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Azalea Murray
Head of Slytherin
Posts : 664
Birthday : 1993-08-13
Join date : 2018-01-11
Location : Hogwarts or Surrey mostly
Job/hobbies : Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts
| | Subject: Re: Azalea's NaNoWriMo - 2022 Sat Nov 12, 2022 9:01 pm | |
| Chapter Eleven
Endeavors, Past and Present
She stayed with Lynnette until it was time for the little girl’s dinner. The Nanny who came to retrieve her looked terrified for a moment at seeing Azalea in the nursery. However she was quickly assured both of the young Harrington’s safety as well as hinted at that the visitor had no plans of tattling to the Lady of the House. Bidding the child a good evening, Azalea left the same way she had come, no one to escort her back to her guest room, not that it was necessary of course. While Elenore had done her best to emulate the palace she had grown up in, there was simply no comparing the sheer magnitude and scale of the Clement seat in Versailles to this luxury ranch in LA. Despite being welcomed at Jacques’ home several times in the past twenty years, Azalea would freely admit she couldn’t navigate the place without an escort. That was not a problem here.
She traced her steps back through the hallway decorated with accolades, stopping now to properly take in the story they told. She had been wrong, the woman realized as she looked at the photos now too. The various framed images showed the Harrington’s lives in the past decade and a half. The picture of Kit and Elenroe on their wedding day took place of prime, each of the children’s baby portraits arranged around it in a loose circle as if styled in a family tree. First days of school, pictures of Elenore and Kit at formal events, charismas portraits religiously done every year. Her father was happy here.
Is happy here, she corrected herself in time. And will continue to be happy here. It may not have been the life she imagined for Kit but that wasn’t his fault. If everyone was free to change, than why not the man who had raised her? His wife may not like to imagine his life before her but he had a life. He deserved a fresh start from it too. Kit Harrington had admirably done his duties as a father and a grandfather, the hardest of which had been to let his girls go when they had wanted to go. Now he had someone fully devoted to him. Because no matter what anyone thought of his young wife, there would be no questioning of how utterly devoted she was to the man.
As the brunette walked like a ghost through her father’s home, she cast her mind back to the week before her own wedding, when he had shown up unannounced at the resort they were staying in. In true Jake and Azalea fashion, they had decided to marry in the states. The tossup had been between Eden’s Prairie and Carmel and – much to Alexis’ disapproval – Carmel had been finalized. Something about being married from her childhood home had just felt right to Azalea and Jake had never been one to object. The house wouldn’t contain all their guests though which was why a resort nearby had been levied into service for the occasion.
It was over two years then since she had seen her dad, his own life far too busy and conveniently separate from hers. With a brand new bride and a toddler son, he was almost beyond recognition as he’d bounced baby Scott in his arms while greeting her sheepishly. When Azalea had asked if he was glad to miss out this part of raising a kid with herself, her father had frowned. She hadn’t meant to make him feel bad, but people often did things they never meant to do.
She had never meant to live without Jake, and here she was.
Even then, Kit’s apologies had not been necessary. She had let him say his peace though, about how he wished he was there for her more, how he appreciated the difficult it must pose for her to deal with all the changes in his life, how he would still totally kick Jake’s ass if the Auror gave her any trouble. On that count at least she could reassure him, Azalea was more than capable of kicking Jake’s ass on her own, as Jake himself used to continuously and proudly remind everyone around him.
She had also reassured her dad that he needn’t worry. He had spent a good part of his life worrying about her, then Mimosa, now he deserved rest, or as much rest as a small child would allow him. She had given him a kiss, thanked him for everything in the world and then released him fully to his new life. He would always be her dad, she had realized as she watched him go. She simply didn’t need him to protect her anymore, she hadn’t for a long, long time.
Azalea reached the guest suite to find it nearing sunset. Jacques was not back, and neither was there a plan for a meal arranged. She couldn’t blame the staff, they had come in unannounced. And Azalea didn’t need the food. She made her way to the too big bed, sitting on it with minimal impact, only taking up a small corner at the very edge of the sheets. This may be her father’s home but she doubted there was much room for her here.
She watched as the sun sank outside the large bay window by the bed, she watched the stars come out, always present in this sunny town at night. No one came to disturb her as she sat where she was, turned to stone in the same position. The noises around her died down, the flood lights outside her window dimmed, somewhere she heard the stray neigh of a horse from the farmlands surrounding the house.
And then she heard the quiet opening of the door. The slit of light that came through illuminated her slender frame sitting on the bed, making her belatedly realize she had not turned on any of the lights, fans or air conditioners within. The shadowy form of Jacques entered, his hand hovering near the light switch before he decided otherwise. The man padded softly towards her in the dark, sitting down on the bed a little ways away from her.
“I was hoping you’d be asleep.”
The brunette forced herself to come out of her daze, focussing on him instead. Her brown eyes blinked back to reality before she spoke, her throat hoarse from lack of water. “How’s Dad?”
“The procedure was successful,” he replied, tiredness oozing from every part of his body and speech. Azalea had no idea what role he had played in the medical proceedings, or if he had simply waited all day in an uncomfortable seat. But whatever it was, it had exhausted him beyond words. “He’s in recovery now. Elenore is with him.”
She nodded, if he was bringing up his sister it meant there had been some kind of interaction. “I’m glad,” she whispered in the dark, both for her father feeling better and for Elenore finally communicating with her brother. “Do they have a timeline…”
The Heir Apparent shook her head. “There were a fair amount of complications. He would need a lot of rehabilitation and monitoring. But the doctors feel hopeful.”
Once again, all Azalea could do was nod. Thankfully it was only Jacques here, he wouldn’t judge her for not openly showing happiness sand gratitude. He understood more than anyone else perhaps how little emotion Azalea was capable of showing these days. “And Elenore?”
The man sighed, sinking further into the mattress. The dip caused by his movements slid Azalea a little further towards him unintentionally. “She is better now… She was praying the whole time,” he recounted, a heaviness in his voice Azalea would never find right. “She’s so much like Maman,” he added sadly, knowing Azalea was the only person he could admit this to in this particular household. “Not that she would ever concede that.”
Azalea cast about for a change of topic, trying to lighten his heavy heart as best she could with her own limited ability. “I met Lynnette today,” she told him, trying to sound neutral instead of tired. It was still an effort but one she was willing to make for him. “A very intelligent young woman… she clearly adores your mom.”
“Does she now?” he asked, surprised. “The nanny brought her in to say goodnight to her Maman and Papa, I saw her briefly.”
“Mhm,” Azalea confirmed. “She sleeps with the limited edition Barbie Mattel did for your mom’s sixtieth.” There was a hint of a smile in her voice now, the mention of the child doing them both good. “Though it’s a secret so I’m not supposed to tell anybody.”
Jacques shook his head, amused. “We’ll have to get her a better one someday, maybe one of Maman’s old dolls, or Elenore’s.” Even as he said the words, she knew what he meant. Any toy given to little Lynnette would have to be brought here since her mother would not allow the child to go to the palace.
“I’m sorry,” she intoned softly, reaching for his hand. He didn’t react, but he didn’t shake her touch off either.
“I asked for separate rooms for us,” he informed her eventually, avoiding her gaze in the darkness. “They must have forgotten… The staff is busy with the boys, they arrived shortly before dinner.” The explanation was unnecessary; they were slowly running out of words to say to each other.
“I don’t mind,” the witch submitted. One room or two, she wasn’t planning on sleeping anyway. And in any case it wasn’t the first time they would be sharing a bed. When she had been working on her second project at his apartment in New York, the woman had often fallen asleep next to Jacques in his more than ample bed. It hadn’t bothered either one of them then, so there shouldn’t be a problem now. “Do you want to change for sleep?”
He shook his head. “Not really, you?”
His question made her realize that she too had made no effort to get comfortable in this room. “No.”
The two sat next to each other for several hours, not talking, eventually succumbing to jet lag and falling back into the mattress. Dimly, Azalea became aware of being pulled closer to him, Jacques’ arms wrapped protectively around her as he slept. Her own consciousness was too hazy to protest at that point. But she did appreciate not sleeping alone for the first time in three months.
1764 words ________________________________________________ | |
| | | | Azalea Murray
Head of Slytherin
Posts : 664
Birthday : 1993-08-13
Join date : 2018-01-11
Location : Hogwarts or Surrey mostly
Job/hobbies : Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts
| | Subject: Re: Azalea's NaNoWriMo - 2022 Sun Nov 13, 2022 6:28 pm | |
| Chapter Twelve
Hold Me Softly
Not three days later, there would be a sea of black once again.
Everything happened so fast, Azalea didn’t have time to catch up. Not that she tried of course. Catching up to the present had become a task more exhausting than she could manage. In her mind, Azalea lived and existed fully somewhere in the four months past. In the here and now, she only existed, against and devoid of her will.
She did try to be helpful though. The morning she and Jacques woke up, a little awkward for sure but neither of them caring enough to rectify the situation, everything seemed to be fine. Breakfast finally arrived in their room and the two took turns to shower and change before being invited to the main wing for brunch. Unfortunately, Elenore was still with her husband but Jacques and Azalea got to meet their children (minus Scott). Ironically, the one not present was the half-brother Azalea knew best because Scott had shared many a meal at the Blake household, brought there by Tessa’s refusal to stay away from him - especially after her sister’s untimely death five years ago. Their coaches had also encouraged the proximity, submitting that it might help the two grow more comfortable with each other. At the time, no one and objected, now though, Jackson Blake was having second thoughts, according to his wife, when the closeness that had resulted from growing comfortable was manifesting in some interesting dance routines on the ice.
Brunch had been going relatively smoothly, the boys had dozens of questions for their uncle Jacques and life at the palace in General. In the end, little Lynnette had crawled into Azalea’s lap, tired of all the boys talking and wanting the older witch’s attention all to herself. It was as they were almost done when a discreet man in a dark suit had entered the room and asked for Jacques. Azalea watched him speak in a low, urgent tone and immediately knew what had happened. She also knew the children could not be told like this. As Jacques had hurried with the man to check on his sister, giving Azalea a desperate look, she and nodded quietly, trying to put his worries at ease. She knew what to do from here on.
She had let the children finish up, and then helped the nannies to escort them all to their separate suites. Once they were all safely housed, she and started with Lynnette. In a way, the youngest Harrington and been the easiest. Too young to understand, she and looked confused for the most part. Azalea and reassured the girl that she could talk about what she felt, whenever she felt like it.
Pierre had asked the most practical question.
“Is Maman going to marry again? George Wickham’s Papa died and his Maman married another man?”
“I don’t know,” Azalea answered the eight year old. “Maybe, some day, but I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that for a long, long time.” This answer seemed to satisfy the boy. The sadness would come later, she knew. Right now the children should be allowed to deal with their shock.
