#she's gone and caught feelings *for* cressida | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

forasecondtherewedwon · 7 months ago

Note

ship 3 location 19 👀💖🫶🏻

Thanks very much for the prompt, Anon!! Hoping you find this one 👀 worthy...

3) SHIP: Cressida x Eloise

19) LOCATION: a carriage interior

more Bridgerton-themed fic prompts

Two to Give Chase

Pairing: Eloise x Cressida Rating: E Word Count: 3201

Summary: Colin had chased Penelope, and Eloise had chased Colin, and Cressida, rather miraculously, had chased her. Or; Eloise and Cressida get their own carriage scene.

All was in motion tonight, and Eloise, who had only wanted to sit and unfurl her ideas to Cressida, was caught out. Colin had gone to Penelope, and Cressida had gone to Debling, and who to Eloise? No one.

It was not the evening she had thought she was having, ensconced with her friend. She had briefly imagined their tête-à-tête a stimulating salon… until Cressida had abandoned her the moment Debling stood alone on the dance floor. Eloise had scoffed to be left so in the lurch. She had stared, in puzzled awe, at the dancing pairs. Penelope and her brother had appeared to be arguing, while Cressida had looked rather smug in whatever she was imparting to Debling. Both pairs had annoyed Eloise, and it was more complicated than because she had not been a part of them, a part of the easy swish and turn of society she had always felt so out of step with.

Eloise had not solved the mystery of her feelings by the time the music stopped and the set broke up, and so it was impulsively that, when she saw Penelope disappear from the room after speaking to Debling and saw Colin follow after, she shoved her chair back and gave chase.

She was in time to catch up with neither the retreating roll of Penelope’s carriage nor her brother’s feet as he ran—absurd!—after it. She was left, in fact, panting and clutching her side, squinting after them with consternation. She was left alone in the night.

…Until she felt a gloved hand on her arm and turned to see Cressida skidding to a stop at her side. Eloise did not know how much she had seen, what she knew or even guessed, and she had no chance to ask. Cressida was flagging down assistance, was ordering the Cowper carriage be brought. Eloise, repossessed of her breath yet befuddled, only understood that the cause of this rush was her. Colin had chased Penelope, and Eloise had chased Colin, and Cressida, rather miraculously, had chased her.

After Cressida had all but bodily yanked Eloise into the carriage and ordered “Bridgerton House!”, they sat face to face. Eloise did not know quite what to say, except: “What are you doing?”

“I am assisting you! I admit, the destination was a guess—”

“But…” Words failed Eloise for a moment. “Surely this is your opportunity.”

Cressida blinked.

“To do what?”

“To speak with Debling. To dance with him.” Eloise made a gesture that attempted to communicate all the rituals of courtship, all the things it was so much more difficult to do when the man whose attention you sought was so often divided between young ladies—namely, between Cressida and Penelope, who had just fled.

“Oh.” Cressida appeared thoughtful, as though she had truly not considered this. Then, her countenance cleared. “I suppose I did not want to stay with him. I suppose I wanted to… go with you.”

“I do not even know why I am here!” Eloise’s voice rose in exasperation—at herself? At Cressida for throwing away this long looked-for chance to have Debling to herself? Whatever was any of them doing this evening?

“Well, I…” Cressida began tentatively, sitting very straight with her hands folded on her lap. “I rather hope you are trying to waylay Mr. Bridgerton, though I cannot imagine why. Should your break from Penelope Featherington keep your brother from her as well?”

Eloise stared at the woman across from her. She had misjudged her more than once, and was now especially touched by Cressida’s unexpected generosity; it was clear she felt an empathy with Penelope after all. However much she did not want Penelope competing with her for Debling, she apparently did not mean for Penelope to have no husband. For that was the reason behind all of this, Eloise knew—if she stopped to contemplate it beyond rash decisions and gravel in her shoes: Colin must love Penelope. He would not have run behind her carriage if circumstances were otherwise.

“If you side with Penelope, why are you hoping I am trying to prevent my brother from seeing her?” Eloise asked.

Cressida directed her gaze down to her lap, smoothing her dress.

“Because… if you are not…” Her smile, when she raised her chin once more, was fragile. “If you are instead chasing after Penelope, I have made... a very silly blunder. And I ought to have remained with Lord Debling.”

Eloise had never felt it: this. She held Cressida in her gaze—all her terror, all her practicality, all her pink—and she saw what so many of her mother’s stories had not been enough to say. It seemed so simple, so suddenly simple, that she could have laughed. She did not; she did not ever want Cressida to think she was being laughed at, and Eloise felt too overwhelmed to make sense of her laughter to another person. She doubted she could have made sense of it to herself. She felt like a doll that had fallen from a height, wooden limbs all disjointed, so low to the moving sky. It was disorienting, and it filled her with a mad feeling of immortal joy.

“Debling is a most sensible choice,” Eloise murmured. Her lips felt numb, but that was alright, because she was more interested in Cressida’s, which were flinching into a sad smile as she glanced away.

“That he is,” Cressida agreed with forced confidence.

“He would be a good husband to a woman who wanted her freedom, who wanted to be out from under her parents. A woman who had not had a warm home growing up could undertake the making of one, all to her own taste, if she had such a husband as Debling, who was not uncaring but left her much on her own.”

“She could.”

“Does not the woman I describe remind you of yourself?” Eloise wondered gently, making Cressida look at her. “Unless I am mistaken.”

“She does.”

Again, Cressida went along with what Eloise had said, still wearing that unhappy smile. She did not see—Eloise did not know how to make her—that Eloise attempted the same empathy Cressida had lately shown Penelope; she felt for the other woman, and knew what might make her happy. Or if not happy, easy, which might even be better, if love was out of the question. But whether or not love was out of the question was what Eloise really hoped to determine.

