Concepts of Time

The natural progression of events had been set in motion, and it seemed neither would be doing the unthinkable and attempting to stop it. Augustus set about the work of preparing her, and she helped him, expertly freeing the rest of his shirt buttons and extracting his belt. He carried her to the bedroom and her hands explored – explored his chest, his back, his neck, his hair. Kisses were bestowed upon his ear, his neck, his shoulders, his lips. It was familiar and unfamiliar. The longing intent, the stirrings, the eagerness for the events and the ease at ensuring them. Elsie had lost her virginity in school to a boy who had been too ashamed to admit he had not saved himself for his pureblood fiancé. She had become a bit of the Durmstrang preparer. Noble pureblood boys nervous about committing so young found their way to her. She had been indignant at one point, but Claire had been happily entangled with Robin, and without Claire, Elsie had no company. She had become quite reliant on the company of a come-and-go lover.

Augustus was unfamiliar, though, because here was a man who was going against so many social norms for her – she was, after all, Elsie Norton, the sweet girl wholly unsuitable for any respectable young man – and yet she had the gnawing suspicion that she would not be getting the usual ‘this must never leave this house’ talk. If he proved her wrong, she would not be hurt. But there seemed to be more passion than lust in his embrace. Here was a man who missed the contact of a human, not just the pleasure of a woman. And whether Elsie would admit it or not, she had not taken a lover since she had left America, and it was about time the drought came to an end.

And that it did.

Her back shivered under his kisses, but she merely closed her eyes and hummed pleasantly. The shiver followed to her neck and she turned her head, opening her eyes to see him settling next to her. He turned, meeting her gaze and pulled her into him. One of her own arms slipped around his and she smirked back at him – it seemed they were both as pleased with themselves as they were with the other. He buried his head into her hair and she dipped her head, finding comfort under his chin. She adjusted and found comfort, and before she could think of anything at all clever to say, she had drifted off to sleep.

She had been running through Central Park for hours, following a path around and around, familiar and unfamiliar faces pausing to see her run, all cheering her on. She was not tired running – it was effortless and she loved it. But above the noise of her own feet, of people calling her name, she heard a high pitched voice. She grumbled a bit and squirmed closer to the source of warmth near her. Central Park faded, and the smell of linens and man filled her senses. One eye blinked open, followed by the other.

She was in a French home, with Augustus Rookwood. And his house elf. Spinny, the house elf. She reached up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with a knuckle. Spinny left them and Elsie waited for him to speak, but he only pulled her closer. He either did not know she was awake, or he was preoccupied. She turned over and saw the creases on his brow. So it was the latter. She reached up and smoothed the worry from his brow. “No worries right now. I declare this bed a worry-free zone.”

For a moment or so, perchance he could pretend he was somewhere else. If he concentrated, he was twenty-five again. In closing his eyes he could envision the work he so dearly loved spread out before him, notes in his thin handwriting, a mirror of his mothers, set out on sheets of pristine parchment. His glasses, his eyesight even then wanting, were elsewhere. His quill was between his lips and his mind was away with the fairies, absent from the press from the Dark Lord for information, absent from work. His mind was at home, where his family was, where his infant lay with its mother. He’d truly loved her then when the days were long and the nights even longer and the only thing he took as a real joy was her touch, her love. He could recall his friends, as they were then, his contemporaries with whom he’d drink after work, all searching for the Dutch courage to face the Dark Lord, to tell them that the Ministry refused to trust them, to take their punishment with their nerves half dulled. It was no way to live but he’d felt alive then with purpose and with an acute sense of what it was he was supposed to be doing, what role he was supposed  to fulfil for all of the people in his life. When the Aurors came looking for him, however, it all changed. A night’s tryst with a Dementor was enough to age any man. When he was let go, he re-joined the Dark Lord. With no Potters left, there was no sense in the cause. The torture of Mudbloods and Squibs and the swathes of Blood Traitors became routine. Killing Aurors was sweet revenge: sport. It all blurred. It was all meaningless. If he concentrated he was twenty-five again in those few weeks just after Kendall was born when he was truly, truly happy.