Dominic and Anton she told together, finding both brothers in the same room. When she assured them the were allowed to feel what they were feeling, Dominic shook his head. “We need to look after Maman, when is Scott coming home?” Once again, his half-sister was forced to concede that she didn’t know.
Scott’s return wasn’t a mystery for long however. The boy was brought in around three in the evening, and he wasn’t alone. Guessing that he might want to see a friendly face, Azalea had waited for the oldest Harrington child in the foyer with the rest of the staff, only to be greeted first by a very familiar female voice.
“Aunt Azalea,” Tessa Blake ran into the foyer, enveloping her arms around the slender witch. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“I’m here,” the brunette had assured her niece. “You decided to come back with Scott, honey?”
Tessa looked at her forlorn dance partner and best friend, looking back at Azalea with a “How could I possibly not?” written all over her face. Scott’s features told another story entirely. At least she wouldn’t have to break the news to this child, as much as she wished she could. Azalea supposed Scott had been deemed old enough to hear it from the staff. The boy in turn only came to her and she bend down, allowing him to kiss her cheeks in the traditional style of French greeting he was used to.
“How is Maman?” he asked, stiff and mechanical. Tessa slipped an arm through his and Azalea noted his posture relax somewhat. “We want to see her, please.”
“She’s with your uncle Jacques, they should be here shortly. Do you guys want something to eat?” Both teens shook their head simultaneous mirroring each other eerily as they retired to Scott’s room.
The next party to arrive (much later in the evening) was from Versailles. Once again, Azalea stood with the staff to greet the two black limousines carrying the Lord and Lady Clement and their personal guards and servants, respectively. This time, she wasn’t there to primarily comfort anyone. This time Azalea stood out in the foyer out of duty. The Lord and Lady Clement of France could not be greeted by staff alone. She stood up straighter as she watched a chauffeur open the door. His Lordship exited the vehicle with more grace than a man of seventy had any right to possess, but it was his wife who had truly defied age, Azalea noted when he gave a hand to Her Ladyship. Lady Vanessa Clement looked almost the same as the Barbie Lynnette slept with, albeit with softer angles now.
The witch sank into a deep curtsy in greeting before rising to her feet again and leaning forwards to be kissed by Lord Louis. “Azalea, you are a sight for sore eyes.”
“Bonsoir,” how wife’s greeting was less warm, but Azalea was used to it by now. “Where is Elenore Lissette?”
“Elenore sends her deepest apologies,” Azalea lied without skipping a beat. “She wanted to be here for your arrival but she and to deal with… some important matters. Jac- I mean, the Heir Clement is with her. All the children are here too, if Your Ladyship would like to see them.”
“Are they asleep,” His Lordship questioned. Azalea nodded. “Then we shall not awaken them, they have had a difficulty day as it is.”
“As you wish, My Lord,” she answered, leading them to the best suite she could find and instruct the staff to arrange for them in the guest wing. At least in her helpful attempts to stay busy today, she now and a better layout of the place she was staying at. The suite she and Jacques had been given had probably been chosen by the staff for its convenient proximity to the main hallways, it was not the best room there. And she knew Jacques’ Parents deserved nothing less than the best.
She also knew that with Mimosa and the children staying, there would be no more spare rooms left. She and the French Auror would just have to make do with sharing a bed.
The last one to arrive was Mimosa, distress written clear on her elfin face as she held on to a sleepy Aurore’s hand and trailed by two nannies carrying a twin each in their arms. “Professor Harrington, we weren’t expecting you here,” the future Lady Clement greeted her tiredly. Mimosa and clearly been on a long flight with the children and nannies and it showed. Azalea hadn’t seen her daughter in well over a year now, and the urge to hug her was string, but she resisted.
“I was… in the area. I figured I could be of use.”
“Thank you,” Mimosa nodded, motioning to the car. “Could you please see that our bags are taken to our rooms. And ask the au pairs if they need anything, I’m afraid we packed in a hurry.”
“Of course, Your Ladyship. If you’ll follow me, we thought it best to choose a suite for you containing a nursery.” The Herbologist began to walk, Mimosa, Aurore, the nannies and the twins following along. Until Mimosa called out to her again.
“Azalea, is my Jacques here?”
The older witch nodded. “The Heir arrived yesterday, he has been with his Lady Sister since.” Mimosa nodded, her heels clicking on the wooden floor as they continued. Once the children and nannies were settled and Azalea was waiting at the door, Mimosa addressed her again.
“Where is my Jacques’s suite, I’d like to see my Lord husband.”
“He hasn’t settled into a suite yet,” Azalea responded, only half untruthfully. “I’ll make sure he knows where you are. He’s anxious to see you and the children too.”
“Thank you,” Mimosa dismissed her without looking her way. Why would she? Azalea was at best an old professor from school and at worse, just another member of the Clément’s extensive staff. Azalea readily forgave the young woman, just as she forgave Mimosa for not asking about Jake. She understood, and so would Mimosa’s father.
The brunette returned to her own room well after midnight, realizing that the whole day had been spent consoling others, greeting visitors, arranging accommodations and managing the staff. In her preoccupation with logistics, she had completely forgotten that it was her father too who was perished from this world. The realization should have made her weep, or feel something at least. But all Azalea felt was numb. Not the same kind of numb that she and been after Jake’s death. No, this was the more routine numb of knowing that there was more work to do tomorrow. It was the numbness of knowing she would never again see the man she had actually lost many years ago, and the numbness of understanding that her role was now to help Jacques and Elenore in whatever limited way she could. Azalea and had her moment of sorrow, and now she had to help them with theirs.
It was also the numbness of realizing that tonight, Jacques would not come here. From here on, they and their separate rooms after all.
1731 words ________________________________________________ | |
| | | | Azalea Murray
Head of Slytherin
Posts : 664
Birthday : 1993-08-13
Join date : 2018-01-11
Location : Hogwarts or Surrey mostly
Job/hobbies : Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts
| | Subject: Re: Azalea's NaNoWriMo - 2022 Tue Nov 15, 2022 4:36 pm | |
| Chapter Thirteen
The Next Right Thing
Azalea hadn’t planned on getting much sleep before the funeral, not that it mattered. Instead she felt it a good time to sit and remember the man Kit Harington had been. He deserved an ode like that, and knowing him, he would have secretly appreciated it too while rolling his eyes outwardly. She may not have known him well over the last decade and a half but Azalea could still lay claim to the three decades before that. And while losing her dad didn’t hurt anything remotely close to losing Jake, she did feel herself growing a little colder, a little more alone. Last night she knew this was her father’s home, now that was no longer the case. Azalea had no idea for how much longer she would be welcome here but she imagined not long.
The witch rose from her bed nearly an hour later, making her way to the suitcase where she gingerly unpacked the black dress she had brought with her. Was it her fault? Had she brought ill omen into the house? No, this was not the time to make everything about her. She would stay here and support Elenore and the children as best she could, and then leave. Whether she would be allowed to have any kind of relationship with her half brothers and sister would depend entirely on her father’s widow and she would accept that decision without complaint.
Even if holding little Lynnette felt a lot like breathing again.
It was as she was hanging up the dress that she noticed it, a small vial on the dressing table clearly marked for her convenience. Leaving the garment in the wardrobe, she walked over to the dressing table, picking it up softly. It had a small note tied around the neck. Gingerly, the brunette untied the string keeping the little roll of paper hooked to the bottle and opened it flat on the wooden surface. It only contained one word in a familiar handwriting.
“Sorry.”
The sleeping potion contained within was enough for the next few nights, confirming her thoughts from earlier. Whether he and gotten the potion after the brunch today or if he had packed it along with him, Azalea did not know. She had not packed any herself, not planning to sleep at all. In the end, his kindness didn’t matter as the woman replaced the vial where she had found it and returned to bed, curling up in her familiar sitting position with Jake’s sweater wrapped around her thinning frame.
“Go kick his ass, Dad,” she whispered to no one as the first of her tears began to fall. “He left me all on my own to deal with this shit.” More tears followed, then a too bright sunrise and she had to get up.
***
Though this was her second funeral in three months, it was her first time knowing what one really looked like. They woman who had attended Jake’s had been little more than a ghost. This time she was among the support group around the ghost. The service wasn’t large, maybe fewer than eighty people, much smaller yet grander than Jake’s and been. How arrangements for the event had been made overnight and to such perfection would always remain a mystery to Azalea, especially since she doubted the widow had anything to do with them. Yet it was elegant, classy, toasts were made to her Dad, Scott and Dominic gave moving eulogies Azalea wasn’t sure when they had time to practice and Elenore concluded the event by playing her husband’s favourite piece on the grand point that had been brought in for the occasion. Pictures of and taken by Kit Harrington graced the occasion but there were few of his life before Elenore. His favourite shots of Clara were conspicuously missing.
As was the Seer herself.
Azalea tried not to imagine anything too sinister. Clara and Klaus lived in the Midwest. A trip to LA – especially the no maj way – was not viable in such little time. Instead, Azalea busied herself with the younger children, mostly holding on to Lynnette and Anton while Elenore grimly spoke to the guests plying her with condolences. Her stature, flawless beauty and cool demeanor a result of grief made her an exact copy of her mother in all but looks. Lynnette Harrington, too young to understand what was going on, kept giving her grandmother furtive looks, as if unable to believe she was finally seeing her doll’s originator. With a start, Azalea realized this must be the first time the Lord and Lady Clement must have seen the child too.
After the service, the guests were quietly ushered to the main dining area set up for refreshments and final goodbyes. Assuming her own duty was done, she made to steer the children towards the more private entrance of the residence, Lynnette’s nanny following closely behind. Mimosa’s twins were not deemed graceful enough for the ceremony and had remained indoors. Azalea was planning to take her little half-sister to them so the children could play together.
Until she noticed the Lord Clement gently giving his wife’s hand to Jacques and turning towards her instead. As he walked towards them, his body and gait too straight and smooth for a man his age, Lynnette looked up at him curiously. Azalea knelt down beside the child. “You want to say hi to your grandpa?” she coaxed the girl gently. Little Lynnette considered for a moment, fear in her eyes before she nodded.
Turning to the French patriarch, she spoke shyly. “Bonjour, Grandpere.” The child proceeded to try a little curtsy, one that would improve vastly with time.
“Bonjour, mon petit,” the most powerful man in the world replied, his expressions softening into a smile. “What a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Azalea watched the two communicate softly for a minute before his Lordship addressed her directly.
“I wonder, would you be so kind as to take a walk with me, Azalea?”
“Of course,” the Herbologist acquiesced. Gently guiding Lynnette to the nanny and instructing her to take the children back to the nursery and their cousins, she waved them off before moving towards Lord Clement. The man politely extended an arm to her and she took in gently. The last time she had walked with him, at had been at the palace, a few weeks after her wedding and a few weeks before she had finally accepted the position of Headmistress of Hogwarts. His arm, his presence, felt just as solid as it had back then.