“The two of you together,” Eloise ventured, longing to be contradicted, “would be quite a practical match.”

“Practical,” Cressida repeated.

The ensuing silence stretched long enough for Eloise to begin to think of Penelope and Colin, and wonder what had transpired, what might have been transpiring even then, whether they had proceeded to Bridgerton House as Cressida had supposed or aimed for a different destination. Eloise felt she would need to meddle there; if they intended to marry, she could not keep Penelope’s secret quiet. She would not have it on her conscience, no matter if Penelope had reconciled herself to having it on her own. Colin was Eloise’s brother and deserved the truth. What could be love that was not begun honestly?

Eloise’s thoughts were scattering into abstraction when Cressida spoke again, concentrating her focus.

“Of course,” she said, “the practicality of the thing is what makes it all the more inconvenient…” She swallowed and the eyes she locked on Eloise’s were full of nervousness. “…as I fear your influence has made me an idealist.”

Heart beating with a hopefulness that was almost painful, Eloise pled from her eyes.

“You’re brave,” she said.

“More likely a very great fool,” Cressida admitted.

Eloise pulled Cressida’s trembling hands into her own, stroking the satiny fingers of her gloves.

“You will not marry him?” Eloise fairly breathed the question, afraid to hear herself ask it, afraid of what she wanted the answer to be.

Cressida leaned in and swore, “I will not marry him. How could I go away from you?”

With a strangled sound which might have been ecstasy or agony but was certainly a relief to expel from her chest, Eloise took advantage of the jostling of the carriage to fling herself forward, lips pressing Cressida’s. Cressida gave a little cry against her mouth, and then her head was tilting to kiss her more assuredly, her hands squeezing Eloise’s.

Eloise could hardly believe it. Fortunately, there was no more time for doubt than there was for belief, and as Cressida was kissing her back, Eloise seized the opportunity wholeheartedly. The carriage ride would only be so long. At the end of it would be Bridgerton House, and Colin, and Penelope, and perhaps a proposal. If Eloise had to stand witness to a happiness constructed partially over the uneven ground of deception, then she would witness it with her own honest happiness, even if it must be concealed. One of them was crying desperate, grateful, ecstatic tears; as Eloise cupped Cressida’s cheeks in her palms, the tears soaked her gloves.

As though Cressida too had remembered they did not have long, she kissed Eloise more roughly, eliciting a groan even Eloise had not expected.

“I—” she muttered, eyes still half shut but with some vague sense that she must apologize for the impropriety of the sound. “I did not—”

Cressida would not hear the apology. Her arm slipped around Eloise’s waist as she said insistently, “Come here.”

Eloise all but threw herself onto the opposite seat, and in seconds, Cressida had her crowded into the corner, apparently doing all she could to cause Eloise to repeat the noise. With a sloppy swirl of her tongue into Eloise’s mouth, it was accomplished.

The more they kissed, the more they touched—Cressida’s hand gripping Eloise’s side now, higher than her waist—the more Eloise wanted Cressida’s kisses and touches. She was experiencing an urgent sensation. For all her mother’s stories of love and marriage and children, this was something Eloise knew she had never described. Eloise had believed in passion, of course, but she had assumed it was all of the mind—that desire sprung of a connection between two people on the field of intellect and emotions. That understanding was the pinnacle of what one could hope to discover in another person.

Well.

Eloise had been unutterably wrong.

She had also read books, but any book in their home that made any allusion to physicality did so in a glossing, indistinct way. What she felt at the juncture of her thighs, at that very moment, was nothing if not distinct!

Eloise quickly became as desperate to touch Cressida as she was to be touched herself. And not through these blasted gloves! Pulling out of the kiss, Eloise bit the finger of one offending article between her teeth, but the damned things were so snug! She would scream if she were not able to feel all the textures of Cressida beneath her bare fingertips!

“Let me,” Cressida muttered.

With a frustrated gasp, Eloise extended her arm. To her tremendous surprise, Cressida bowed over her arm and used her own teeth to take hold of the fabric and draw it down Eloise’s skin. Oh, it rubbed deliciously as it went, making all the fine hairs on her arm stand on end. Cressida whisked away one glove and then the other. Eloise watched and saw the barest hint of an impulsively made decision in Cressida’s expression before she licked between Eloise’s fingers. Eloise moaned.

And then they were upon one another, Cressida wrenching the dress from Eloise’s shoulders. The straps of Eloise’s stays digging into her upper arms, and she did not care! Her movements were slightly restricted, and what of it! There had been days—many days, most days—when a restrictive garment would have provoked her into endless complaints. Groaning! Whining! Refusals to be dragged from the house! Now, it hardly mattered, because her mouth could still kiss Cressida’s, her thudding chest could still press Cressida’s, her legs could twine with Cressida’s still as they reclined across the seat.

Cressida’s leg rubbed between Eloise’s quite by accident, and Eloise heard another sound of her own creation that was totally unfamiliar to her own ears. Cressida became as a statue. They panted against one another. And then, slowly, Cressida rubbed her leg against Eloise once more. Eloise’s head fell back as she cried out.

They carried on in a flurry, and likely would have carried on longer—longer than the journey would take, longer than the whole of human history had yet spanned, surely—had Eloise not been gripped by the need to show Cressida the same sort of pleasure. She had to. The thought possessed her as she grasped Cressida’s hips and handled her roughly, moving her aside so she, Eloise, could sink to the carriage floor. Cressida sat up, looking much dishevelled.

“What are you doing?”

“I have no idea,” Eloise confessed, the words seeming to crackle as they left her mouth, which was no longer for speaking, only for kissing, for kissing only Cressida.

Kneeling, she took the hem of Cressida’s dress in her hands and began gathering it up towards her knees. She could not explain. All Eloise understood was that the feeling was there for her, and so it must be there for Cressida, and perhaps, if she could see, she could comprehend: how to coax the sensation from her body, how to prolong it, how to prove Cressida had chosen rightly by picking her over Lord Debling.