Alas, he was not. He was aging, greying at the ends, losing his will to carry on, as clichéd as it was. The pain of losing his wife and infant son was too much. Had been. Still was. It left him aching, still, desperate to cry but unwilling to muster the tears so he doused himself in absinthe to save the trouble. Wine. Vodka. Rum. Anything to numb the sodden spirit. With a woman in his arms, her youth and vigour beneath his fingers, hers bringing out his dormant athleticism and stamina, he felt more alive than he had done in months for she was no prostitute. She was a lady, albeit a young slightly dippy one but a lady none the less and one he desired to treat with respect if nothing else. To have her there, to feel the rhythm of her breathing, of her heartbeat, made him feel as though he wasn’t slowly dying, barely breathing. He felt alive because that was, in his mind, what living people did. They loved, they embraced, they revelled in each other, they felt the brush of sheets, the caress of the breeze and the heat of the sunshine. They felt. They felt so hard that they nearly exploded with it. Instead, he just let it wash over him like an absent-minded tide, unsure of where it intended to go. There was something in him so profoundly unhappy that it was no wonder that he sought to keep that moment, with one leg between hers, her smaller arm resting over his, her head under his chin and the fragrance of her hair wafting around, stupefying his senses. He wanted it to stay that way, just long enough for him to commit it to memory, but alas it was doomed to end. Alas, he was not twenty-five any longer.

The feeling of fingertips across his forehead made Augustus stir. He opened his eyes, the lids pealing back lazily, his eyelashes parting to reveal his light, gentle gaze. A smile took up his lips and he chuckled a little, the sound emanating deep from within his chest. His hands moved, one coming down to rest at the small of her back, his fingers tickling at her spine, and the other cradled her face gently in its palm. Lifting his chin, Augustus pressed a kiss to the skin between Elsie’s eyes where her nose began and he lowered his head a little just enough to bob the tip of his nose with hers. Later, he’d try to attribute the endearment to his sleepiness but at that moment in time he took to it like a fish to water, finding such affection no more difficult to administer now than he had done in the past. He missed it, in truth, though it wasn’t such a difficult truth to believe, really, when here was a man who had been looking for intimacy, even if it was only for a split second, a moment in time.

“Then it must be so,” Augustus murmured, smoothing out a few blades of hair that had lulled against Elsie’s face.

And it was so, at her behest his anxiety evaporated and Augustus leaned into her, peppering kisses across her throat as his hand at her back began to rub warmth into the cool skin he felt. His lips stole up, across her chin to hers and he extracted a handful of kisses from her gently, one after the other before smiling despite himself and drawing her to him again. Beneath the covers, Augustus stretched a little, unfurling his legs and revelling in the way his joints clicked back into life. Rolling over a little, Augustus moved onto his back and brought his arm up from Elsie’s back to play idly with her hair. It was difficult not to, really with it splayed out across the pillows. As he curled ringlets around his fingers he turned his head to look at her, wondering to himself why that little creature had decided to go with him of all people. Gibbon was probably a safer option although being the mistress of a Gibbon was arguably the most dismal thing to be – they never took to them quite like some other Pureblood men did who, past a certain age, abandoned their wives in favour for their mistresses who they took everywhere from the opera to a harmless, aimless visit to Diagon Alley – from the sublime to the ridiculous. But then, thinking along those lines meant that Augustus was attributing to her a title that she was so very much above. She would always be, as her parents had always rightly aspired, a cut above the rest of those who sought to make it in Pureblood society. She wouldn’t have to get where she wanted to be by providing bastards. No, someone would love her just right, when the time came. They’d be deserving of her. They wouldn’t diminish her with the title: maîtresse. She’d be treated right, as she should be.

“However,” he murmured with a silky smile, “I am worried. I’m worried that you are going to skedaddle a lot quicker than I’d prefer,” he leaned over and returned his lips to her neck again, “but you could ease my worries, love. Can I steal you for today?” He lifted his lips over her face, decorating her cheeks with his touch. “And I’ll think about letting you go for tomorrow?”

Her words awakened the man to her presence and to the reality that this was the morning after a night of fulfilled lust. The mornings were what determined everything. It was easy to be genuine in the throes of passion, when sincerity was rewarded with desires being satisfied. The next morning always revealed the inherent disinterest, the motivation unveiled to be nothing more than accessibility, and the conversation soon waned when they realized the only talking they were interested was in, ahem, body language.

She did not know if she expected that from Augustus Rookwood. He was much too classy to be so primal in thought, but he also had his pick of women and lovers. He could not be genuine with them, surely. If she was one of those that did not warrant the interest or care in the morning sunshine, she would not be heartbroken. She would take it in stride, thank him for helping her find her groove again, and find a man that would be more thankful for the favors she could do them. And if he did treat her well… well, she was not going to complain then, either.

