animatedly with Gilbert Whimple and not paying any attention to him at all.

"Oh. I'm terribly sorry," Mrs. Rosier said, her eyes going soft and obsequious. "Anyway, I was wondering if I could possibly tempt you out for a dance, then... "

"No, Felina, for what feels like the millionth time, you cannot tempt me out for a dance," he said, rounding on her, his black eyes glinting. "For the last twenty years I have had to tell you at every bloody event I attend that I loathe dancing, always have, and always will, so if you would please do me the kindness of not pestering me to dance for once, I would truly appreciate it." He never raised his voice above his usual soft tones – but something in his look made her back away from him.

"I'm... terribly sorry," she said, then turned and fled.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

When Gilbert Whimple, of the Committee on Experimental Charms, had come up to Emily and introduced himself, her first impression was that he had to be another Faerie, due to the goat's horns sprouting from his forehead, and asked him which Kingdom he hailed from. He told her, with a gentle, self-effacing humour, that he couldn't claim to be anything other than one's garden-variety wizard, but one that occasionally went home with souvenirs of his work with the Experimental Charms Committee. Mr. Whimple was really quite a fascinating conversationalist, and it took very little encouragement for him to expound on the details of his work.

Mr. Whimple had been talking quite divertingly on the subject of his various projects for some time when he and Emily were joined by Cuthbert Mockridge. Mr. Mockridge greeted Mr. Whimple, who introduced him to Emily as a supervisor in the Goblin Liaison Office.

"Sir." Emily shook Mr. Mockridge's hand. It also took very little encouragement to induce Mockridge to expound at length on his work with the Second-World goblin community, which also made for fascinating conversation.

They were joined sometime later by Percy Weasley – apparently, Mockridge's office had dealings with International Magical Cooperation. Emily recognised Weasley as one of her dance partners from the Hogwarts Yule Ball. "Good evening, Mr. Weasley," she said, smiling. "So nice to see you again."

"Professor," Weasley said, with a very formal nod. Then he froze, his pale, redheaded face going faintly pink, and his eyes fixed on something over Emily's left shoulder.

"Well, good evening, everyone," she heard Lucius's cultured drawl say, then felt his hand briefly stroking her shoulder. "Lady Emily. Mockridge, Whimple." He nodded cordially to them, but his tone cooled slightly when he greeted the young clerk. "Weasley."

While Whimple and Mockridge greeted Lucius very cordially, Percy Weasley looked at him with a barely controlled sneer and said nothing. Emily's eyebrows rose in disapproval.

"So, Mockridge – been telling our visitor all about liasing with goblins, then?" Malfoy was saying.

"Yes, it's very interesting," she said, with a gracious smile at Mockridge. "I understand they're very clever with finances."

"They are that," Lucius agreed pleasantly. "I'd never hire anyone but a goblin accountant. But you know, now that I think of it, I must apologise, Professor, for our lack of a Faerie Liaison Office. I know that you would never let such a thing happen with your goblins, Cuthbert, but I've heard that when Professor Swain here applied for her work papers, the boys down in the Department of International Magical Cooperation didn't even have paperwork for her – they had to create new forms on the spot. You caught poor Barty rather unawares, my dear." He smiled at Emily as though she had been very clever and precocious for doing so.

Percy Weasley turned even pinker. "Well, it's not every day that Arcadians apply for work visas, Mr. Malfoy," he said coldly. "Actually, until the Professor arrived, we'd never had an Arcadian apply for formal work papers before. Though we do know that we have a small community of Faeries living and working in Britain without them." He turned toward Emily with a slightly inquisitorial look. "Were you aware of that, Professor?"

"Surely you realise, Mr. Weasley, that we don't all know each other," Emily replied in a very low, tactful tone.

Percy Weasley turned an even more hectic shade of pink, but didn't abandon his original question. "So you don't know any other Faeries living here?"