They walked in relative silence for a little bit, steering away from the main area and heading towards the extensive gardens of the farmhouse. Elenore was a well-known equestrian and Kit had always made sure his wife had everything she wished for. While Azalea had not seen the stables herself, she had heard their collection of horses was among the best in North America. Though she doubted it held a candle to the kennel club run by the palace. Her father had done his best for his wife, but even he couldn’t be the Clements.
“I owe you an apology,” Louis began sombrely. “We did you a disservice by not being present at Jake’s final rites.” Azalea didn’t respond. If she was honest, she herself hadn’t been all that present either. “We just didn’t want to bring down all the press in your time of mourning. Though I can only hope Jacques’ presence was some comfort.”
“You’re very kind to say so,” Azalea replied, not sure how to say she was still in mourning. That her mourning period would last as long as she did. But despite her not saying anything, he seemed to understand.
“Funny thing, death… It reminds us what we truly treasure, even if it does so far too late,” he mused as they turned towards a small walking path cut out among the bushes. “I have been fortunately… or unfortunate some might say, to not lose someone so close that it defeats the purpose of living. But I have lived long enough to see my loved ones do. And perhaps that is the greater cruelty.”
Azalea shook her head, not knowing what to say to that.
“Kenneth was a good man… He did his best,” the Lord Clement offered, though perhaps a touch unconvincingly. “But I do hope Azalea that you do not consider yourself without a father now. I understand that nothing can make the grief of losing him bearable… But I have now watched two daughters lose those very dear to them, and I don’t wish to meet my maker without telling them that they always have a home to return to if they so wish.”
Tears pricked the corners of her eyes at his words but Azalea tried to do her best to keep them at bay. It wouldn’t do to cry in the Lord Clément’s presence. “I appreciate it, My Lord.”
“But you will not honour it?” his inquiry was a defeated sigh, one that he knew he could do nothing about. No doubt he compared her to Elenore, both women too stubborn to return to the palace ready to accommodate them.
“I would never presume to impose on you and Her Ladyship in that manner.”
They stopped, Louis looking at her with tired, lined eyes. His age showed then, as he contemplated her features up close. “You have never been an imposition, dear one,.” He spoke firmly. “And nor will you ever be. It would be our honour if you thought of Versailles as your home too, at your disposal whenever you need it.
This time, Azalea had to work even harder to not cry. She may not be welcome at this house much longer but Louis Clement was assuring her she would always be welcome at his. Even if it could never, ever happen.
They returned to the house some forty minutes later and His Lordship returned to the Lady Clement's side, relieving Jacques. Of what Azalea had noted, the heir had spent the service next to his sister, barring only the few instances when her sons had been surrounding her. Now, he moved to Azalea, replacing his father by her side. The two remained speechless for a few minutes, just watching the well planned unfolding tableau around them.
Until Aurore came up to them, dressed appropriately in black but failing to demonstrate the level of seriousness required of people at such events. She smiled shyly at Azalea before reaching for her father’s hand. “Papa, is Great Grandpere in Heaven now?”
Jacques smiled affectionately down at his eight year old heir. “I think Azalea might be better placed to answer that question, mon trésor.” The child looked up at Azalea instead, her intelligent blue eyes probing the older woman’s, prompting a response.
The brunette thought about it a moment. She had never believed in the kind of afterlife that religious theology spouted. But she also knew the Clement children were raised with Septons and Septas, educated in both Catholicism as well as the old religion, from what Ivan had tried to explain to her. If rumours were to be trusted, the Lady Clement exclusively worshiped the Old Gods, whoever they may be.
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly, kneeling down to match the little blonde girl’s height and placing a soft hand on her shoulder. Aurore looked nothing like her parents, from her golden tresses to her blue eyes. But now that Azalea studied her up close, she could detect a hint of Jake in their granddaughter. The shade of Aurore’s eyes matched the deceased Aurore's far more than it did the Clement matriarch. It was what Mimosa’s eyes used to look like before her many surgeries.
“But I think he was the kind of person… who believed we make our own heaven right here. And I think that kind of thinking gets a lot of credit upstairs.”
Aurore canted her head a little sideways, considering this notion, a moment later, she nodded. “So we get to decide… what happens after we go in the ground?”
This time, it was Jacques who answered, grasping his daughter’s other shoulder firmly,. “Yes, it is always you who will get to decide what happens to you, in life and after.” It sounded like a promise he intended to keep.
2066 words ________________________________________________ | |
| | | | Azalea Murray
Head of Slytherin
Posts : 664
Birthday : 1993-08-13
Join date : 2018-01-11
Location : Hogwarts or Surrey mostly
Job/hobbies : Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts
| | Subject: Re: Azalea's NaNoWriMo - 2022 Tue Nov 15, 2022 7:59 pm | |
| Chapter Fourteen
Back to a Kind of Home
People began leaving after the wake. Day by day, the house emptied. First the Lord and Lady Clement left, and then Jacques and the family departed. There had been an apology about her mode of transport but Azalea waved it off. Even if they couldn’t arrange for Azalea to get home, she could always fly commercial. In the end, it was Victoria on the phone who settled the matter. The first Lady had called to express her condolences and spoken briefly to Elenore. She had then called Tessa to check up on her daughter, and when informed that Scott would be required to stay for an appropriate period of mourning, had insisted on calling Tessa back to Pennsylvania Avenue.
“There’s no point sending her back to Michigan, she doesn’t practice without Scott,” Victoria had told Azalea over the phone. “Even though there are such lovely boys there. That Charlie White absolutely adores her but Tessa refuses to step in the rink without Scott. So she might as well be here with us while the Harringtons wait out their time.” Azalea and listened quietly for the most part, until Victoria had suggested her sister in law come along with. Then, Azalea had tried to protest but it had not been stood for. Instead of going back to the UK, Victoria deemed it much better to have Azalea at the White House, at least for a few weeks. The herbologist hadn’t had the energy to argue.
Scott and Tessa were a different story entirely. Young and tenacious, just entering their teens, the kids were ready to taste their first bout of rebellion, and it came in the form of both ice dancers missing breakfast four days after. Then, Scott approached his mother with a unique proposal: Tessa Blake be their house guest for the mourning period. Azalea didn’t know what Elenore Harrington had replied to that (her source of information would be her niece a few days later) but it could be sufficiently guessed that the newly widowed heiress had not been a fan of the idea. Finally, Tessa had called her mother to ask if she could stay in LA on her own for a few weeks (with secret service supervision, even unknowingly volunteering Azalea as chaperone without asking her Aunt first). At that point, Jackson had taken over the conversation and two days later, a car was waiting for them at the farmhouse gates to drive both witches to LAX where they would travel Business Class to Reagan National, where more secret service would pick them up.
Watching the skaters say goodbye was not easy, it reminded her too much of herself and Jake as teenagers. People often said such intensity cooled down over the years. So who should she complain to? After nearly forty years with the man, she still missed him as much as she had when he was leaving school and she had to face the reality of a year without him. That was the memory that popped into her mind as she saw Scott trying to comfort Tessa while he walked her to the car. Azalea only hoped Elenore’s personal feelings towards the Harrington/Blake/Newbury clan wouldn’t get in the way of whatever budding feelings these kids had.
It was a smooth ride to the airport, and then a quick and easy access to the plane which would not have been possible if they weren’t who they were. Once they and taken off, Tessa finally told her Aunt the whole story, about how hard she had tried to stay there and how hard Scott had tried to keep her there. “I don’t get why mom and Elenore were being so unreasonable,” she sniffed softly. “It’s not like they don’t have the room.”
“I don’t think it’s about the room, kiddo,” Azalea had replied thoughtfully. “I think everyone is just worried that you guys are… maybe a bit too close.”
“We have to be, we’re going to start training for our junior championship. Coach Zoeva says if we aren’t totally comfortable with each other’s bodies, then we don’t stand a chance.” In admitting so, the girl blushed hotly, perhaps realizing she had revealed a little more than she had meant to in her indignation. Little did she know that Azalea took after her own dad in that respect. Scott and Tessa were teenagers and some things just came naturally, a lesson she had tried to impart on Jake too when he and realized Andrew was “seeing” someone.
They arrived at Reagan on schedule, being ushered through the VIP access off the plane first and then bustled into a black sedan. Twenty minutes later, they were cruising into the second security checkpoint bypassing the West Wing to head straight to the Residence. Once dropped off, Azalea and Tessa were greeted by the Household Manager and told that the First Lady would be arriving in two hours. The President’s private schedule, as always, was classified. Azalea didn’t mind, following one of the ushers to her guest room while Tessa was whisked away to her own room. She did however run into a familiar face an hour later.
“Azalea, how very nice to see you,” Maggie Harper greeted her before her face sobered into an expression of seriousness. “I’m… so sorry about Jake. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like…” Azalea merely nodded her thanks, still not sure what to say to such condolences. She supposed this was her life now, just nodding mutely when people spoke of Jake. “Jim and I wanted to come,” Maggie continued, “But work and, well…“ She motioned to her swollen midsection. “Hopefully number three gets easier?”
“Congratulations,” the brunette intoned. The two women chatted for a bit, during which Azalea found out that most of the old staff was still here. Mac was awarded the position of chief of staff with Sloan Keefer as Deputy. Don Keefer ran point as Head of Communications with Maggie as his Deputy while Jenna Johnson now served in the role of Press Secretary. Neil Sampat fulfilled the duties of Executive Secretary to the President while his head of council was a blonde lawyer who and been immensely helpful in the campaigns.
Azalea was served food and drink shortly after her arrival, the staff was clearly instructed to check on her and made aware of her special diet. It was probably all Victoria’s doing; the woman never left a stone unturned.
The First Lady arrived when she was slated too, exhausted hugs and enthusiasm all rolled into the warm presence that was Victoria Blake. Azalea could almost feel the tension lightening from her shoulders as Victoria sat down and they began to talk. Victoria didn’t offer empty condolences, she only spoke about how much fun Kit had been, both when she was a child and when she was an adult. The things he and liked, his cheeky personality, his fondness of the arts, his support to Jackson’s campaigns and careers. It was funny really, Victoria’s tired but cheerful voice talking about Kit like an old firmed did a lot more to send the man off than the formal ceremony in LA had, at least in Azalea’s opinion.
“Dad was pretty fond of you too,” Azalea reassured the younger woman. “He often said Jackson landed on his feet with you, and that you could do so much better.” The admission may have been taken as a slight on Jackson, if the words hadn’t been said in front of the then Senator who replied with a jovial “I’m Jackson Blake and I approve this message.”