He chuckled and her lips stretched across her face, her eyes sparking. His hands found her again and danced across her back, holding her face softly. And a kiss. She melted forward slightly, pressing herself against him in turn. So, this determined the morning then. She smiled, her eyes fluttering closed and one of her hands flattened against his chest, her thumb brushing across it. He spoke and she tilted her head up, grinning. He brushed her hair from her face and she pressed a grateful kiss on his jawline. “Good,” she said.

He began to kiss her and she lengthened her neck so he could have better access, before dropping her chin so he could reach her lips. One of her legs wrapped around his own, tightening around his as he pulled her close. Their moment of intimacy was interrupted by the need to awaken their bodies, and she watched him stretch. He began playing with her hair and voiced his concerns. Elsie grinned and turned over to look at him. “Steal away,” she said. “And maybe I’ll think about eventually leaving.” She smirked, returning his kisses. “I’m like a stray. I don’t mind coming back for more.”

(SORRY MY BABY! <3 My posties will slowly filter through, promise!)

In truth, there was never a time when he was more at peace than when he was wrapped around a lover. Finally, when there, between soft, linen sheets he could understand the world as he passed his fingers and lips over the great swathing plains of skin. There was never a pleasure he enjoyed more than comprehending a body, than comprehending the body of a woman who was the epitome of softness and sensuality, two features which Augustus had always lauded and adored. With their bodies slid between the sheets, their legs caught around each other, those were the times when Augustus felt he truly understood his wife. He didn’t share a similar relationship with another person. His movement from bed to bed, woman to woman, was in an effort to find that. He desired it above all else. There, with another person, he felt alive and for the longest time now, too long, he hadn’t felt alive. He’d felt far from it. Now, however, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t know what he felt.

Augustus wound and arm around Elsie’s waist, drawing her close to press a kiss to the tip of her nose. He then lowered his mouth to hers, stealing another slow, lingering kiss from her before pulling away and lifting his hand to her cheek, sweeping away a few tendrils of hair. He could smell the faint remaining scent of perfume on her skin, faded yet still beautiful having been worn all evening. A few presses of his lips against her skin across her shoulder, her collar bone, languorously lazy in the hollow of her throat. Sighing gently, contentedly, against her, Augustus lifted his head and laid it against the pillows, his fingers carefully traipsing across her hip.

“I enjoy keeping strays,” he murmured, closing his eyes with a wry, sleepy smile.

There was no plan forming at the back of Augustus’ mind – no especially brilliant concept. He had promised breakfast in the capital but now he felt like breakfast in bed and the morning in the sunshine, by the pool outside. He hadn’t, he rationalised, actually specified the when part of him taking Elsie to Paris for breakfast came up. No, so, in theory it could be any breakfast whether this one or the next or the one following that one. It mattered not and, alas, that was what made it the interesting bit. Content to stay where he was, he turned a little and stretched some more, his joints clicking merrily, some grumpily, reminding him, even in the faintest cavern of his mind, that he was ageing a touch quicker than he would have enjoyed and, indeed, preferred. Nevertheless, he’d ignore it for now.

“So, my darling stray,” he began, draping his arm absently back over Elsie. “What is it that you need first? Sustenance? Amusement? Or a few more hours of shut-eye?"

((No worries, lovey!))

This unexpected affection from the Rookwood patriarch would never garner a complaint out of the Norton woman who was so used to affection ending once the deed was done. She smiled, allowing him to pull her close and grace her nose with the brush of his lips, tilting her chin upwards. The gratitude earned her another true kiss, a deep one betraying the passion behind. She responded by kissing him back in turn, tangling her arms around his neck.

The tender embrace ended and she let one arm drape across the pillows, the other falling over her stomach. She turned her head, blinking pleasantly at him as she gave him a smile. She basked in the warmth of his affection, lolling her head back as she enjoyed the moment. These affairs ended. If there was anything that Elsie had learned,  it was that when you decided to tango with a high-standing pureblood man, he always had responsibilities, always had bigger and better things to get to, and these little distractions just weren’t worth it. It had been so when she was sixteen, and it would be so now. But, everyone moved on and ended up happy, didn’t they?

Besides, there was always another pureblood man having second thoughts about his marriage, so Elsie always had something to move on to.

Her deep eyes traced Augustus’ form. He kissed her here, kissed her there. There was deep-rooted pride in her somewhere, reveling in this turn. In these stolen moments, she was the worthiest woman in the world. Perhaps at those debutante balls she had been the second rate knock off, but when she stole the men from their obligations, their wives, she was truly something to behold. She could be Queen if such decisions were made behind closed doors and within winding sheets. But alas, they needed a more boring queen, for she was much less of a risk.