Emily was instantly on her guard, remembering that this young man worked for Bartemious Crouch. While she answered his questions very politely, and never openly denied that she knew any other Fae living in the Wizarding world, it soon became very clear to all present that Percy Weasley had as much chance of prying any information regarding any such immigrants out of her as he did out of one of the potted plants in the lobby. Lucius Malfoy was, of course, instantly ready to come to her aid.

"Really, Weasley, you're a man of one idea this evening, aren't you?" he drawled satirically. "Rather than spend all this time pestering a lady, why don't you tell us why the Department of International Magical Cooperation hasn't made more outreach efforts to that Fae community you mentioned? I'm still a bit confused as to why there isn't a Faerie Liaison Office or, I don't know, perhaps a Department of Interdimensional Magical Cooperation? After all, seeing as how we all know that there is an entire other dimensional plane, populated by intelligent people who use magic every day, why shouldn't there be? Really, the magic-practicing Arcadian population, when you come down to it, probably outnumbers the wizard population, even if the Professor is, to us... such a very rare bird." He made the description into an exquisite compliment, turning another look at her. Emily felt her face heat under his gaze.

"Yes, perhaps there should be," Mockridge was saying. "If your appointment at Hogwarts is indicative of a trend toward more open relations with the Fae, Professor, it would be a smart idea to anticipate the demand for a diplomatic bureau. I know once we gave goblins representation in our government, the bloody goblin rebellions became a thing of the distant past. If there is already a community of Faeries living in Britain, as you say, Weasley, perhaps they would be more willing to make themselves known if they knew they had advocates within the Ministry. Would you agree, madam?"

Emily pictured a figure of an adoring Faerie being added to the Fountain of the Magical Brethren in the Atrium, with water streaming from the tips of its pointed ears.

"There would be those more willing to be known than others," she said after a pause. Percy Weasley took on a very "I told you so" sort of look at her answer.

"You'd be a natural for head of that department, what with your background, Malfoy," Mockridge said, nodding thoughtfully at Lucius.

"I am a sworn servitor of Gwydion the Fifth of the Third Kingdom," Lucius offered helpfully.

"Well then – you would be the man for the job, then, with your connections," Mr. Mockridge said, nodding.

"If you think so," Lucius said, sounding every bit the modest, diligent civil servant. "If the Ministry wanted to appoint me to such, I would do my best to organise such an office."

"I'm still not convinced the Department of International Magical Cooperation can't address such a need, if there ever is one," Percy Weasley was quick to interject. "Wizard officials have been extending friendly diplomatic invitations to the Arcadian sovereigns and their subjects as far back as the fourteenth century and never received any really committed response, as I recall. The Fae have always maintained a firmly separatist attitude toward us. Meaning no offence, of course, Professor," Weasley said, inclining his head toward Emily.

"None taken," she replied, very coolly. "However, you're offering us a slightly revisionist history of the interaction between wizards and Faekind in the fourteenth century, wouldn't you say, Mr. Weasley? Particularly during the Plague years?"

Weasley's look faltered briefly. "Perhaps it was an... incomplete version, Professor. But wouldn't you agree that it profits none of us to harbour animosity towards each other due to unfortunate incidents in the distant past?"

"I assure you, I feel no animosity toward wizardkind over past historical events, which I think is evidenced by the fact that I am, as you said, the first Arcadian to apply for a Ministry work permit in your memory. And you can be certain that my King doesn't either, given that he was the one who persuaded the other eight sovereigns to declassify information on certain of our magical arts and allow them to be taught outside our world. I'm merely offering you a reason as to why the Fae have maintained, as you called it, a firmly separatist political stance – especially in the fourteenth century," she replied. Her tone had now gone past coolness into the absolutely arctic.

"Perhaps when my superior, Mr. Bartemious Crouch, recovers from his illness, he will be able to better... address this issue," Percy Weasley said after a long pause, his pale face flaming.

"Perhaps he will," Emily replied.

Percy politely took his leave of Gilbert Whimple and Cuthbert Mockridge, and then nodded perfunctorily to Emily and Lucius Malfoy. She was not sorry to see him go.