Her head dropped onto Cressida’s bare knee and she sighed her thanks to God.

“I do.”

Dazed, Eloise looked up at Cressida with a frown.

“Hmm?”

“I know what you must do,” Cressida clarified. Her cheeks were the soft-edged pink of the inside of a cherry, though as she continued to stare at Eloise, they darkened towards a shade more like the ripe skin of that fruit.

“How on earth do you know?” Eloise demanded. She could not fault Cressida for smiling as though she would laugh at her; Eloise’s voice had come out rather indignant. But this meant some young ladies were actually learning about—

“Just because I do not read books on the subject of the great auk does not mean I do not read.”

Cressida’s smile was now very sly, and she held her chin up haughtily as she slid her dress higher than Eloise had yet dared. Eloise’s face grew hot at the sight of Cressida’s naked thighs. Was this the sight men traveled halfway across Europe to enjoy? Was this what men snickered about in their clubs, away from delicate, feminine ears? If it was, Eloise was immediately certain they were unworthy of it. They could not possibly have been appreciating such a view as much as she was, crouched before Cressida Cowper in the moving carriage.

“Could you possibly lend me some of your books?” Eloise murmured.

“Of course. For now, I shall tell you all you need to know.”

This exchange seemed more than generous, an abundantly fair trade for swiftly imparted information on a flightless bird. The knowledge would serve both parties; they would both be the better for it—Eloise was convinced of this, even after Cressida’s hurried account of the mechanics of the maneuver gave way to an explanation without words. With dizzying suddenness, Eloise’s face was nestled between Cressida’s warm thighs and Cressida was tugging her gloves off—left on in their haste—to plunge her fingers into Eloise’s styled hair, likely rendering it irreparable.

Knowing they drew ever nearer to Bridgerton House, Eloise did not hesitate. Lick, Cressida had said, so Eloise did. She did it without being sure, which was a little terrifying, but eventually, she found she had done something correctly; she knew by the way one of Cressida’s hands gripped her head and by the slam she pulled back enough to see had been Cressida’s other hand striking the ceiling of the carriage. Eloise made a noise of satisfaction and continued, only to have her audible satisfaction overtaken by Cressida’s.

She said all sorts of things Eloise had never heard her say, filling Eloise with delight as well as absolute, unadorned lust. Eloise clutched Cressida’s thighs and licked harder, blending saliva with the fascinating wetness that accompanied Cressida’s passion. She lapped at the flushed, budlike apex until Cressida began a mindless roll of her hips, a steady moan. Eloise was a curious woman, and had been a curious child before that; she knew what her own body looked like, but she had not known, had never guessed at, all its miraculous capabilities. She felt the good fortune of Cressida and her books—she felt it from the scalp against which Cressida’s fingernails scratched to the feet she sat on in this position on the floor of the carriage.

Cressida rocked against Eloise’s eager mouth until she panted, “El, El, Eloise,” went silent, and came to a shuddering stop. When she pulled her fingers from Eloise’s hair, Eloise’s head tingled all over like departing fairy magic. She sat back. Cressida’s other hand plummeted from the ceiling. They rearranged her skirt so that it fell down her legs. Eloise tugged her stays and gown back into place around her shoulders. Their gazes pulled at each other, heavy as the sway of the sea. That was what Eloise felt, rolling along, anchored to Cressida. She wondered whether this was what marriage was like; she could not imagine a more profound feeling of connection.

Cressida extended both hands to her and Eloise took them gladly, letting herself be pulled up. She sat next to Cressida, who carefully rested her head on Eloise’s shoulder, mindful of her extravagantly-style hair. Eloise reached up and stroked her soft cheek. She longed for more caresses, more time. She wanted to know what else Cressida knew—wanted to know it with her body.

“I do not know what to say,” Eloise confessed at a whisper.

“Say nothing.” Cressida tucked an arm around Eloise’s waist. “It has all been said.”

Perhaps she was right, Eloise considered. For two people who talked almost ceaselessly when they were together, there was nothing it seemed pressing to say. The obvious thing, Eloise supposed, was to propose. That would save Cressida from ruin. But Eloise was not a man, and could not propose, and had not ruined Cressida by any definition she knew. The weight and warmth of Cressida against her did not communicate ruin. Nothing they had done felt dishonourable to Eloise, and so no dire need for a solution succeeded it. When they arrived at the house, they would have travelled there to here without incident, as far as anyone knew. Someone might observe their stripped gloves, their mussed hair, and see nothing but a pair of tired girls come back from a ball. It was sad, but it was not all sad. It would not be seen, but that did not mean it was not real.

Cressida turned her head and kissed Eloise’s shoulder. Eloise’s heart swelled and shrank and swelled again. They held each other until the carriage slowed.

#my writing #creloise #Bridgerton #Eloise Bridgerton #Cressida Cowper #Eloise x Cressida #Bridgerton fic #Creloise fic

46 notes · View notes

gleefullypolin · 7 months ago

Text

Ok it is part 2 of Stacy’s Tipsy Ramblings about Season 3.

I apologize once again as I have had another night of Red Bull and spent time on Reddit and doing my favorite thing that I do all day long which is talk to @devastatinglygreen about the things that irk me the most when it comes to fandom musings and questions. You will have to thank her for this being somewhat readable at least but it may have gone off the rails in parts. Again, the thoughts are my own but they are definitely RANTS. Goooood luck!

Is Pen not telling Colin immediately about LW the same as what Marina did?

Ok lets break this down shall we. Marina came in to the family in a bad situation. She was in love with a man who was on the battlefield. She was put into the sights of Portia and immediately set to be married off. During this she finds out she is with child, something I think she may have suspected but then confirmed once she arrived. That is where my sympathy starts to wane.