He assured her that she was indeed a welcome stray, and she smiled, brushing her palm over his chest. “Lovely.”

He gave her the options before them and she wiggled closer, propping herself up, her hair draping before her, her blanket draping off of her shoulders. “Ooh, amusement? Please, I choose amusement, I’m always slipping into horrible bouts of boredom. I’d love to see what you could think to amuse me with.”

((sorry about the length, love!))

With a smirk lifting his lips, Augustus threw back the sheets and got up out of bed. The first licks of the breeze travelled in through the balcony windows chilled his skin, bringing out gooseflesh, but his hands soon found a satin dressing gown which he tucked around his form, tying a knot at his waist before slinking over to the windows. He stepped out onto the balcony briefly, casting a dark eye across the summery landscape, wondering where first to make himself known once more to the vassals of the distant cousin whom Augustus had purchased the property from. He didn’t own the serfs connected to the property but nevertheless they still paid fealty to him as it was he who provided their professions and ensured that their sons and daughters were well educated and married equally as well. He had always been an efficient manager of people and they had never shown any form of dissent, seeming agreeable to him more often than not. He often mourned the fact he had not been as exacting with his children.

Smudging his lips into a line, Augustus stepped back into the room, the curtains swishing at him absently, and returned to the bed, leaning over and stealing another kiss from Elsie. He dropped himself down, his chest against the bed, his feet idle, scraped into the soft carpet, and he looked at her, curling a lock of her dark chocolate hair around his finger. He considered her angelic little face for a moment, studying her jutting chin and allowed a smirk to tickle at his lips. He bobbed the said chin with his thumb and smirked a little wider before getting up once more, adjusting his robe with an absent hand.

“How about I take you into the village and down to the beach, hm?” He inquired easily.

Augustus took Elsie’s hands and hauled her out of bed, averting his eyes from her naked form which was still, in that morning light – the averting didn’t last long, bear in mind – exquisite. Augustus then led her into the bathroom, throwing on the shower jets that sprang from the head already hot and ready for them to slide underneath. Undoing the robe from around himself, Augustus tossed it onto the floor and hopped underneath, revelling in the soothing feeling of the water hitting his body. He tugged at Elsie again, pulling her inside and into his arms. His hands felt for the shampoo and slowly began to rub the raspberry smelling wash into her hair once it was dampened, pressing his fingers against her scalp, recalling the manner in which he used to do the same for his lovers when he was younger. Never his wife though, he remembered gradually – for this wasn’t something they indulged in.

After making sure they were clean and smelling fragrant, Augustus shut off the jets and slid out, grabbing a handful of towels, handing one to Elsie before trudging out of the bathroom, returning to the bedroom and to the adjoining wardrobe which he entered in search of something to wear. He wasn’t going to go so far as to pick out anything for Elsie – eying the watering array of clothes on offer for both males and females in an array of sizes. Practised hands found his own, preferred clothes, donning a white t-shirt and a pair of dark wash jeans that reached down around his calves, not straying the whole way down. He then donned a pair of short, grey converse that didn’t go further than the bottom of his ankles. Then, he was ready, his hair dry and curling and he stepped back into the room, winding his arms around Elsie.

“Ready to go?” He inquired, curling back her hair, pressing a kiss to her neck.

Augustus got up to stretch and look out upon his kingdom, leaving Elsie to hers. The kingdom of twisted sheets, gradually going cold without the passion and friction of the night before. Elsie was used to the baffling feeling of lying alone in a stranger’s bed. With the men she could tell would be extra jumpy, the next morning she usually clambered out the window, changed into another stunning outfit, and then knocked on their door again. This way, the men had no choice but to openly admit that they wanted her to leave. Then she could get the last word.

This, obviously, was not the case with Augustus, but here she was, alone in the cooling sheets, legs tangled in them. A hand trailed up the sheets, and across her body, curiously tracing her torso the way so many men had. Flesh. All it was. Flesh that could drive men into the arms of lust, but never into the confines of emotions or commitment. It was strong enough to withstand a night of lovemaking, but hold up against an open conversation? No – its power was not that strong.