"Oh, don't mind him, dear. Poor Weasley feels so much that he has to be the perfect company man," Lucius muttered aside to her as Whimple and Mockridge watched young Weasley's exit, muttering between themselves. "He has to struggle so hard to make a name for himself, what with the parents he has."

"What do you mean?" Emily asked in a low tone.

"Well, the Weasleys have seven children," Lucius said, very quietly, next to her ear. "The children are all hardworking young people – I know you've met some of the younger Weasley boys in your classes. Arthur and Molly, however... well, I hate to say this about a colleague, but perhaps putting discretion ahead of self-indulgence really might have been a good idea so that all the children wouldn't need to scramble so hard to make a living later on. Sometimes I wanted to tell him – really, Arthur, are you a wizard or an Orc? They're children – there's no need to breed them like cannon fodder, you know. The two eldest boys have taken terribly dangerous jobs – one's a curse breaker, and the other works with dragons – but I suppose when one's family has so little, you have to take whatever work is available." He shook his head as though that was a terribly sad shame.

Lucius glanced up into the crowd. "Oh, don't look now, but there they are – see, the two redheads. Really, one would think that they wouldn't waste what resources they have on an evening's amusement when they have four children still in school." He again shook his head concernedly.

A dozen paces to Emily's right, Molly Weasley glanced up, caught sight of Emily, and turned to her husband. Her excited whispers carried readily in Emily's earshot. "Look, Arthur – remember Fred and George telling us about the Faery magic professor? That's got to be her, or I'll eat my new hat. Do let's introduce ourselves."

Lucius turned briefly toward the Weasleys and then back to Emily. "Well, then, love. Save a few dances for me?"

"Of course. I'll look forward to it."

As Molly Weasley bustled up, a bright smile on her pleasant face, Lucius put an ardent kiss on the back of Emily's hand, which gave Mrs. Weasley pause. He straightened up, and moved off into the crowd, nodding coolly to the Weasleys as he went. "Molly. Arthur."

Mrs. Weasley turned to Emily, her smile somewhat diminished. "Hello, miss. Are you perhaps one of the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professors at Hogwarts?"

"Yes, madam, I am."

"Splendid. I'm Molly Weasley, and this is my husband, Arthur. Three of our sons, Fred, George, and Ron, are in your class."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Lucius Malfoy knew Emily Swain very well.

He knew that she had spent her entire life under the threat of an enemy tribe that constantly tried to take over lands held by Faeries – and that the Orc tribes sought to conquer those lands largely because their population grew so quickly. In a society where the size of one's family was so very easy to regulate, having enough children to strain the family's resources to their limits was seen as extremely low-class – to say that a family "bred like Orcs" was a grave criticism indeed. In the Faerielands, a family that undertook the upbringing of seven children either possessed vast resources, or had not enough self-discipline to restrain themselves during the wife's oestrus. And great poverty meant eating what one could forage and sleeping without shelter.

Arthur and Molly Weasley, whom any reader of these chronicles knows as worthy people, who love having a gang of children around, both their own and other people's, had not had the option of nigh on infallibly planning the conception of every one of their little ones. They were also both raised in a society whose government promised no child would ever live in starvation conditions with no recourse to relief.

The Weasleys did not know Emily Swain at all and knew nothing of the commonly held views of her people. Likewise, Emily didn't know the Weasleys. So when Lucius Malfoy invoked the spectre of threatening, ever-rising populations of Orcs in reference to their brood while expressing his sympathy for the plucky children struggling to make good despite the failings of their parents, he invoked a feeling of distaste in her for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. This feeling was only magnified by her tense disagreement with their son Percy a moment before they approached her.