Now she must find a husband and quickly. She finds one pleasant to look at, young, and gullible. She is able to immediately pursue Colin who at the time was very green. It did not take much to earn his affection and move him along the path she needed. She then LIES to him and convinces him to marry her. She in no way planned to tell him EVER about being pregnant with another man’s child. She tricked him willingly and without remorse. She tried to get him to comprise her, which he did not acquiesce to. She did so with no love in her heart for Colin. She held him in “high esteem”.

Let’s look at Pen, who writes a gossip column, in which she tells NO LIES in her column. Along the way she without even trying to, the man she has been in love with for most of her adult life, falls in love with her and proposes to her in a swift and confusing night. She accepts and is immediately thrown into a whirlwind engagement. She then attempts to tell him many times about her secret but is interrupted. While she should have told him immediately, it does not appear she will get to and is found out. However, she never tricked him out of hate, and it appears to pain her to hurt him. She tried to kick him out of a carriage before he got on his knees, professed his love and compromised her in the best way with love in his heart. Did I mention she loves him?

Anyone see the differences?

Is El’s anger mostly about protecting Colin after the engagement announcement?

Ok let’s see if I can rile up the masses here.... This might be fun. Is she protecting her brother. Yes, of course. Is that what this is all about. Good God no. Let’s get serious here, it would take a lot of rewriting for this to be true. El has always been a tad...a lot...self-absorbed. She spent so much of her time talking AT Penelope that she never stopped to notice that Pen was having conversations with Colin that they were involved in that she was DRAGGING her away from. She never took her OWN brother’s letters seriously, even when Pen mentioned she was writing to him too, she laughed it off, like why are you writing to HIM? Boring!

Had El stopped for a single moment she might have noticed her friend staring with heart eyes at her brother for a single moment, any moment, for there were MANY. Or all the times they ran off together, unchaperoned? Many. Men of the ton took notice, because they were teasing him about it as well, but not El. El is out here lost in her own world.

When she found out that Colin was helping Pen to find a husband and they were laughing in the ballroom, she was annoyed by their giddy friendship. But why? Jealousy? El is so caught up in her own BS that she can’t get her own head and her own anger at Pen to even see what was going on in front of her own face. So no, I don’t think this is about protecting her brother as much as it is about protecting her own feelings and anger, she is still reeling over her hurt she has from Pen not sharing and telling her the truth about LW.

How do you feel about the Cressida/El friendship?

Ok, I’ve had 2 Malibu Red Bulls so this might sting a bit guys. Hang in there! If there is one thing that gives me the puke feelings more in Season 3 it’s this shit. Let me start with this. I get that El was mad at Pen. I GET IT! She found out that her friend was writing the column that she so coveted and didn’t share the info with her and now she’s butt hurt and refusing to listen to anything Pen has to say about why she did it and instead she thought...I’m going to go and talk to the one person who has been the meanest person to the friend I have known most of my life who I am mad at.

Ok I got that out of my system. Let’s get down to the next reason I hate this. Cressida allowed her to see how blessed it is to have a good family supporting her based on how Cress is treated at home. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW? This is the stupidest shit I have heard in all the stupid shit I have heard. Her best friend since childhood who has Mama make you feel like a piece of shit and Sister let me treat you like a piece of dirt and garbage, lives next door and SHE DIDN’T LEARN ANYTHING AT ALL? Ok nice try but I also wasn’t born last night.

All of this to say, El watched Cress rip her dress...whoops. Knows Pen needs to find a husband by episode 2 and has one prospect in Debling...still helps Cressida try and fuck that up anyway. Tells Cressida....YES YOU READ THAT RIGHT...Pen’s BULLY, that Colin is helping her find a husband, you know the one thing she just told Colin would be AWFUL news if it got out, then 2 seconds later BLABS quickly about it TO this bully in the middle of a ball....Yeah I know...she says “oh sorry” for each of these things in a polite whisper, but each of these things are absolute rubbish and I just don’t care what anyone says, it displeases me.

Is Pen actually Colin’s second choice since he could have married Marina?

Ok wait....So this was an actual thing I was told is an actual thought. Like WHAT? I don’t know how else to tell people this. But Colin had a choice. Even after LW column came out, he had a choice, he could have still married Marina. He CHOSE not to. He saw that she lied to him willingly, she admitted she did not love him, and he CHOSE not to marry her. Could he have married her, yes. He could have married Cressida had he bloody chosen to. But he did not. He chose to marry Pen. He got in a carriage, fingered his way to a proposal and walked her right into his mama with pride (and dirty fingers) but there is only so much you can do with that. Either way, Marina is a non-factor and needs to die in all thought processes at this point.

Will it be unfair if Pen has no consequences with the Queen at the end of the season?

Will it be fair? What were people expecting? A beheading? Do you all realize that Queen Charlotte enjoys LW? She gets bored as fuck with these debutantes. Like BORED BORED! This woman loves gossip. You also realize that this is a woman sitting on the throne. A woman in this age! At the end of the day, a woman being successful in any realm might actually have the respect of the crown. Yes, she gets annoyed, yes, she goes after her! It’s sport. She wants to know who she is. But I’m telling you, she never intended to punish her. You all are mad if you thought so and most people asking for this just hate Pen anyway. And I will ask you ONE MORE TIME! What exactly has LW ever LIED about in her column? She reports the news. Not her fault these ladies and gents out here acting like fools. Be better people!

Should we tar and feather Colin and Penelope because of the *gasp* premarital sex of it all?

Clutching our pearls once again are we fandom. I actually read something today that Pen/Colin are the ONLY couple to have sex before they are wed as the main couple. After I got done laughing and watching Ant/Kate fuck before their marriage in S2, I came back to this question and said FUCK NO! Let these two get their freak on. My God! Are we really going to get all high and mighty because lil Pen got fucked? Like you all hate her that much? Get over this shit. Where is this coming from?