Eventually, Victoria had to go. In addition to all her children needing her attention, she also had a five year old with a flu. Azalea tried to alleviate her guilt by saying she would be plenty occupied in the White House with no shortage of resources. But Victoria being Victoria, gave her the emergency extension numbers anyway in case she needed to reach the First Lady directly.
Dinner was served shortly after her sister in law left, and returned almost untouched, Azalea still too full from her meal a few hours earlier. Unpacking came a little later, then a shower and change of clothes. Azalea was surprised to find some clothes already in the cupboards of her suite, Victoria had thought this through.
The last thing to come out of her suitcase was the small vial of sleeping potion. She hadn’t used it, but she and kept it. Just in case.
The first night was a struggle, the bullet proof windows kept the view outside tantalizingly out of touch. It was odd to see he sunset but not feel it, odd to see the night sky without hearing the night sounds. Odd to keep living without any purpose or intent. At some point in the night, her phone buzzed with a tell-tale text. Azalea didn’t turn it over to look. Whoever it was … could wait.
1500 words ________________________________________________ | |
| | | | Azalea Murray
Head of Slytherin
Posts : 664
Birthday : 1993-08-13
Join date : 2018-01-11
Location : Hogwarts or Surrey mostly
Job/hobbies : Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts
| | Subject: Re: Azalea's NaNoWriMo - 2022 Wed Nov 16, 2022 3:38 pm | |
| Chapter Fifteen
Mad World
For two weeks, Azalea remained at the White House, a special guest to the President and the First Lady. Two weeks of enjoying Victoria’s company, seeing Jackson a couple of times and spending a substantial amount of time with her nieces and nephews. Perhaps it was all coincidental, perhaps Victoria Blake had planned it all, knowing how much her sister in law enjoyed being around children. And they sure seemed to enjoy being around her. Azalea found herself involved in the daily routines of every child, from Holden’s swim practice to Tessa’s workouts to Violet’s judo lessons. She even helped with the younger ones, wiping noses and playing dress up. The Blake children were many things but none of them were boring. And they refused to let their Aunt be bored too. A few days into her trip, Azalea found herself actually being tired and taking the potion left behind for her. She used it sparingly, every other day or so, but use it she did.
The night before she was due to leave, Azalea and Victoria were in little Summer’s room, having just put the child to bed. The youngest Blake had a penchant for pink not unlike her mother, As evidenced by the small teddy she held close to her in sleep. “I remember when you were this little,” Azalea smiled fondly at the child.
“No you don’t,” Victoria gently chided back, an identical smile on her features as she watched her youngest sleep. “We only met when I was eleven.”
“I wasn’t talking about age,” the older brunette teased, making Victoria pout slightly. The child that Azalea and first let into her heart was still there, in that pout. Though Victoria and definitely changed over the years, and the biggest changes had come not from growing up but from all the campaigning she and done for Jackson in the past decade. Both Azalea and Jake had watched year after year as Victoria’s public persona changed in accordance with what the American people wanted in a governor’s wife, then a senator’s wife than a vice president’s wife and now what they felt a good First Lady should be. Having to embody everyone’s ideals of what made a good woman, Azalea sometimes wondered if her sister in law even had time to be just herself. It used to annoy Jake in no small part to see his sister being dragged on the campaign trails, more often than not in some stage of pregnancy, all to further her husband’s career.
“It’s nice to see you smiling and joking again,” Victoria admitted quietly, both so as not to wake Summer as well as not to jinx what she had just said. “It’s been amazing having you here, the children adore you… Are you sure you can’t stay longer?” Azalea simply shook her head. She would rather not outstay her welcome, and the White House was no place to stay indefinitely. Almost as if the First Lady could read her mind, she added “If you don’t like it here, why don’t you take the residence in Milwaukee? It’s all ready for when we need it. it’s way more private than here and you can actually feel the breeze through the windows.”
“I can’t stay here forever Vic,” Azalea responded, looking ruefully at the tiny witch. “I have to go back… to Jake.”
Victoria looked sadly at her. “It hasn’t gotten any better, has it?” From her question, it was clear she had hoped that things had improved. But just because Azalea had been kept busy with the kids and was sleeping every couple of days didn’t mean there was no longer a gaping emptiness inside her where Jake used to be.
“I don’t think it ever will be,” the older brunette replied honestly. There was no point in lying to Victoria, she understood better than anyone else in the world what her brother had meant to Azalea. “He is still a part of me, and I don’t think that will ever stop being true. How do I just pretend that he isn’t?”
Victoria nodded. “You know Jake felt the same way right?” she asked hesitantly. “He may not have said it, but he worshiped you. You two were way more of an influence of what a relationship should be for me than mom and dad.”
“I know,” her sister in law replied, going quiet after that. The two women bid each other goodnight shortly after, Azalea retiring to her room. All her things for tomorrow were packed and her phone, which and been left on her bedside table, showed more messages. Azalea ignored them like she had been doing with the few that had come before. There was no point.
The next day, she left the White House Residence after breakfast, managing to even meet Jackson before she had to leave. The man had hugged her briefly and insisted she call them directly if she needed anything before Mac had hurried him off for a breakfast meeting with the joint chiefs. Hugging Victoria and the children goodbye, the Herbologist had made her way to the car where another helpful Secret Service agent had driven her to the airport. This time, Azalea and been in charge of her own travel plans so the brunette had booked a flight to JFK and then a connecting one to Heathrow. Despite all their professional successes in life, Jake and Azalea had adopted the middle class lifestyle, ergo the seats were the cheapest she could find, in economy class.
No VIP treatment greeted her this time, and Azalea had to line up to submit her check in bag like everyone else. It took over an hour to navigate to her gate and then another hour for her flight to board but she didn’t mind. At some point, she and picked up a copy of Botanical Introspection’s latest issue which she had listlessly flipped through, finding nothing interesting.
The brunette found her seat easily enough, not bothering with the overhead compartment as she only had a small purse with her. Crossing her legs to make herself as small as possible, she opened the magazine in her lap when an older gentleman took the seat next to her. The Herbologist didn’t want to invite questions or conversation by seeming available. The captain’s announcement came shortly thereafter and the seat belt sign blinked on. Yet… ten minutes later, they were still not in the air. Azalea could hear from behind her magazine, the other passengers muttering and musing as to what could have caused the delay.
The answer came shortly in the form of a very familiar voice.
“Good afternoon, sir. Would you mind switching seats with me, I’d like to sit next to my sister.” The elderly gentleman beside Azalea looked up in surprise but eventually relented, getting up with a groan and reaching for the overheard compartment. At least the person who had disturbed him had the curtesy to help him to his new seat before the place next to Azalea was occupied again.
“Hello,” he greeted her softly, making her look up from her magazine. Jacques Clement smiled down at her, his face a combination of smug and chagrined.
“You made the plain wait an extra ten minutes for you?”
“I just got off another flight, had to run all the way to this one.” He explained, amused. The French heir was clearly not sorry for what he had done. “Are you still angry with me?” he asked, a title more seriously.
“I’m not mad at you.”
“Then why didn’t you reply to any of my texts?”
Azalea grew silent at that. Why she hadn’t replied to him was a mystery even to herself. She hadn’t lied, she wasn’t angry at him. There was no reason to be angry at him. He had done more for her than anyone else could have. She could hardly dislike the fact that he had obligations. It also wasn’t because she had been too busy, as much as Azalea would have liked to believe that. She had indeed been busy, but not so much so that she couldn’t reply to a text. In the end, it was probably because he had asked her how she was, and Azalea didn’t know how to respond to such a question.
“Sorry,” she managed instead, worrying the corner of her magazine. Her fidgeting fingers caught his attention.
“Botanical Introspection… Weren’t you on the cover a few years ago?” He asked, reaching over to stroke her fingers gently, making them stop in their fidgeting.
“Ten years ago,” Azalea corrected him. The magazine had done its main piece on her as a leading authority in Herbology when her second discovery had been brought to light, highlighting her first one even more.
“I know,” his expression softened. “Papa keeps a copy framed in his solar.”
This was news to her, but then again she and never seen the inside of his Lordship’s office. The idea that she – even if in some small part – occupied his personal space was a gratifying one. “How’s everyone back home,” she asked, finally closing the magazine and turning towards the French Auror. “And did you have business in the states this week?” Azalea highly doubted he had flown here just to flag her plane and sit beside her until they reached New York.
“Everyone is adjusting… Mimosa is still upset but she will be fine. The children don’t understand much, and they can’t be blamed for that. Mama and Papa were glad to meet their grandchildren…” He trailed off, confirming her suspicion. Elenore likely did not make an effort to keep her parents a familiar presence in her and the children’s life. He left her question of his business in the states unanswered.
“And Ivan.” She asked, curious at how her son had reacted to the death.
“He was worried about you, but his work ethic supersedes everything, as you well know. He was glad to see the children home. Aurore is very attached to him, you see. She doesn’t learn from her tutors and Septas as well as she does from him.” And so, the conversation continued, awkward and information filled at first, then slowly giving way to softer, more relaxed tones. By the time they landed in JFK, it was as if they had never had a period of silence between them. But then again, that’s how they had always been. It defied all odds of friendship but the two had always somehow made it back to each other, even if in different forms over the years.
Jacques took her hand easily as they headed for their next flight, insisting that for the longer journey, she needed to sleep. Azalea would have protested but he quickly added that he needed to sleep too. And for the next twelve hours, the duo finally rested from their cumulative worries, Azalea slightly curled into him in the Business Class seats they had managed to secure last minute.
1837 words ________________________________________________ | |
| | | | Azalea Murray
Head of Slytherin
Posts : 664
Birthday : 1993-08-13
Join date : 2018-01-11
Location : Hogwarts or Surrey mostly
Job/hobbies : Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts
| | Subject: Re: Azalea's NaNoWriMo - 2022 Fri Nov 18, 2022 5:40 pm | |
| Chapter Sixteen
Homecoming
They landed at Heathrow as scheduled, but the Clement treatment took over from there. They were the first to be let off the plane – Azalea still a little groggy from nearly twelve hours of sleep, the longest she had managed in the last few years probably – and Jacques holding on to her securely. A car was waiting for them right outside, as usual sans driver and Azalea was bundled into the passage seat while the French heir took the wheel himself. The brunette had woken up enough by now to realize that the traffic they should have been battling at this time of day was non-existent and in much too short a time, they were pulling into the driveway of the Newburies’ Surrey home.
As expected, someone and locked up behind them. Said someone had also probably kept the house in good shape for the almost month she and been gone. No sign of dust or stagnation greeted them as Azalea entered through the front door, yet no sign of trespassing was to be found either. The things she had left in the living room in her hurry to leave were still there, still crumpled the way she had left them. Clearly whoever had cleaned up had hoped to go unnoticed. If only that was possible. Though it did make her wonder if someone had been cleaning up in all the time she couldn’t have been bothered to.