So unfortunately, when the Weasleys introduced themselves, her demeanour, while polite, was not what one could call brimful of warmth and sincerity. Sensing this, and having seen a moment earlier how thick she was with Lucius Malfoy, the Weasleys made her acquaintance with an equal amount of polite reserve. Mrs. Weasley, who honestly thought that being a good mother was the highest honour to which a woman could aspire, complimented Emily on being good with children and asked if she was a mother herself. Emily's expression clouded at the question, and she replied that she had neither husband nor child so distantly that the well-meaning Mrs. Weasley felt quite thrown back upon herself. Mrs. Weasley had, of course, no way of knowing that she was addressing a fairly recent widow – but then, the likes of Fianna Commander Emily Swain were theretofore entirely unknown in Mrs. Weasley's social circle. Any reader of these chronicles also knows that Emily is not one to volunteer personal information about herself to people she barely knows and greatly dislikes for the circumstances of her husband's death to be discussed like common gossip.

What with these kinds of misunderstandings, the introduction between the Weasleys and Professor Swain was not one of those charismatic first meetings in which all parties involved come away feeling a tremendous bond with one another. Emily excused herself as soon as was polite, and after she had gone, Mrs. Weasley sadly wondered aloud to her husband as to why their sons were so impressed with the new professor, as she seemed rather a snippy little thing in her opinion. Mr. Weasley reluctantly agreed.

Such was the power of Lucius Malfoy, that social engineer par excellence. Any reader who has not yet noticed Mr. Malfoy's talent for arranging the alliances of others to suit himself is advised to be wary.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The glowing blue dance floor was full of waltzing couples as the hour drew toward eleven o'clock. With a talented live orchestra like this and such a beautiful setting, Emily was now itching to dance with someone. Unlike at home, where there was no stigma attached to women asking men to dance or people simply dancing by themselves, here in this place, at this sort of very formal event, a proper lady had to wait until a suitable gentleman asked her to dance. Thus, she was finding herself rather at loose ends.

Of course she had never so much as entertained the idea of persuading her titular escort to dance with her – Professor Snape simply didn't strike her as the dancing type. Not to mention she hadn't seen him anywhere in at least the last two hours. Menzentius Black no doubt would have danced with her if she had asked, but she would rather have sat the entire evening out than endure that thin-blooded Neanderthal breathing whiskey in her face. Now, she would just as soon have danced with Percy Weasley as with Bartemious Crouch himself, and Lucius was nowhere in sight.

There was also no denying that situations like this made her miss Dorien intensely. As she lingered on the sidelines, watching other couples swirl past, she could feel his absence like a barbed hook twisting in her stomach.

Just then, however, that nice Mr. Cuthbert Mockridge took her elbow and asked for the next dance. She accepted, smiling at him so brilliantly that that genial, balding civil servant seemed a little bowled over. After two waltzes, Mr. Mockridge (now a bit red-faced and out of breath) led her to the sidelines and procured more champagne from a passing house-elf. As he continued to regale her with tales about goblin financial prowess, they were joined again by Mr. Whimple, then Walden Macnair, and Mr. Sturgis Podmore, a tall, well-built, square-jawed blond fellow who she thought quite easy on the eyes. Mr. Podmore asked her to dance a few minutes later, which invitation she was all too glad to accept. He was a good dancer, too – it was easy to while away the remaining time counting down until midnight on the floor with him. A few minutes before midnight, he led her aside and procured another flute of champagne for her, then toasted the New Year with her, clinking his glass against hers and kissing her hand quite charmingly.

Walden Macnair asked for the next dance shortly after midnight, however, and she didn't really see how she could refuse him without being rude – he was, after all, a good friend of Lucius's. She reluctantly nodded a farewell to the decorative Mr. Podmore and took the floor with Macnair, who, unfortunately, seemed to have downed his share of Scotch that evening. He held her uncomfortably close during the waltz, and she could feel his hand at her waist sweating through the thin silk of her gown. She fell prey to a sudden spell of fatigue that could only be alleviated by stopping all dancing at once and drinking more champagne. Macnair asked for another dance, with an air of thinking himself a very debonair fellow indeed, when suddenly she remembered a vague something that she absolutely had to speak to Lucius about and asked Macnair if he knew where he had gotten to.