This was such an important thing in the book for them. Polin really are winning with how much of their book stuff is coming over to the show. The really important stuff, the stuff you highlighted because it was impactful when reading, that’s the stuff they are adding and that’s winning. And obviously certain people are taking note of that because they be mad as fuck out there about this shit.

Is Colin a free loader living off Anthony’s good graces and money?

I am sooooo over this question. First off, EDMUNDS family money that Anthony now manages, is one thing, the inheritance that each kid has is a different thing. And yes this is going to sound really dickish, and it’s meant to in order to prove a point. What did Anthony do besides be the sperm that came out first, and after he got done fucking his way through all of London, he finally decided to run the house. Then he said, let’s let mom do one more season then I’ll buckle down and run all this MONEY that is mine.

But the main point I would really like to know, and honestly, this is a serious question. Why does this question only come up in relation to Colin? Why is no one asking why it’s ok for Ben to be out there painting and fucking his way through all the widows and modieste’s in town, but Colin goes traveling and OMG what a dick, loser, who does nothing at all but fuck over his brother. You got a tell people. It’s called asshole syndrome.

Ok that's all you get out of me tonight...I leave for Las Vegas tomorrow so I will try and behave for a few days!

#polin #stacy's tipsy musings #bridgerton spoilers

23 notes · View notes

writingsoftarnishedsilver · 2 months ago

Text

Family Legacy | Sebastian Sallow x OC #27

Summary: Sebastian wrestles with his jealousy and guilt after Evangeline goes missing for the day, only to discover she was summoned to the Ministry regarding long-lost family records. Her sense of identity is shaken, leaving her overwhelmed by fear of what her lineage might mean.

Words: ~11,000

Tags: Explicit Smut, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Mutual Pining, Friends To Lovers, Slow Burn, Longing, Jealousy, Unspoken Feelings, Pureblood Politics, Identity Crises, Soft Confessions, Family Legacy

Timeline: Mid October

Read more stories about Sebastian and Evangeline Read on AO3

Sebastian kept his promise. Sort of.

He didn’t storm up to Evangeline demanding answers, and he didn’t let his jealousy spill out in a way that would drive a wedge further between them. But he wasn’t proud of himself. Because his mind was still a storm of what-ifs and suspicions, twisting every glance, every word he'd witnessed between her and Alaric into something he couldn’t quite let go of.

Not that he could have confronted her about it anyway. The next day, Evangeline was nowhere to be found.

The hours passed in a blur of frustration and mounting uncertainty. Evangeline had skipped breakfast—unusual for her, given her obsession with the scones—and by lunch, she was still conspicuously absent. At first, Sebastian had reasoned that she’d slept in after her late-night duel, but when her seat in Charms remained empty, he couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in his chest.

Ominis, of course, had tried to talk him down. “She’s not avoiding you, Sebastian,” he’d said, his tone more patient than usual. “She probably had something else to do.”

“Something else,” Sebastian had muttered bitterly, gripping the edge of the bench. “Or someone else.”

Ominis had sighed, muttering something about Sebastian being insufferable before returning to his meal. But by dinner, Sebastian’s frustration had reached its boiling point. She still hadn’t shown up—not for classes, not in the corridors, not in any of her usual haunts, leaving him with nothing but his own overactive imagination.

And his temper.

Sebastian’s gaze flickered over the Great Hall, searching for her again as he toyed with the food on his plate. His appetite was long gone, replaced by a restless energy that made it impossible to sit still. Every laugh or passing conversation grated on his nerves, each one pulling his focus away from the one thing he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about.

Where was she? And more importantly, why hadn’t she told him anything?

He caught himself glaring at the Gryffindor table, as though the sheer force of his gaze could will her into existence. His frustration tightened further when his eyes found Cressida and Natsai, laughing together over something on Nellie’s plate, seemingly unbothered by Evangeline’s absence.

Ominis, seated beside him, let out a quiet sigh. “Sebastian, stop glaring at everyone like they’ve personally offended you,” he said, not bothering to look up from his plate.

“I’m not glaring,” Sebastian snapped, though his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes betrayed him.

“You’re brooding, then.” Ominis set his fork down and turned his head toward him, his tone pointed but still calm. “Whatever it is you’re imagining, it’s probably wrong.”

Sebastian huffed, raking a hand through his hair as he leaned back against the bench. “She’s been gone all day. No notes, no excuses, nothing. How am I supposed to just sit here and act like everything’s fine?”

Ominis raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps by not jumping to conclusions. People are allowed to have lives outside of you, you know.”

Before Sebastian could retort, a quiet laugh caught his attention.

A Hufflepuff sixth-year girl was watching him from across the hall, her brown eyes darting away quickly when she realized he’d noticed. It wasn’t the first time she’d looked at him like that—shy but interested, as if waiting for him to make the first move. Her lips quirked into a faint smile when their eyes met again, and Sebastian felt something stir in his chest—not attraction, not even curiosity. Just a flicker of vindictive distraction.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Ominis said dryly, pulling him back to the present.

“What thing?” Sebastian asked, tearing his gaze away from the Hufflepuff girl.

“You know what thing,” Ominis replied, his tone flat. “The brooding, attention-seeking thing. You’re going to drag some poor girl into your mess just because you’re too stupid to address the actual problem."

Sebastian scowled, but the irritation bubbling under his skin wouldn’t be contained. He stood abruptly, his bench scraping against the stone floor as he pushed it back. Ominis sighed, already resigned to whatever disaster was about to unfold.

“You shouldn't be doing this,” Ominis warned, though his voice lacked any real conviction.

Sebastian didn’t answer. His focus was already elsewhere.