“Tea,” she asked more out of habit than anything else. There was someone at her house, she had to offer tea.
“How about coffee?” Jacques counter offered, wheeling her little bag into the hallway. The man himself appeared to have travelled without any luggage.
“I don’t think we have any,” Azalea tried, moving towards the kitchen. Opening the pantry, she found it fully stocked with all her usual brands, including coffee. Her face morphed into a small frown. “I don’t need you to buy me groceries.”
The Auror looked at her quizzically. “You know I can’t shop for groceries,” he tried to wave the insinuation away, probably hinting at the few times she had taken him grocery shopping in New York where he had simply watched in awe as Azalea filled their trolley with household necessities. The witch tried not to smile at his surprising ineptitude at such a common task, he was trying to derail the conversation had she wasn’t going to let him.
“Your cronies then,” she grumbled, reaching for the coffee tin and bringing it over to the kitchen counter. She fetched some cream from the fridge and began to mix the coffee in a small bowl, whisking the mixture with a fork in her own version of a cappuccino. To her surprise, her companion let out a short laugh.
“Cronies? What do you think I am, a mob boss?” he asked, amused. She could hear him removing his coat and shoes somewhere behind her. Azalea didn’t reply, both because he was teasing her and because they both knew very well that he had all the resources to be a mob boss if that was something he desired. Few people came into the kind of privilege Jacques Clement had by just being born into the right family. The woman continued to froth the cream as the kettle boiled, reaching for a sachet of vanilla to add to the mix. It was funny how she hadn’t made coffee this way in over a decade yet her muscle memory seemed to recall it perfectly.
“At any rate, I can try and obtain the bill for you,” he offered, coming into the kitchen. The man lifted his arms over his head and stretched, making Azalea remember that his six foot something, well-built frame had probably suffered more in an airplane seat than her five foot seven, undernourished skeletal self had. “Though someone would probably have claimed the expense by now, so I suggest giving the amount to a charity instead if it makes you feel any better.”
The Herbologist didn’t reply, instead bringing the cup of coffee over to him and placing it down. He raised an eyebrow, as if asking why there was only one cup, making Azalea realize she had forgotten to make any for herself. “I’ll make some tea,” she muttered, moving to turn back to the kettle when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Or we could just share,” he suggested lightly, motioning for her to sit down. When she had, he slid the cup towards her. “Ladies first, as Papa always taught us.” Azalea picked up the cup and took a sip, her first sip of coffee in four months. It wasn’t the kind she liked, Azalea had always preferred her coffee black and strong, no milk, no sugar, no cream, nothing that took away from the bitterness of the beans dying a slow, agonizing death in the boiling water. When Jacques had first found out her preference, he had jokingly called her a heathen and tried to introduce her to the subtlety in the flavourings of the bean and how they were brought out. In the end, she had learned to make coffee the way the French Auror liked it but stuck to her own taste.
She passed the cup to him, feeling the bitterness hidden underneath all the flavors. Disguised as it was, it tasted too much like the old times… like being happy. She was not ready for that feeling.
The Frenchman took a sip of his own, putting his cup down and sighing softly in appreciation. He didn’t say it, but Azalea heard him loud and clear. He was surprised and glad she still knew how to do this. He probably interpreted it as a sign that the old Azalea was still in there somewhere. And maybe she was. But she wasn’t allowed to come out. The only person she did that for was no longer here so what was the point?
“Would you believe I missed your coffee,” he asked presently. He had tried to push the cup towards her multiple times and the woman had refused just as many times before he understood that he had to finish the rest of it himself. “Even the palace chefs don’t make it like this.” Azalea nodded, probably because the palace chefs did things right, used sterilized cutlery and proper whisks. They didn’t just beat coffee powder and grocery store cream on a plate until they felt it was an okay consistency.
“Are you going to head back to France?” she asked, ignoring his coffee comment. If they went down the list of what they had missed in the past ten years, Azalea would probably end up apologizing to him again.
The man paused, looking at her thoughtfully before he formed a reply. “Eventually,” he posed, looking away. “But if you want your privacy, I understand. I’m afraid I’ve been enough of an imposition on your.”
She wanted to tell him he wasn’t an imposition, that she likely owed him a debt of gratitude for that dark night when he had found her trying to hurt herself in her office, that she was probably better off with him here than without. But none of the words came out. It all sounded too much like having a position on things and that was too much of an effort. And maybe with him gone, Azalea could return to her ghost like existence prior to his intervention. That sounded like something she wanted to do.
“Then I guess I will continue to live in your gardens, if you’ll have me.”
“We have a perfectly serviceable guest room, you know.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“It’s a fact,” she replied, not wanting to get trapped into admitting she would much rather he be in the house than outside it. It was getting colder anyway as the month moved steadily towards winter.
It was as she was doing the washing up when he spoke next, still seated at the kitchen counter and contemplating her through warm brown eyes. “Do you think Jake would have liked you being so lonely and… unwilling to be happy?” he asked softly. It came out like a genuine question instead of as precursor to preaching some life lesson. She had forgotten how good he was in that way, never taking the moral high ground or acting like he knew more than he did. Even when he actually did.
“If he didn’t like it, he shouldn’t have left,” she answered curly, her back to the French heir as she scrubbed the cup a little harder than a few seconds ago. Peripherally, she knew what was going on, or she would eventually. Her mentality was moving on from denial to anger. Kubler-Ross seemed to know everything but they didn’t know Azalea, they didn’t know all stages of grief could co-exist at once. But right now, the barb was very well intended, and not just at her husband. “He knew very well what would happen to me if he wasn’t around. He knew that while he was capable of living without me, I was never capable of the same. He knew that.”
A soft clink sounded, signalling a small part of the cup breaking free from her hand, falling to the floor of the basin, leaving a slow trail of red along her flesh where the sharp edge of the porcelain had broken through. As expected, Jacques was by her side in the same second, looking at her palm with concern. He needn’t have bothered, the cut was already healing. Her vines were good at repairing wounds of the flesh.
The Frenchman muttered something in his native language, too low for Azalea to make out even if she understood the words. A wand was produced and the cup immediately repaired, leaving no sign of it ever having been broken. As Jacques replaced the cup on its shelf, Azalea couldn’t help but sympathize with it. She was that cup manifested as a human, broken in so many places yet repaired to serve each time, never allowed to show its scars.
They sat in the kitchen late into the night, staring at each other and off into space periodically. Occasionally, she wondered what he as thinking of. Then she found his eyes on her, studying her as if he was trying to memorise the curves and lines of her face, her body. As if he was expecting not to see her again for a long time.
Sometime close to one in the morning, she reached out and touched his hand, trying to assure him she wasn’t a ghost. Even if she couldn’t assure herself of that.
1780 words ________________________________________________ | |
| | | | Azalea Murray
Head of Slytherin
Posts : 664
Birthday : 1993-08-13
Join date : 2018-01-11
Location : Hogwarts or Surrey mostly
Job/hobbies : Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts
| | Subject: Re: Azalea's NaNoWriMo - 2022 Sat Nov 19, 2022 5:18 pm | |
| Chapter Seventeen
An Accomplishment Far Greater
Autumn, 2030
The brunette frowned slightly as she peered into the microscope, the blood samples she was currently studying had changed… and not in the way she wanted them to. The ratio of white blood cells to red were not as planned. At this rate, there wouldn’t be any hemoglobin left to… The woman jerked away from the microscope as if stung.
Unsure of what she had seen, Azalea braved the lens again, and indeed, the mutation was happening so rapidly, the ratio was changing in front of her eyes, quite literally. She had only introduced a drop of her unique solution to the blood sample and yet the process of cell aging and death had severally accelerated. The Herbologist was barely able to spot the tell-tale purple dye of the mutation before it disappeared and the cells turned healthy once more. Another scientist may have rejoiced but Azalea knew that death eradicated disease too. And such accelerated healing would surely mean death on a living organism from shock alone.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to confirm her suspicions. Walking over to the cage of white mice she kept for such an occasion, she extracted one carefully from the group, a female. It was calm now but Azalea knew when introduced to dense moonlight, it would display signs of the lycanthropy it had been injected with some months ago. It had taken Azalea almost a year to figure out how to emulate moonlight in a lab setting, and another to modify Domacles Belby’s position through trial and error. Then she and Jacques had done probably the stupidest thing till date and returned to werewolf island. Finding a sample in full moon conditions hadn’t been easy but they had somehow managed to obtain it. Then had came to process of trying to study, isolate, replicate, fail, get drunk, get told off for not staying drunk, try again.
Until she finally managed to make a batch of venom similar to the ones werewolves produced.
Injecting small lab animals with that venom had been an exercise in dubiousness at first, until she had lost many rats, cats, frogs and monkeys before she found the right dosage. It made sense though, When in human form, werewolves couldn’t emit the same venom to transform other humans. Under a full moon’s influence though, that venom ran freely in their teeth and saliva, injecting others precisely to turn them. That precision was the hard part to work out but when she had, the Assistant Headmistress found herself in possession of several lycanthropy infected creatures ripe for experimentation.
Like the white mouse currently in her gloved hands. Her thumb stroked the creature’s head gently, trying to put the little she-mouse at ease. “It’s okay,” she soothed, depositing the mouse she refused to name into a clear, sterilized plastic bin. She had learned early on not to name them, or even number them because she still remembered number seventy four’s painful twitching in rigor mortis. “You’re going to be okay.” The mouse looked up at her, as if not trusting the assurances. It was right.
Azalea reached for a fresh needle, controlling the dosage further this time. Half a drop, Terror clouded the mouse’s eyes as she tried to scramble away from the approaching injection but to no avail. Azalea easily punctured a tiny vein, the mouse grew still. For a brief moment, Azalea dared to hope.
Then the tiny creature began to convulse. The brunette watched as it twitched and spasm-ed to its death, its tiny bones breaking under the pressure and blood seeping from its various orifices. Two minutes later, it was dead. Azalea carefully inserted a syringe into the plastic tub, collecting the blood sample she needed. The witch deposited the sample on a fresh slide and brought it over to the microscope again. This time, there was no tell-tale sign of purple. In its last moments, the mouse had been cured.
Azalea stood back from her microscope, trying to stay disengaged from the emotional aspect of the study. So she could theoretically cure lycanthropy in small mammals… but it also killed them. Even in micro doses, her solution was too potent. The way she saw it, there was a few options to explore from here onwards. She could make the doses even more micro, perhaps even using a mist instead of a diluted formula. She could adjust the antidote (though it couldn’t really be called that) itself but that would involve more far reaching complications. Finally she could practice on further mammals to see how different species’ reactions to it. More specifically, she could generate the antidote, long as it took, using the genetic markers of specific werewolves to see where that would lead. Though this option would be the most time and resource consuming. But if it worked… then the ministry would finally have a just cause to compile a database of all known werewolves and their unique venom generated during full moon.