"He said something about taking the air in the Gardens just after midnight. Hurry back, all right, love?" he said, winking. She smiled at him and hurried away.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The Hanging Gardens were easy to find, what with the sign marked "THIS WAY TO THE HANGING GARDENS ====> " mounted next to the entrance to the Grand Ballroom.

The Gardens were another vast chamber with a domed ceiling, this one reflecting a serene, starry sky. Tall latticework trellises covered with every kind of flowering and ornamental vine imaginable – roses, wisteria, lilac, and many others – formed a deliciously fragrant, airy maze around an elaborate marble fountain carved with alchemical symbols at the garden's centre. Here and there were dotted low stone benches and bits of statuary.

Emily had not wandered very far when she picked up the sound of Lucius's distinctive voice, coming from behind one of the vine-covered trellises, and started over to greet him, then stopped short once she made out the substance of his conversation.

"... really, my love, you're making a fuss over nothing," he was saying, in a soothing tone. "I've known her since she was a child – we danced at her wedding. Am I to now totally abandon her socially because her husband died? How would that look, may I ask?"

"Your little pointy-eared friend certainly could try to make herself a bit less conspicuous," Narcissa Malfoy said in reply. "She was dancing with everyone – just like she did at the Masquerade Ball. Does she ever wear anything on her arms?" Then, she made a sound very like a contemptuous sniff.

Emily turned in her direction in shocked surprise. Your little pointy-eared friend? Narcissa knew her name perfectly well, even if she did persist in calling her by her former surname.

Then Lucius's velvety voice cut in – "You forget, darling, that dancing and revelry have religious significance to her people. And if Lady Swain is a popular dance partner, I'd say it's most likely because she's an excellent dancer."

Narcissa's reply was sharp. "Say what you will, I don't believe there's anything holy about the way that woman dances. The whole room was looking at her."

"Oh yes – why should anyone look at an attractive and well-dressed woman who also dances very well? Have you not noticed, my dear, that you attract exactly the same sort of attention when you take the floor?"

Emily thought this was overstating the case a bit. That soft-footed, fretful arm ornament was more like an unwieldy silk-draped barge one steered rather than led – the comparison was impossible.

"That's different," Narcissa raged. "I'm a respectable married woman, not some part-animal. Where she gets the nerve to act so superior to me, after what she's done, I've no idea."

At that point, Emily might have confronted Narcissa Malfoy in anger and forever forsaken her hospitality. But Lucius interrupted with: "Darling, no matter what you may think, please don't talk about the widowed status of a lady whose husband died by violence as if it were an inconvenient imposition upon your sensibilities, especially with that Skeeter woman hanging about. Such remarks might be seen as callous, and might be repeated, at cost to your impeccable reputation."

Emily choked back a harsh laugh. Nicely done, Lucius.

"I don't know why you're so fond of that woman. It's not as if her father can do us any good socially – he's never returned from his beloved Arcadia. The rest of the Swain family are all as apolitical as they are half-cracked," Narcissa hissed indignantly.

"Why am I so fond of that woman – my dear, have you forgotten that that woman was, a few months ago, the person who prevented your early widowing? For all of your brother's frantic desire to hunt that boar, he never even came close to wounding the thing – Lady Swain and I had to take care of it ourselves. And besides, darling," he added, taking on an insinuating tone, "a wealthy and attractive young widow like that might make a very good second marriage. Wouldn't it be worth keeping up the connection for that reason, my dear? Especially because one of her most ardent admirers seems to be a member of our own family?"

Emily had to stop herself from laughing again. Menzentius Black? That idiot?

"Menzentius can do much better than that... that long-eared provincial," Narcissa spat. "She's at least a decade older than he is."

"Closer to half a decade – and she'll never look any older than he is. They'd have very attractive children," Lucius Malfoy said blandly.

Oh, please, Lucius knew that she didn't want to have children – he threw that last remark out just to taunt Narcissa. But still, the spluttering fits into which that idea was sending her were hilarious.