He knew better than to think it would help. None of it ever did. No matter which girl he snogged in a dark corridor or dragged into an empty classroom, the ache remained. The hollow, gnawing sensation in his chest that no amount of careless attention could fill. But that knowledge didn’t stop him.

It didn’t stop him now, as he pushed himself to his feet and strode across the hall toward the Hufflepuff table.

She looked startled when he stopped beside her, her cheeks flushing as she looked up at him. He didn’t even know her name—some part of him knew he should care, should try to remember the faces of the girls he pulled into his self-destructive orbit, but he didn’t. It was easier not to.

“Hi,” she said softly, her voice carrying just enough over the noise of the hall.

Sebastian offered her a smile, the kind he knew was disarming, confident. “Hi,” he said, his tone smooth. “Care to join me for a walk?”

Her friends giggled behind her, whispering furiously, but she didn’t hesitate. “Sure,” she said, her smile shy but eager as she stood.

Sebastian led her out of the hall, his steps steady as though he had a plan. He didn’t. All he knew was that the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm him needed an outlet, and right now, she was a convenient one.

The corridor outside was quieter, dimly lit by the flickering torches along the walls. He stopped once they were far enough from the Great Hall, turning to face her as she looked up at him expectantly.

She looked at him, wide-eyed, her cheeks still flushed. “So,” she began hesitantly, “What’s this about?”

Sebastian tilted his head, his usual smirk flickering across his face as he stepped closer. He let the weight of his presence settle between them, deliberately closing the gap. His hand came to rest lightly on her arm, his touch careful but firm. “I wanted to get to know you better,” he said smoothly, though his words felt hollow even as he said them.

The girl’s blush deepened, and she let out a soft, nervous laugh. “You’ve never spoken to me before.”

Sebastian’s smile softened into something more practiced, almost apologetic. “I suppose I’ve been missing out.”

The way she looked at him—like he was something worth holding onto, worth admiring—gnawed at him. It wasn’t fair to her, he knew that. She didn’t deserve to be caught in his web of frustration and longing, but he couldn’t stop himself. He was restless, aching for something to drown out the thoughts that plagued him, the image of Evie in that corridor with Alaric Thornton.

Without waiting for her to respond, Sebastian leaned in, his lips brushing hers in a tentative kiss. She froze for a moment, startled, before responding, her hands fluttering to his shoulders as she leaned into him. It wasn’t the kind of kiss that ignited anything real in him—there was no fire, no warmth. Just the mechanical motions of a distraction he’d played out too many times before.

Her touch was light, hesitant, and Sebastian felt his stomach twist. He shouldn’t have done this. He should stop now before he hurt her, before he made this worse than it already was. But he didn't. Instead, he deepened the kiss, his hand moving to the small of her back as he pressed her closer. It was all wrong. Her lips were too soft, her touch too delicate, her scent unfamiliar. But what did it matter? He'd never get the chance to kiss Evangeline anyway.

They stumbled towards the wall, her tiny frame slotting against his as her back met the cool stone. The girl’s breath hitched, her hands clinging to his shoulders like he was something solid in her spinning world. But Sebastian barely noticed. His mind was somewhere else, consumed by flashes of Evie—the way she’d smiled at Thornton, the spark in her eyes as she dueled, the ache in his chest as he realized she was slipping away from him.

The girl beneath him let out a soft sound, a sigh or a moan, but it only made him pull back abruptly, his breathing ragged. His hand lingered on her waist for a moment before dropping away, the weight of his actions hitting him all at once.

She looked up at him, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly swollen from his kiss. “Sebastian?” she murmured, her voice soft and full of unspoken questions.

His stomach twisted at the sound of his name, the way she said it like it meant something, like he meant something to her.

“I…” He swallowed hard. He shouldn't be doing this. Why did he always end up here? Pressed up against some girl he didn't know, looking for Evangeline in their touch, their kiss, their warmth—and never finding her.

Sebastian pulled back slightly, his gaze finally settling on the girl in front of him. For the first time, he really looked at her. She was short—though not quite as short as Evie—her frame delicate and willowy, her features soft, almost doll-like. She had big brown eyes framed by long lashes and light brown curls that tumbled over her shoulders like spun caramel.

She should have been pretty. By any objective standard, she was. But the ache in his chest didn’t lessen, and the knot in his stomach only twisted tighter. Because no matter how much he wanted to lose himself in her, she wasn’t Evie.

She wasn’t Evie, with her vibrant, sharp hazel eyes that could pierce right through him—sometimes filled with challenge, sometimes with quiet understanding, but always with something that made his pulse quicken. She wasn’t Evie, with her soft, curvy frame that somehow managed to radiate both warmth and strength, like she was built to withstand the storms of the world but still offer a place of refuge.

This girl felt too fragile, like a glass figure he might accidentally shatter if he wasn’t careful. Evie wasn’t fragile. Evie was fire and stone, her strength a constant, steady presence that made the world feel less overwhelming. She was beautiful in a way that was tangible, real—every curve, every sharp laugh, every unpolished word. Beautiful in a way that didn’t feel delicate but unyielding, the kind of beauty that made him feel like he could face anything as long as she was beside him.

But this girl wasn’t her.

His chest ached as the realization washed over him, sharper than he wanted to admit. This girl—whoever she was—would never be Evie. She would never hold the same weight in his chest, never light up the room in the same way, never make his name sound like it mattered.

But wasn’t that the point? Wasn’t that why he was here, with her, and not thinking about Evie wrapped up in Alaric Thornton’s charm?

The girl’s hand brushed his arm, tentative, pulling him back into the moment. “Sebastian?” she asked again, her voice quieter now, as though afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing lay between them.

He should have let her go then, should have offered some half-hearted apology and walked away. But instead, he found himself reaching for her hand, his fingers curling around hers with a strange kind of desperation.

“Come on,” he said, his voice rough and low as he tugged her forward. “Follow me.”