Reaching for her journal, she made a few notes before deciding to go ahead with what she had at hand first. The brute force method wasn’t the most elegant, but it had contributed a great deal to the scientific endeavor. The woman picked out another mouse, a male this time. To this one, she didn’t lie, even though her thumb gently stroked its head too.
After depositing the fresh subject into the now cleansed and sterilized again plastic bin, she adjusted the dosage, repeating the process. This time, the mouse took longer to die, five minutes maybe. The next one seven minutes and forty two seconds, the time recorded on her stopwatch with each mouse. By the time she had reached her twelfth subject and the barest hint of her antidote solution, she saw results.
After twenty something minutes, the mouse grew still. She could spy fractures along its tiny body but its frame remained intact. The amount of blood that escaped it was minimal and, most promising of all, its little heart kept beating. The mouse was in a coma… but it was alive. Azalea moved it to a monitoring chamber, attaching nodes to its tiny body to record its heartbeat and blood pressure. Finally, she took a sample of its blood.
And rejoiced when it came back clean.
She had done it. She had finally managed to cure lycanthropy without killing a subject. This was the culmination of nearly four years of intense study. Of course, this was not the end, there was much more testing to be done and defending her findings, replicating them and making them applicable to humans would take at least just as long. But for the first time in nearly half a decade, she had a clear path forwards. Her hands shaking, the brunette picked up her phone and snapped a picture of the mouse in its little hospital bin. Labeling the picture as “This one made it”, she sent the image to Jake, knowing he wouldn’t be awake but wanting to tell him nonetheless.
The realization of what she had accomplished dawned on her then, making her move from the table and dispose of her gloves and coat. The witch released her hair from its netting and finally removed her face mask, storing everything away before she exited the “lab” and walked into the “main area” of the penthouse apartment. When Jacques had first shown her the vast, open plan, two story abode and told her she could configure it any way she liked, Azalea had been quick to establish separate areas for work and residence. At that time, she had assumed the residence would not be used much. She had been wrong, especially in the last year.
Now, the top floor was divided into her surgical lab and a theoretical lab. Chalk boards covered the walls with complicated formals written on them and a moving ladder attached to each wall for her convenience. All her filing was done in this area, and it also came with a comfy couch in case she wanted to nap; Azalea was not proud of how often she had fallen asleep here, only to wake up in Jacques’ bed while he slept either in the living room downstairs or up here.
The brunette made her way downstairs to the residential part of the penthouse. Here the environment was much cosier. Floor to ceiling windows showed a beautiful view of the New York skyline and the kitchen adjacent accommodated everything she would never need to cook. Walking to the special wine chiller underneath the kitchen counter, Azalea pulled out a bottle at random.
“Looks like I came in at the right time,” Jacques’ Clément’s amused voice sounded from the door. How had she not heard his key in the lock? Had she really been that distracted?
“Jacques,” she turned to the Frenchman, her entire face aglow with joy. “I didn’t hear you come in but yes, you came at the perfect time.” She reached for a cork opener, aligning it properly only to find him by her side in a few quick strides.
“May I?” he asked, taking the opener from her and popping open the bottle of probably stupidly expensive wine on her behalf. “I used magic to let myself in, just in case you were sleeping,” he explained as she fetched two crystal flutes. He poured a generous amount in each flute. “So, what are we celebrating?”
Azalea turned to him, an ecstatic grin decorated on her glossy pink lips. “I managed to eradicate all lycanthropic mutations from a mouse’s DNA, and it’s alive. “ It took a moment for him to put the information together, but then she saw realization sparkle in his warm brown gaze. Putting down his glass, he moved to her jubilantly, closing the two feet between them and picking her up by the waist. The man spun her around the kitchen three times before setting her down on the Italian marble counter.
“You did it,” he exclaimed, beaming proudly her way. “You managed to cure lycanthropy.”
“Only in small mammals, and the mouse is still in a co-“ The man bent down towards her, placing a firm finger on her lips.
“Non, you are not allowed to take this away from yourself, Azalea Harrington,” he softly admonished before pulling her into a hug. With herself being seated on the counter and Jacques standing up, she was at a slight height advantage, being able to see past his shoulder for the first time as he hugged her close. “I am so, so proud of you,” he added, letting her go to place a tender kiss on her cheek. “And everyone else will be too when they find out. What you’ve done it amazing.”
“I was only able to do it because of you,” she admitted, a soft blush touching her features. Another aspect of being around the Frenchman, he could now make her blush. “If you hadn’t offered me this place… All the equipment, material… everything.”
“Are you kidding?” the Auror looked at her incredulously, still holding her close. “With your track record and dedication, if you had tried to seek a grant for this research, do you think anyone in their right mind would have denied you? It’s my honor to be attached to such a breakthrough in magical history.”
The color on her cheeks darkened just a smidge as she looked away from all his praise. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special,” she admitted softly, overcome with the feeling of accomplishment that was slowly sinking in.
“You are special,” Jacques replied, just as softly. She felt his hand move to her angular chin, lifting her face to his. Her dark brown eyes sought out his, seeing in them the undeniable belief he had for her, for her work, for her character, for all that she stood for. Azalea had doubted herself plenty along the process but he hadn’t doubt her even once.
Afterword, when they no longer saw as much of each other, Azalea sometimes found herself wondering if he had meant to kiss her in that moment. She also wondered sometimes how it would have felt like if he had…
2040 words ________________________________________________ | |
| | | | Azalea Murray
Head of Slytherin
Posts : 664
Birthday : 1993-08-13
Join date : 2018-01-11
Location : Hogwarts or Surrey mostly
Job/hobbies : Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts
| | Subject: Re: Azalea's NaNoWriMo - 2022 Sun Nov 20, 2022 4:48 pm | |
| Chapter Eighteen
Mistakes in Winter
Eventually, October turned into November, and November into December. The winds grew even colder outside and Azalea found fires lit throughout the house and windows closed, most of it not of her doing. Over the weeks she had somewhat made her peace with living in a house that was overseen by the shadowy hands of the Clements. The Azalea of before would have never stood for that, so fierce in her independence and ability. The woman occupying the same space now wasn’t as fussed. What did it matter anyway if someone lit a few fires and made sure the doors and windows were fortified against the weather? Long since immune to extreme heat and cold, she knew it wasn’t for her benefit, at least not any more than cosmetically so.
Her house guest stayed here on a semi-permanent basis. When she had first offered him the space room, it had been hard to determine how much use he made of it. The two spent most of their time in the main house, the kitchen, the living room, they had even ventured out into the garden once to enjoy the weak sunlight streaming down from the heavens. Why Jacques had felt the need to take her to the gardens and by the pool was a mystery to her, but if he had hoped contact with the outside world would make her better, he would have been disappointed. She had walked with him, she had let him hold her hand, but at the end of the day, it had made no difference.
Or so she had thought until one day in November, she found herself making coffee unprompted. There was no Frenchman present today so she had no excuse as to why she reached for the coffee instead of tea, not even realizing what she was doing until the dark and bitter liquid touched her lips. Immediately, she spat it out, proceeding to empty the mug into the sink.
And made herself a cup of tea instead.
Another change that had recently permeated her stratosphere was work. While Hogwarts was still not bothering her with a return date, Azalea had received a phone call from Amanda. The aging Charms Professor had been pleasant as always. Once so captivated by her daughter, the greying blonde had now found a new obsession: her granddaughters. Azalea had listened for an hour about how little Lacey had learned to pull herself up all on her own and ahead of schedule before Amanda finally divulged that she was having a little trouble with an academic task. She had asked for the Headmistress’s help and as always, the brunette couldn’t say no. The next day, a small carton containing a dozen journals had arrived at her doorstep courtesy of Amanda and Azalea had started reading again.
It was like… riding a bike. She had started simply, grabbing a folder while she sat on the couch, reading the first few pages numbly until the words started to register. Then she found herself searching for a pen to make notes and fifty pages in, she was highlighting and correcting. The woman spent four hours reading the entire study and summarizing it after before going to bed well past midnight, unaware that her house guest had left for bed long ago, if that was where he even was.
But whether Jacques Clement stayed there that night or not, he had seen her working. He had taken note of how she had finished the work Amanda had sent her way in ten days and then more papers began to appear around the house. Peer reviewed journals, new studies that required further replication on a larger scale, op-eds of theories ranging from solid to farfetched. Azalea had questioned them once, asking why he saw fit to ply her with paper. Jacques had only grinned and suggested she take out her laptop then. All the information could be digitised easily enough.
And so her world began to slowly refill itself. Not in the way it was before, not even in the way she wanted to have it filled up now. But slowly, life began to crawl through the house again. Deliveries began to arrive and get picked up as paperwork from the school now found its way to her. Azalea’s office saw a thorough cleaning even if she didn’t use it as much and the fires around the house began to be lit by her more than the shadowy cabal of watchers entasked with keeping her warm and safe.
Christmas plans began to look more solid as she started to run out of time and excuses. Victoria’s calls insisted Azalea return to the White House for Christmas, her plan from October still solid. Ivan on one of his visits home again insisted his mother spend Christmas in Versailles with him. Andrew spoke of coming home because “how can we have Christmas without dad’s dorky tree lighting?” and Azalea had no answer to any of them. How was she supposed to do Christmas without Jake? How was she supposed to do anything without the man who had been her entire reason for celebrating any occasion?
One night in early December, Azalea had been curled up on the sofa in the living room, as always wrapped in a sweater of Jake’s. She hated how the garment had started to lose his scent. Without it, the sweater was just a sweater. But she was determined to cling to Jake’s presence as long as she could. Jacques sat opposite her, looking at his phone with a frown. Neither had said a word for over an hour but that was the point. They had an easy, irresponsible existence like this.
“Everything alright?” she asked, looking up from her journal, a highlighter in hand. The thin, square rimmed glasses she wore more for credibility reasons than from actual need perched on her nose as her chocolate eyes turned to him.
“Aurore has taken a tumble.” He informed her, not looking up from his phone. “She’s alright; it took seconds for the Maesters to heal her. But she shouldn’t have been hurt in the first place. And I should have been informed the moment it happened.”
“How did it happen?” the Herbologist asked, removing her glasses from her face and putting down her highlighter, her focus now solely on the Frenchman.
“She was trying to help a friend,” Jacques sighed. “The young Lady Alicient has been staying with us. She is Mimosa’s age. Apparently the girls thought it would be a good idea to break into the Abraxan’s pen. One of the young horses didn’t like the intrusion.” He put his phone down, looking tired and bereft. When had Jacques started looking so… sad?