He returned, resting on the bed, and she readjusted so she could see his face. He brushed her hair back and lifted her head. Her eyes fluttered and she flashed him a pleased smile, before he helped her up. “I’m yours,” Elsie said, standing. When he began to lead them away, her smile faltered to a yawn. A shower was prepared and she stepped in at Augustus’ urging. She did not restrain herself from enjoying the touches, the warm shower. Her eyes slid closed and she moved beneath his touch, accepting the attention, enjoying it.

He gave her a towel and she worked it through her hair, before blotting the water from her skin. She followed him, saying, “I’ll just help myself? I have a strict No Repeat Outfits In the Same Week policy.” She smiled lightly, flicking through the shirts and slacks and skirts and dresses. She finally chose the number that would debut her time in the village, before tracking down her purse and her shoes. Her purse had been enlarged so she could always properly accessorize. Earing and watch were donned, before she strapped on the shoes from the night before – a minor twist of the rule, but still. She swept up her wand and twisted it into her hair. The hair turned sleep and burst into curls around her. A tap on the nose and  her usual makeup get up livened her expression.

He kissed her neck and she turned around, a smile creeping onto her face, her hands fluttering down to his forearms. “I think I may finally be decent. Let me review.” She dipped her head, taking in her outfit. She began to lift her head. “Seems good.“ She faltered towards the end of the word.

Her thumb had brushed a part of his skin, painted black. She could not help but turn his arm, staring the Dark Mark into the face. She stared for a moment, looking at the familiar emblem, proud and unapologetically glinting at her. She felt her soul tighten, the defense system preparing itself. On her face, a smile fixed itself onto her cherry lips, lifting her neck so she could smile at the man. “And what’s this?” The innocence in her voice was almost sickening.

The gentle morning was unravelled like thick, coarse yarn. It didn’t occur to Augustus in the slightest that perhaps there was a chance that she did not know. He wouldn’t have supposed that his infamy would have ceased in the twenty years or so since his imprisonment. Evidently he had succeeded in replacing his role as a criminal with that of a billionaire playboy who had too much money and too much time on his hands not to pillage and plunder his way through the female stock of pureblood society. One hundred down, nine hundred to go.

It shocked him, in actual fact, that for a moment she’d considered him to be a normal human being – one, albeit a little bit different from the rest, that existed outside of the mess of the Second Wizarding War and the subsequent skirmishes betwixt the Order of the Phoenix and the Death Eaters. The idea that he was just Augustus Rookwood, hailing from County Sligo in Southern Ireland, was one that boggled his mind – so much so that just for a moment he was too shocked to even try and form an explanation. One had to come eventually though, this he knew.

“A bad choice,” he mustered finally, enclosing his arms a little bit tighter around her. “You know what it is, don’t you?” He tugged the sleeve back a little bit more, revealing the dark, sullen magic to the bright, joyous air. The swirling skull and writhing snake had been once an emblem he’d been proud to wear. In missing the birth of his first daughter and the handful of birthdays of his son, he’d come to regret it. Azkaban had ruined him, riddled his veins thick with mistake and woe. It had prevented him from understanding any of them. It had lost him Kendall. Katarina. Aurelia. Cecilia. Athena. Augustus. Archibald. He’d lost them all. He’d lost Cordelia, too. His wife. He’d never even tried to save them, either.

“I was young and stupid and now I’m old and not nearly as wise as I’d prefer,” he didn’t desire to give a pretence. He was what he was. Anyone and everyone could see that. No one was blind. There wasn’t much good left in Augustus Rookwood. Not much at all. “It’s about protecting familial interests now. I haven’t the stomach for torturing Mudbloods anymore.”

He relinquished his hold on Elsie though not before leaving a kiss in the skin of her neck. Augustus then broke away, sliding his wand into the pocket of his shorts before moving to the door, gesturing that they should move along. He waited though, there, wondering for a moment whether she’d run and scream for the hills. Some of her contemporaries hadn’t minded so much, their lust for material and physical power seeing him as both a good pay day and as a man who knew the price of life and, indeed, the cost of losing it, too. They had minded little, allowing him his fun in the hope of tying him down like a boat to a harbour. Serial playboy he was, serial husband he was not. He had decided long ago that marriage was not something he’d pursue again. There was no sense in it in the traditional manner. He needed no heir. He had three. It was all a farce.

“Wanda does the best crepes.” Augustus offered, a small smile curling at the side of his mouth. “Unless of course you’d rather get back to London.”