She hesitated for only a moment before nodding, her steps quick to keep up with his as he led her down the dimly lit corridor. His grip on her hand was firm, his pace deliberate, but his mind was a mess of contradictions and guilt.

What the hell are you doing? the rational part of him demanded, but he ignored it, his steps carrying him to the nearest empty classroom. The door creaked faintly as he pushed it open, the darkness inside broken only by the faint glow of his wand as he lit a few scattered candles.

The room filled with a soft, flickering light as the candles illuminated the desks and the dusty blackboard at the far end. It was a forgotten corner of the castle, a place he’d ducked into more times than he could count over the years.

The girl followed him in, her steps hesitant but eager as she glanced around. “Sebastian,” she started, “I—”

He turned to face her, cutting her off without meaning to. Her wide eyes searched his face, and for a moment, he thought he might say something meaningful—something honest about why they were here, about why this felt so wrong even as he chased it.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Instead, he reached for her again, pulling her close as his lips found hers. It was instinctive, an act of desperation rather than affection. She melted into him immediately, her hands fluttering to his chest before sliding up to rest on his shoulders. He let his hands settle on her waist, felt the way she leaned into him, pliant and willing.

It was easy. Too easy.

Her lips were soft, moving against his with a kind of hesitancy that might have been endearing if he were someone else—someone who actually cared about the girl in front of him.

Sebastian backed her up toward the desks, his large hands circling her tiny waist with ease. She gasped softly as he lifted her effortlessly onto the edge of the desk, her legs dangling just above the floor as she looked up at him with wide, expectant eyes. Her hands slid up to the back of his neck, her fingers threading through his hair as she pulled him closer. His pressed his lips to her skin and his mind went quiet, finally, blessedly quiet.

This was the moment he always chased—the space where he could stop thinking, stop feeling, and just be a body in motion. A weightless kind of numbness settled over him, drowning out the ache in his chest and the voice in his head screaming at him to stop. He let instinct take over, let himself get lost in the routine of it all.

His hands slid up the sides of her ribs, thumbs grazing the boning of her corset as she arched into him. The sound she made—a soft, breathy hum—only pulled him further under, deeper into the haze of sensation. He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of her skin against his lips drown out the rest of the world.

She murmured his name again, a little breathless, her voice soft and unsteady. It should have anchored him, should have brought him back to the reality of what he was doing, but instead, it only spurred him on.

Sebastian’s fingers moved deftly, finding the buttons of her blouse with a practiced ease that betrayed how many times he’d done this before.

She shivered under his touch, her breath catching as his fingers brushed over her skin. Her hands clung to his shoulders, steadying herself as he slipped the blouse from her shoulders, letting it fall in a whisper of fabric to the desk behind her.

Her corset came next. His fingers found the laces with the same precision, loosening them effortlessly, the knots slipping free as though they’d been waiting for him. He tugged gently, just enough to ease the tension, to allow her to breathe more freely. She sighed softly, a sound of both relief and anticipation, and tilted her head to meet his gaze.

But he wasn’t looking at her. Not really.

His hands continued their work, sliding the loosened corset from her torso, revealing the softness of her figure beneath. She was beautiful in a way he supposed anyone would think—delicate, willowy, the kind of beauty that came with an inherent fragility. Her skin was pale and unmarked, her frame slender, almost ethereal, like she could slip through his fingers if he wasn’t careful.

But none of it stirred anything in him. None of it felt real.

Because she wasn’t Evie.

Still, he found himself leaning forward, cupping one of her small breasts in one hand while gliding his tongue over the other. His fingers grazed the edge of her thigh as he slipped his hand beneath her skirt, finding the soft fabric of her panties. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on him, but then his fingers moved automatically, pushing the fabric aside. The girl gasped softly, her hands tightening on his shoulders, her body responding to him with eager anticipation.

But it wasn’t anticipation that fueled him. It wasn’t desire, or passion, or care—it was desperation. The need to drown out the storm in his chest, to lose himself in something, anything, that wasn’t the constant ache of Evangeline Sterling’s absence from his life.

The girl’s breath quickened as his fingers brushed against her, her body trembling under his touch. She arched into him, a quiet moan slipping past her lips as her hands threaded through his hair. To her, this was probably everything she had dreamed it would be—intimate, consuming, charged with the kind of heat that made the world blur around the edges.

But for Sebastian, it was hollow. Her reactions felt distant, muted, like they belonged to someone else. He wasn’t present. His body moved with the confidence of someone who had been here before, his hands and mouth performing the motions of desire like a well-rehearsed script, but his mind was somewhere else entirely.

By the time she came undone, her core pulsing around Sebastian's fingers, he'd long lost his erection. He felt her climax somewhere in the back of his mind—the soft shudders of her body, the way her breath hitched, the faint whimper of his name—but it was like watching it happen through a pane of glass. Removed. Distant. Hollow.

The girl sagged against him, her arms looping loosely around his neck as she tried to catch her breath. “Sebastian,” she murmured again, her voice heavy with contentment, her head resting against his shoulder. She sounded so pleased, so fulfilled, that it only made the weight in his chest press down harder.

He didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight dancing across the room. His hands were still on her—one resting at her waist, the other lightly brushing the fabric of her skirt—but the connection was gone. Whatever fragile pretense he’d been clinging to had shattered, leaving only the aching emptiness he’d tried so hard to escape.

The girl shifted slightly, lifting her head to look at him. Her brown eyes searched his face, soft and hopeful, and it took everything in him not to flinch. She was so open, so vulnerable in that moment, and it made him feel like a monster.

“You’re quiet,” she said softly, brushing a hand through his hair. “Are you okay?”

No.

Sebastian forced a small, tired smile, pulling back just enough to put some distance between them. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough and uneven. “I’m fine. That was…” He hesitated, his mind cycling through words that didn’t fit. Awkward. Uninspiring. Hollow. “…hot,” he finished, the lie sour in his mouth.