"Perhaps you're fond of that woman, but I certainly don't want her in the family. Can you imagine a bunch of little goat-footed children calling me Aunt?"

"Well, strictly speaking, your nieces and nephews would be deer-footed. Emily is a faun, not a satyr."

Emily slipped silently away from the quarrelling Malfoys, having no desire to listen to any more of Narcissa's pronouncements – "... long-eared provincial" indeed. It would serve Narcissa right if she did marry into their family. Or better yet, if she seduced Menzentius and then discarded him in favour of some rude mechanical. But no... pleasant as that vengeance would be, in order to carry it out, she would have to let the man touch her, and the idea of that made her skin positively crawl.

She quickly made her way back to the Grand Ballroom. The very affable Gilbert Whimple shortly asked for the next dance, and she was happy to accept.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Not long after Emily returned to the Ballroom, she felt a familiar hand caress her shoulder. "Good evening, my dear. If you would take the floor next with me?" Lucius asked.

"I should be absolutely delighted," she replied affectionately. His defence of her in the face of his own wife's tantrum was making him look even more attractive to her that evening than he had before.

The musicians struck up a foxtrot. As always, Lucius was a marvellous partner, who led so well it was easy to relax and follow his lead. "I'm so glad you're here to keep me company," he said. "Not long after midnight, Narcissa had to take poor Menzentius home. Stricken with a sudden sick headache, poor chap... "

"Oh, yes, I'm sure he was," she said, smiling satirically.

"Draco told me you taught him the foxtrot at the Yule Ball. It's good of you to help him practice his dancing." He leaned close to her ear. "But now I think he's got a bit of a crush on you. Really, dear, there's no need to make the boy go through puberty any faster than he already is."

"Oh, please – I do not flirt with teenage boys," she replied, laughing.

"If your Yule Ball robes were anything like those, you didn't need to," he drawled back.

"If anyone here is an incorrigible flirt, Mr. Malfoy, it's you," she drawled back, her tone sounding as though she rather liked him flirting incorrigibly with her than not.

He only chuckled, low and deliciously, in response, but said nothing more. His leading hand pressed hers warmly, and his other hand caressed the small of her back through the silk of her robe. When the music stopped, she reluctantly slid out of his arms, and they both applauded the musicians.

"As always, dancing with you spoils me," Lucius said. "Everyone else feels like leading a lead weight around the floor."

"Oh come, it's not that bad, I'm sure." Her protest was terribly half-hearted – as if she took quite a bit of satisfaction in having spoiled him for anyone else.

"Now I fear I have some pressing business I... regretfully... must attend to. But I do hope I'll see you later tonight?"

"Of course."

He took her hand and pressed what would have looked to any outsider like a very polite and chaste kiss to it – but she felt him palm a tiny, folded piece of paper to her.

She closed her hand around it completely casually, smiling graciously at him all the while. They made their exits from the dance floor in opposite directions.

Emily wandered aimlessly through the company, nodding to people as she went, until she found a secluded spot where she could be alone with the paper Lucius had passed to her. On which was written, in his imposing, archaic hand; handwriting better suited to signing vastly important business documents than writing illicit notes to women not his wife –

Hanging gardens Two a.m. – Meet me

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Two o'clock a.m. could not arrive fast enough – at around quarter to two, Emily went for a long solitary stroll in the Hanging Gardens, trying to contain her excitement at the thought of meeting Lucius alone again. When two a.m. came and went, she took a seat on one of the secluded benches in a dark funk of disappointment – which turned into elated excitement again when, at 2:07 a.m., she heard footsteps behind her.

"Lucius?"

"There you are." He sank down beside her on the bench and put another of those far-from-chaste kisses on her overheated cheek. "The lady of the hour. I was just seeing the Minister off – he couldn't stop talking about you all night. You've impressed him dreadfully, you know."