“Will you return to the palace?” she asked, already knowing the answer. Despite how worn and conflicted he might be, he was still Jacques Clement. And of course he would go see his daughter despite a thousand assurances that she was alright.
“A car is on its way.” They spoke no more as Azalea got up to fetch his coat and gloves. The man had finally decided to keep some of his clothes here, a wise decision since he slept here at least three days a week. Not that Azalea ever kept track of his comings and goings, that was not the relationship they had. The brunette justified it as only fair. He had given her a place to conduct her research once upon a time; she was merely repaying the favour. She didn’t keep track of him, only knowing whether he was in or not by how sleepy she felt… how hard she tried to listen to the sound of his footsteps.
She didn’t see him for a week after that, though as it happened, she knew he was at his ancestral home. A chance phone call with Ivan had confirmed that the little Lady Aurore Vanessa had managed to sneak out to the stables when she should have been with her Lady Mother. The child had seen her chance the minute Mimosa had turned around to check on the seamstress coming in. Apparently her friend Alicient had never seen a winged horse before and Aurore had wanted to indulge her friend. Ivan was quick to assure his mother that all was okay and that both young girls were in top form, Aurore in particular quite excited to tell her Papa of her great adventure when he had arrived home.
When she did see him next, she sensed him first. Having gone without sleep for a week, her eyes suddenly grew heavy, then blinked open. “It’s cold outside,” she whispered, sitting up in bed and reaching for a cashmere throw she had brought out a few days ago. The witch wrapped it around herself, wearing only a thin night slip underneath. When no reply came, she added “Just come in through the window, you don’t have to make a detour through the door.”
She had expected him to come in looking a little chagrined, but also a little unapologetic, and nothing out of the ordinary. Instead, as soon as the window opened, she was hit with the scent of single malt scotch. Quickly, she rose from her bed, leaving her shawl crumpled on the covers as she walked to the window to help the French Auror in. The man stumbled slightly, landing heavily against her as she buckled slightly under his weight.
“Jacques, what happened?” Keeping an arm around him, she guided him to a chair, realizing he was dressed only in a shirt and trousers, three of his shirt buttons undone.
And a tell-tale mark of lipstick on his collar.
Kneeling before him, she removed his shoes and socks before taking one of his hands into her own, rubbing it firmly to try and warm the man up. From the weak moonlight that filtered in through the window, she could see he was beyond caring. His jaw was slack, his eyes blank and his lips starting to turn blue.
“Jacques,” she asked again, shaking his shoulder slightly before moving to warn his other hand between both her own. “Talk to me, what happened.”
“I’m a terrible father,” the Clement heir slurred, his breath reeking of alcohol. “And husband,” he added as an afterthought, as though that should have gone without saying. Azalea continued to gently rub his hands, wordlessly attempting to coax out a better explanation.
“Aurore got hurt... Because I wasn’t there,” he finally managed, looking so anguished, even she could feel it in her bones. “She got hurt because I’m selfish. She got hurt because I choose to stay here instead of where I belong.” Perhaps it was because she had been too wrapped up in her own misery that Azalea hadn’t managed to see his until now. She had always assumed he stayed here for her, to look after her, to give her some structure in her life. But now she wondered if he also stayed here because he found peace in this empty house with its one ghost. A place away from responsibilities, conversation and obligations.
“Kids get hurt all the time,” she tried to object, not wanting to think that if he was responsible for Aurore’s injury than so was she. The only reason he stayed her was because she was here. “Ivan says she’s fine, not a scratch on her.”
Jacques finally settled his gaze on her, his features truly stricken in the moonlight at her suggestion. “How long are we going to pretend that I’m a good father? That Mimosa is a good mother?” he asked, desperation edging in his voice. “Why can’t I simply accept that I have to look after all of them that I must not expect the traditional help one does from a wife and the mother of one’s children?” despite his inebriated state, he spoke clearly now, his words stinging.
“Is visiting women outside your marriage bed helping with the acceptance?” she bit back, dark chocolate eyes narrowed at him from where she knelt. He withdrew his hand from her as if stung. Whether he didn’t think she would find out or if he thought her too polite to say it out loud, Azalea did not know.
“You would judge me, Azalea? You of all people?”
“You are married to my daughter.”
“At your insistence,” he said through gritted teeth. “No one else in the entire world would have made me do it, but I did it because it was what you wanted. I did it despite what I wanted. And I will keep doing it for the rest of my life.” He sank back into the chair, his frame sagging in defeat. “Why couldn’t you set me free? If you couldn’t find it in your heart to love me, you could have at least left me free to live my life?”
She had no answer to that, so instead Azalea reached out to touch his arm. He shook her off roughly but that didn’t dissuade her. She tried again. This time, his refusal to be touched was less adamant. A third time and he let her hand stay.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered softly, sorrow dampening her eyes. “I never wanted to hurt you, I’m sorry.” She felt slight pressure on their joined hands as he pulled her up, settling her in his lap. The smell of scotch was so much stronger as he wrapped his arms around her while she buried her face in his shirt.
“Non, I’m sorry… I shouldn’t,” he spoke thickly, stroking her hair as she felt his chest tremble with emotion. Of course he couldn’t let himself be angry, to feel what he wanted to feel. He was far too responsible for that. She would never really tell her that she had ruined his life, not even under the influence of significant consumption of alcohol.
The witch raised her head, facing him with tears glistening on her cheeks. “You don’t deserve this, and I don’t want to make you anymore.”
“It is too late… Azalea,” he whispered back, features carved from stone at the inevitability of what had happened. “I am bound to my duty. And nothing else.” And in saying so, he finally lowered his lips to hers, touching them after nearly fifteen year of desperately waiting to do so.
He tasted like scotch and sandpaper, crushing her soft lips as he held her tight in his lap. But at least sandpaper had the decency to leave behind scars.
2427 words ________________________________________________ | |
| | | | Azalea Murray
Head of Slytherin
Posts : 664
Birthday : 1993-08-13
Join date : 2018-01-11
Location : Hogwarts or Surrey mostly
Job/hobbies : Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts
| | Subject: Re: Azalea's NaNoWriMo - 2022 Mon Nov 21, 2022 10:49 pm | |
| Chapter Nineteen
Body and Soul
His lips crushed down on hers like liquid fire, consuming everything in their path. Azalea could barely breath as his hunger devoured her, not caring for etiquette, build up or even her as the man’s hunting kisses targeted her relentlessly. If she had been capable of thought, she would have wondered if she was falling prey to his lust or his anger, but she had no such capabilities at the time. All she really felt was his tongue pushing roughly against hers, prying her lips open firmly before probing deeper, tasting what he had been denied for so long. And what was worse, her own tongue met his halfway, clashing violently with it. There was nothing soft and blurred about this interaction as he captured her again and again, feeling her frail body shudder in his grasp as she struggled to breath.
His hands were not idle either, already loosely around her waist from having pulled her up into his lap, they now moved with purpose, nudging her, shifting her, repositioning her like a clay doll on his legs until she straddled him as lips rained fire on her skin. The brunette had no ideas how he managed to undo his belt and trousers amid the deadly game of passion they played but she knew he had when she felt the palms of his large hands under her hips. When they had managed to get under her night slip, the witch didn’t know, only that they were pushing her up, up from his lap as if she weighed nothing at all.
And then she felt herself come down on top of him, sheathing him inside of her with a breathless, painful gasp. Familiar with the rules of carnal lust, Azalea technically knew what was happening yet was unable to process it as he began to move inside her without any formality. Never in a million years would she have imagined this with Jacques Clement, but if the past six months had taught her anything, it was that she could very well live through events unimaginable.
He claimed her in long, dry, painful strokes, the roughness far from unappreciated because it was the only thing that could justify what was going on. This was not a relationship, they were not paramours. This was two people doing what they had to do to feel alive. His lips trailed away from hers as he moved inside her, calming her throat now. Azalea felt teeth and tongue and peripheral horror as the Frenchman attempted to mark her over and over again, all to no avail because any blemish on her skin would instantly be healed courtesy of the anomaly that lived inside her. But he wasn’t going to give up that easily. His hands dug into her flesh, leaving it stained red for the moment they lingered, eventually she heard a rip as the garment loosely covering her body gave way to his urges.
Azalea gave herself up to the madness in the chair beside her bed, welcoming the pain and anger and lust and depravity and violence and hate that coursed through her blood with each stroke, reminding her of what she had lost and how much more loss she had yet to suffer still. So many things she would have to experience, to live through, all on her own now that a part of her soul was gone. Jacques was not the only one livid with his existence, and while Azalea would not have chosen this way to express it, she was not opposed to it either as long as it burned, as long as it hurt, as long as it cut deep gashes inside her, reminding her that everything, even grieving, came at a cost.
He came inside her with an incoherent curse, his fingers on her back, clutching at her desperately only second ago, calmed. His teeth on her shoulder retracted, his head sagged forwards on her narrow frame. The world stilled.
Azalea didn’t want to the world to stop, she wanted the fire and fury to continue. She wanted to feel more pain on her body, on her soul, in her blood. But she didn’t have the energy to ask for more as his touch suddenly turned gentle, simply holding her in his embrace as he slipped out of her. Azalea said nothing, trying to focus on a black, hopeless space inside her head as she felt wetness slide down her shoulder. She has no sympathy for him now, and she had even less of it for herself. Jacques may yet be redeemable but people like Azalea were not worth anyone’s forgiveness, let alone his.
Eventually, she felt him move. How he had managed it logistically, she did not know. Only half conscious, she felt herself lifted up in his arms, then draped with the cashmere throw from another life time., His gentle movements of carrying her downstairs barely registered and her dark brown eyes stayed closed as he put her down on the bed in the guest room, sliding in beside her. The brunette didn’t know if this was from common courtesy or respecting her and Jake’s marriage bed but if he was trying to find a place in this house where the husband and wife had not consummated their relationship, than he would be comically unsuccessful.
They lay next to each other silently for the rest of the night, not fooling each other in the slightest with their closed eyes and even breathing. Having slept in front of each other far too often, they were intimately aware of one another’s slumbering habitus and neither one of them displayed any that night. The pair maintained a respectful distance from each other, not touching, not breathing too loud, staying perfectly still… Had she a thought to spare for him, Azalea would have assumed Jacques was wallowing in shame and regret. But she didn’t, because she was still burning with silent fury, the same fury that she had only hinted at these past few weeks now took her over in full force, demanding to be felt.
The first light of dawn broke the spell, permeating as winter light often does, far too dim and far too late, without the comfort of warmth. It was light but only technically, just as they had had sex last night, but only technically.
Jacques was the first to get out of bed, leaving her slender frame lost in the bedding as he unnecessarily tried to move without noise. It was only when Azalea heard the loud shower running very intentionally that she moved. Adjusting her torn slip over her body and gathering the cashmere around it, she tiptoed out of the room, a ghost once again. Making her way to her own bedroom, she headed straight to the master bath and sat down at the edge of the tub, trying not to relive what had happened last night.