It made sense, now that she considered the situation. The logic was there – powerful pureblood man with all the wealth he could want, with less than reputable rumors in circulation, and yet no blemish on his public figure. It was the classic composition of a high-ranking Death Eater. Elsie should know - she was practically an expert in them. But a charming smile, a weary expression, and a supposed disdain for the company she had found him in had distracted her. He was good with slight of hand, it seemed, and though Elsie maintained a smile, she could not help but feel like she was at the brunt of a cruel illusion.

She was pulled closer, drawn in by danger, and she tucked her head, keeping her eyes on his arm in case they betrayed anything. She kept up the expression, sure, but he may notice the light leaving her eyes, extinguished once again by the harsh facts of reality.

A bad choice. She knew plenty about those, surely. At his question, she smiled wider, her cheeks hurting. "Doesn't everyone?" she said, her voice feminine and sweet. She vaguely wondered how many Dark Marks the average person saw in the flesh. Her count was unnaturally high and she would be a fool if she ignored the proof in the circumstances that followed. She looked at Claire and the women she knew from work, who always chose fun, safe, loving men. They had more experience with amicable break ups than they did with abandonment, and - to be frank - most of them were not as fabulous as she was, bar Claire.

Elsie was tired of being the fool. She had been the fool for attention, the fool for notoriety, the fool for importance, the fool for wealth. She would not be the fool for love or affection. She would not be the mistress to every pureblood man in need of a plaything. Even if she could see herself really liking this one.

He gave her full view of the mark, the blemish, the scar and she stared it deep in the face, detesting it with her full being. Not even for what it stood for, but the treatment she had faced at the hands of its bearers. Social justice was hardly her interest - that was for her blonde counterpart to worry about. No, Elsie knew that those who wore this mark were, by nature, incapable of true affection or basic decency. The mark seemed to suck it all away.

And his excuses, though he might believe them himself, did not change anything for her. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. And everyone in his life became insurance. If he ever tried to desert, they would start with his family, then move to his friends and mistresses. And Elsie had no intention on being a pawn to be bartered for or forgotten. He might not have realized the power they would continue to wield over them. He may have no interest in torture or murder but being a Death Eater meant sometimes not having another option. Elsie had come to the U.K. to escape all of this. Not to walk right into the party she had left at home.

He kissed her and moved away, leaving her exactly where she was. The weight of the borrowed dress suddenly felt too much to bear, too heavy. She knew that she had to leave, but that horrifically disobedient part of her wanted to forget it all or offer another chance, but she could not. She would not. And the funny thing was, her head was winning, as it was prone to do. No one would have ever expected the silly girl to be led by her head as much as she was. Yet here she was, preparing to disappoint her heart.

She wheeled around, looking a bit breathless as she looked at the handsome man. "Actually," she said, folding her hands in front of her. "I just remembered - I have a lunch date with my best friend. I'd usually cancel, but I have some wheels in motion that I have to make sure don't get out from under my control." She stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest, chin resting atop it, tilting her head back to look up at him. "Raincheck?" She smiled brightly, looking optimistic for a meeting she knew could never happen.

Battle scars and marks of time in repentance would never be enough for true forgiveness to be found and given by those unwilling to lend it. Smoothing his lips into a thin, civil smile, Augustus let his hand fall from the brass doorknob, his dark gaze reappraising the woman before him finding that what he felt within him was betrayal. He pushed it aside, though, knowing it was futile to linger on it. He swallowed, clasping his hands behind his back, and sighed heavily thereafter. A hand strayed up through the front of his hair and he caught sight of the offending Dark Mark, causing him to reactively drop it back down to his side. Augustus dropped his gaze to his shoes briefly, scuffing the bottom of one against the tiles before opening the door.

Augustus shifted out from underneath Elsie’s touch, averting his gaze. He cleared his throat and then ducked out into the hallway. He didn’t look back. Instead he let his tail twitch between his legs and he fought back the feeling of rejection which wouldn’t phase him had he not known – he could have taken it as it was. But he’d felt it go that way. He knew as soon as she clapped her gaze on the mark that she’d be out of there as soon as possible. He felt her change in his arms and in part he hated it, in other he understood. Cordelia had been the same way, not that there was any comparison between the two, she’d hated it and, in part, hated Augustus but she learnt to deal with it. He was really no different. Coming down with blood on his robes was only part of it. When he got into bed at night he was her husband first, not the Death Eater.

Now, he was just the Death Eater. Rain check, indeed. Augustus left, not waiting to get out of the house by foot but instead opened a window and morphed into the black Rook that was his animagus form, fluttering his wings with a terrible, flurried ferocity, desperate to escape, to find solace somewhere else in the warm French sunshine.

Fin, I guess?