"Can you believe that – the Minister of Magic taking note of my curriculum?" she asked nervously. "Gwydion told me to come here and teach a self-defence class – I didn't realise that anyone would see it as some kind of overtly political act, the way that Percy Weasley seems to be doing. Lucius... I lead ground infantry. I'm not a diplomat – this is all too damn much."

Malfoy wasted no time on words or artful gestures – he gently drew her into his arms, his forehead bending to press lightly against hers. It was like being wrapped in warmth and adoration – exactly what she needed. She laid her cheek against his, her hand coming up to clasp his shoulder.

"Yes, I know, dear. I felt exactly the same way at Court," he said softly, stroking her hair with a gentle hand. "I was so glad I had friends like you and your father looking after me. Now, I wish you'd let me finally return the favour."

"You already have returned the favour – you're the only person who makes me feel really welcome here," she said. His fingertips travelled downward from her hair, to the nape of her neck... and she could feel her skin prickling under them. "But I'm wondering though... about... what to make of... " What to make of the way you treat me, and what to make of the way I feel about you. She was blushing so much that she felt a bit feverish.

"What to make of what, dear? Of... what's going on with us?" The vivid perfume of male arousal that had been hanging around him for much of the evening was now more intoxicating than too much champagne.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Well... I suppose now I should say that I'm sorry about what happened just before you left the other weekend. But somehow... all I'm really sorry about is that it didn't go on a great deal longer before we were so rudely interrupted."

"And I suppose... the proper thing to do would be to tell you that I'm dreadfully shocked and forbid you to ever do that again."

"One should always strive to do what is proper, of course," he said, sighing with resignation, but longingly tracing the line of her cheek with one hand.

"But if being proper means that I have to put you off, then I'm... not feeling very proper." She guiltily averted her eyes.

"Emily, I could be... very, very improper with you, if given the proper improper encouragement. It actually frightens me a bit to think of what heights of impropriety I could attain with you, if properly inspired." He put another heated kiss on her palm.

"Let's properly inspire you, then," she whispered. Then leaned in, fingers curving around that perfect jaw line, and kissed him – knowing that he would respond with the same unabashed lust that she felt for him. She was not disappointed – he returned her provocation in such a manner as to make every famously corrupt libertine in his long line of ancestors weep with envy.

Someone giggled behind them – a grey-haired wizard had started up the garden path with a young witch on his arm, the young woman clearly high on too much champagne. But this time, Emily did not want to relinquish Lucius. She turned toward the other two briefly, and whispered a word under her breath. "Don't worry – no one will see us."

"Clever girl," he purred, then bent to her lips again.

This was not the greedy, rushed kiss they had shared in her bedroom at Malfeasant – this was far slower and more sensual, a prelude to what they both now knew would be coming next, not a grasp for one bite of forbidden fruit that might never be available again. When he let his lips move from her mouth down to the hollow of her neck, conjuring heat in her every nerve ending as he did – when he pressed her body close against his, letting her feel the effect she was having on him under the impeccable velvet robes – he was a dominant male confidently laying claim to the most desirable female in his territory. And the part of her that could be driven to distraction by the scent of a man's lust understood him completely.

"Your hair is just far too tidy," she whispered, brushing her lips over his ear. "Too bad there isn't a convenient haymow in this garden."

"Why don't we leave the old haymow behind. This time, I'd rather try somewhere different," he said, his arms tightening possessively around her. "Do you remember when I asked you, the night after Beltane, to come to my room and go to bed with me... ?"

"Yes... " If he had said, What I would really like would be to take you right now, on the ground, like a couple of wild animals, most likely that would have been her answer as well. But Lucius remained firmly, infuriatingly, in control of himself.

"The offer still stands... and I'm still waiting for an answer," he said.

"All right," she said, scarcely louder than breathing, running supplicant hands over his back. She felt paralysed by his cool, deliberate grey gaze, the unbearable tension in his body beneath the velvet robes. "When can I see you?"

"Soon," he said.

"When?" she asked again, almost despondently.

"Wait," he whispered.