Trying not to think about how she had just fucked the man married to her daughter.
Trying not to think that she had finally experienced the phenomenon commonly referred to as an out of body experience.
With Jake, there had never been two Azaleas. She had given herself completely to the man she couldn’t live without. She had given him all she had to offer, every emotion, every smile, every kiss, every heartbreak, every inch of her body and every last iota of her soul. She had never learned to do it any other way. But now she knew another way existed. Another way in which her body and soul were two separate elements, and while Jacques Clement had claimed the first last night, he would never, ever be able to claim the second. He may have tried to cleanse her with fire, but she could never be clean.
The woman reached out and ripped the simple fabric from her body, standing up to look into the mirror. Bones and hollows met her reddened gaze but no marks. Not a single scratch on her smooth, unblemished skin from what she had put it through merely hours ago. Once again, all her scars would have to contend with being only internal.
She stayed in the bathroom for a long time, naked, cold and vulnerable, confined to the small space where she knew she wouldn’t run into anyone else. She needn’t have bothered, her house guest was more afraid of being seen in daylight then she was. So ashamed of what he had done, he had showered, changed and left, probably through a window, she thought bitterly as she finally left the bathroom to find the house eerily quiet. Perhaps they had finally done it, she mused as she moved to the bedroom door, not looking at her bed. Perhaps they had finally put an end to their friendship after all these years. Their bond had survived impossible odds over the past decade but she doubted it could survive this.
And she wasn’t sure if she wanted it to either. There were some things they just couldn’t come back from, and though Jacques and Azalea had mutually pushed that envelope to the very edges of its restraints, they had always somehow found a way back to each other. Until now.
Horrified at his own impulse, the Heir Clement would immediately return to the palace, shower his Lady Wife with gifts and affirmations, lose himself in his children and his work, and only think of her on nights when he’d drank too much or was in the mood for self-flagellation. Azalea on the other hand could continue to exist in this house like the ghost she was, all memory of being reanimated for a few moments forgotten as she clung to the last dregs of Jake in her existence. Never alive to begin with, the woman would die slowly, painfully, day by day in atonement for what she had done and even then it wouldn’t be enough.
Jacques and Azalea would live the rest of their life avoiding each other whenever possible, and falsely smiling through occasions they could not justify a reason to.
The entire saga had unfurled in her head by the time she entered the kitchen, her conjured life disturbed by the smell of fresh, black coffee snaking through her dulled senses. Apparently no one had informed her partner in loathing of the plan in her head because there he stood in the kitchen, two cups of coffee steaming on the counter in front of him, hair still somewhat damp from the shower but his body now swathed in a fresh shirt and jeans.
“Can we talk?”
1776 words ________________________________________________ | |
| | | | Azalea Murray
Head of Slytherin
Posts : 664
Birthday : 1993-08-13
Join date : 2018-01-11
Location : Hogwarts or Surrey mostly
Job/hobbies : Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts
| | Subject: Re: Azalea's NaNoWriMo - 2022 Thu Nov 24, 2022 2:04 pm | |
| Chapter Twenty
Out in the Open
“What is there to talk about?” the brunette replied curtly, unsure who she was mad at in that moment. Him for not having the decency to leave like a common thief come into the night or herself for expecting him to. Over her too long life, the woman had never experienced a one night stand before, and it seemed like her house guests wanted to continue that streak.
“Please,” he added, motioning towards the bar stool. “I’ll leave after, I promise.”
Azalea moved towards the chair, sitting at the very edge. While Jacques had taken the liberty of a shower and clean clothes, she had not. Expecting to be on her own, the Herbologist had tried to wrap herself in one of Jake’s T shirts, couldn’t bring herself to do so and had simply covered her slender frame in a large dressing gown, cinching it tight around her waist. Her hair remained uncombed, loosely scattered around her face and shimmering in places hit by the paneling winter sunlight streaming into the kitchen. She kept her eyes lowered to the counter, ignoring the mug of coffee he slid her way. She didn’t deserve coffee.
“I guess I should start by apologizing,” he began, wrapping his hand around his own cup. It must have been hot, she noted, given how red his palm was quickly turning. “I… It shouldn’t have happened that way.”
“It shouldn’t have happened at all,” the brunette corrected, shaking her head slightly, still not looking up to meet his gaze. She didn’t need to look up at him to know the pained look on his face. But once again, she found little sympathy for the man who had been responsible for last night’s agonizing relief.
“I… That’s fair,” he conceded. Normally so good at knowing what he was thinking, Azalea wished she could employ the same skills now. More so, she wished he could see what was going on in her head. Then he would know to leave her be. “I suppose it wouldn’t matter if I said I’ve loved you for a long time now?”
“It wouldn’t,” she confirmed, still ignoring her coffee, more focused on the steam rising in curls from the mug, only to disappear before reaching very far. It reminded her of herself trying to grasp at Jake’s memories, fruitless and unworthy of doing so. “Because it’s not true.”
“Why do you get to decide what’s true and what’s not?” The question wasn’t accompanied by a challenging tone, more of a pensive one. She supposed she should have known he wasn’t the type to accommodate her insecurities like most of her fronds. He was also perhaps doing something he never got to do within his own home. Talking about how he felt. The woman remained quiet.
“I understand you don’t feel the same way, I can even see why. But how does that invalidate what I have felt for you for so long?” What you know I’ve felt for you for so long? What you’ve used for so long against me?”
Once again, Azalea shook her head silently. She wished she could tell him that she didn’t know, that she had never used his feelings for her. But now was not the time to start lying.
“I don’t say this to ask anything of you. I’ve always respected your decision, Azalea. And that will never change.” His hand moved from his mug then, red and raw from the heat. Her instinct was to run it under some cold water but she stayed where she was, trying to affect the apathetic persona she so desperately wanted to feel. “I just… I suppose I just wanted acknowledgement of some kind. It’s funny how we convince ourselves we don’t want something when enough time has passed, only to be confronted with the opportunity to relapse immediately.”
She supposed he had a point. There were times in her life, brief, painful times when Jake was not as near as she would have liked. And each time he had drawn closer, she had taken the opportunity. They both had. The idea that what Azalea and Jake had wasn’t just exclusive to them, that others felt the same kind of need was not one she could easily come to terms with.
“You probably feel a lot of complicated things right now,” he continued in the absence of any words from herself. “A plethora of emotion I can’t even begin to imagine but… Please don’t let guilt be one of them.” He paused, as if steeling himself for an onslaught. “It was entirely my fault; no one else should be to blame for what happened. I got carried away… I didn’t… I shouldn’t have…”
“Fucked me?”
His hand grew tense at the words. Clearly he didn’t appreciate the course language from her. “Tried to find comfort where it wasn’t appreciated. You are not Gabrielle, or Francesca, or Saline.” For a moment, it looked like he was about so say who she was, but then he reined himself in.
“Are those the women you were with last night?” She supposed a man of his stature could have his pick of any woman in the world; forget the fact that he was married to someone widely considered one of the most beautiful creatures to ever exist.
“Gabrielle,” he admitted, at the very least having the decency to look ashamed. “She’s a… close acquaintance.”
“How can you do this to Mimosa?” the brunette asked sharply. “What is it that you get from these… acquaintances that you can’t get from your wife? Do you know why I thought you would make a good match for her, despite everyone thinking it a bad idea? Because I knew how much you cared for her. If she had to be married to some cheating bastard than why you? Those are a dime a dozen.” It was the longest thing she had said this morning and it helped to fan the fire his way. He had agreed to take the blame and she was going to test his resolve.
“Because she wanted this cheating bastard,” Jacques replied exasperatedly. “And in order to be what I am to her, I needed a way to keep my sanity too. Everyone thinks I’m this... perfect, blameless, shining example of a human but I’m not.” His voice broke slightly at the admission, as if he never wanted to confirm what he had always suspected. “I’m not… I’m human, and I make mistakes. I just don’t have the luxury of confession… or redemption.”
The brunette looked up at his words, her chocolate eyes finally taking in the anguished lines of his face. If he thought he was beyond redemption, then what was she? Bound for the fires of hell, most likely. For the first time in her life, Azalea found herself wishing she believed in a religion. At least then she could imagine the horrible end that awaited her for her sins. “That makes the two of us,” she affirmed quietly. Jacques wasn’t the only one who had betrayed her daughter.
“You shouldn’t think that,” he contradicted her softly. “Anyone who’s known a love like you have could never be forsaken. It is the most precious thing fate can bestow upon anyone. I’ve seen it in my parents… and I’ve seen it in you and Jake.” He sounded almost defeated as he confessed this, wondering why he himself had been forsaken of that blessing. Azalea didn’t know the answer to his questions, nor did she try to figure them out. Life was random, all she had ever learned was to hang on to those she cared for amidst the madness and hope for the best.
“Then what does it say about me, that only six months after…” she shuddered violently at the mere thought of saying the words out loud. She couldn’t succumb now. She had to remain angry. Angry at him, at herself, at the world. Because if that anger faded away, underneath it the pure hurt and disgust of what she had done would be exposed.
He moved on instinct, trying to reach her as her body shook, stopping himself at the last minute from touching her because he knew his touch would do more harm than good. Perhaps he would never touch her again, and it would be a fitting punishment. Jake would never touch her again and now neither would a friend. She would remain cold and brittle until the end of her days.
“It says nothing about you,” he concluded, getting up from his chair and taking his untouched coffee to the sink. She watched as he slowly poured the now tepid liquid down the drain. “I would never claim to know him as well as you, but Jake never struck me as the man to judge. Especially when the fault doesn’t lie with you.” He proceeded to wash the cup, letting the running water fill the silence between them for the next few minutes.
Once he had replaced the mug, he turned to her. Azalea was still sitting in the same position, her mug of coffee no longer steaming in front of her. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever want to see me again,” he asked, unable to hide the tiniest note of hope from his voice. Azalea didn’t respond one way or the other, which was a response in itself.
Jacques nodded at her unsaid reply. “Thank you for accommodating me these past weeks, it was more than I deserved.” With that, the man slowly disappeared from her vision, whether to pack up his things and leave or to just leave and have someone fetch his things for him later, she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if by not physically being here, he would lose access to this house. Azalea knew beyond a doubt that his people would still continue to watch the house, watch her to make sure she was alive and in possession of whatever supplies she needed. Just because he wasn’t here didn’t mean he would stop caring for her.
Just because she hadn’t said as much didn’t mean she would stop caring about him.
Azalea stayed in her chair for hours after he’d left, trying not to feel as if she had lost someone important in her life all over again. Trying not to feel as if doing so was the only means to forgiveness.
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