The girl’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and she ducked her head, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “Really?” she murmured, her voice soft and tentative, as if she couldn’t quite believe it.

Sebastian nodded, the gesture small and stiff, his hands falling to his sides. He couldn’t muster the energy to correct her. Instead, he reached for her corset, which had been discarded carelessly on the desk behind her.

“Here,” he said, his voice quieter now, gentler, though still tinged with the exhaustion pressing down on him. “Let’s get you sorted.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his demeanor, but she nodded.

“Turn around,” Sebastian said softly, his tone more a suggestion than a command. She obeyed, her movements slow and hesitant as she faced the desk.

He stepped behind her, his fingers threading the laces through the eyelets with a precision that came from far too much experience. He tugged gently, just enough to secure the corset without making her uncomfortable.

Once her corset was secured, he reached for her blouse, picking it up from where it had landed on the floor. He shook out the fabric, his hands finding the buttons with the same practiced ease he’d shown earlier.

“Thanks,” she whispered, her voice barely audible as she watched him fasten the buttons with steady hands

He nodded again, not trusting himself to speak as he worked. His fingers moved with mechanical precision, his mind already retreating to that numb, detached place he’d become so familiar with. This was just part of the script, wasn’t it? The thing you did to soften the edges of a mistake you couldn’t undo.

“You’re good at this,” she said after a moment, her voice tinged with a faint, nervous laugh.Sebastian forced a chuckle, though it came out hollow.

“I’ve had practice,” he admitted, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He winced internally, realizing too late how that might sound, but the girl didn’t seem to notice.

When he finished, he stepped back, letting his hands fall to his sides. “All done,” he said, his voice low as he took a step away from her.

She turned to face him, her expression a mix of shyness and lingering curiosity. “Do you…” She hesitated, her gaze flicking to his as she bit her lip. “Do you want me to, you know… return the favor?”

Sebastian’s stomach twisted at the offer, the guilt clawing at him sharper than before. He shook his head, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. “No,” he said gently, his voice steady but firm. “You don’t have to do that.”

She blinked, surprise flickering across her face. “Are you sure? I mean, I don’t mind—”

“I’m sure,” he interrupted, his tone soft but leaving no room for argument. “Really. This was…” He hesitated again, searching for a word that wouldn’t betray the hollowness pressing down on him. “…enough.”

The girl nodded slowly, her expression a mix of relief and uncertainty. She smoothed down her skirt, her fingers brushing over the fabric as she avoided his gaze. “Okay,” she said quietly, her voice barely audible.

Sebastian stepped closer, his hand brushing her arm in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “You’re sweet,” he said, his voice low and sincere, even if it felt like he was grasping at straws. "But I'm... I don't need anything else."

The girl offered him a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Alright,” she murmured, her voice soft and tinged with something he couldn’t quite place. Disappointment? Embarrassment? He didn’t know, and he didn’t have the energy to figure it out.

Sebastian nodded, stepping back and giving her some space. “Come on,” he said, his voice quieter now, the weariness seeping through. “I’ll walk you back to your room.”

She blinked, surprised by the offer, and hesitated. “You don’t have to,” she said, her hand brushing over the fabric of her skirt nervously. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know,” Sebastian replied, his tone steady but insistent. “But I want to.” It was the least he could do, wasn’t it? A small act of decency to make up for what he couldn’t give her.

The girl nodded after a moment, her movements tentative as she stepped toward him. Together, they left the dim classroom, the door creaking softly as it closed behind them. The corridor was quiet, the faint flicker of torchlight casting long shadows along the stone walls. Their footsteps echoed softly as they walked, neither of them speaking.

Sebastian kept his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed ahead as they made their way back toward the main hall. He felt the weight of her presence beside him, the occasional brush of her arm against his as they walked, but he didn’t look at her. He couldn’t.

When they reached the hallway that led toward the Hufflepuff common room, she stopped, turning to face him. “Thanks,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “For… you know. Walking me back. And… everything.”

Sebastian forced a faint smile, the effort tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Of course,” he said simply, his voice low.

The girl lingered for a moment, her gaze searching his face as if looking for something that she seemingly didn't find. Then she nodded, offering him a small, hesitant smile before turning and disappearing into her common room.

Sebastian stood there for a long moment, the silence pressing down on him like a weight. His chest ached, the hollowness he’d been trying to escape gnawing at him with renewed fervor. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a long, shuddering breath as he leaned back against the cold stone wall.

This was supposed to help. It never did.

"She's new."

Sebastian froze, his pulse leaping into his throat at the sound of her voice. It was low, steady, with that faint edge of dry humor she always carried when she was annoyed—but the softness beneath it? That’s what always disarmed him. He turned slowly, already knowing who he’d see.

Evangeline stood a few paces down the corridor, her arms crossed, leaning casually against the stone wall. Her hazel eyes caught the flickering torchlight, burning with something he couldn’t quite decipher—something that made his chest tighten and his stomach churn all at once. She didn’t look angry, not exactly, but there was a sharpness to her gaze that left him off balance.

"Evie," he started, his voice strained, too quiet. He cleared his throat, straightening instinctively as though he could erase the scene she’d likely just witnessed.

She raised an eyebrow, pushing off the wall, "Sebastian."

The way she said his name—low, deliberate—hit him harder than he cared to admit. It wasn’t accusatory, not quite, but it wasn’t warm either. Her words hung in the air between them, heavy and unspoken, and he felt the weight of his actions settle squarely on his shoulders.

He cleared his throat again, "Where have you been all day? I was worried,” he continued his voice softer now, though the words came out more like a defense than the concern he intended them to convey. “You weren’t at breakfast. Or lunch. Or Charms. Or dinner.”

Evangeline’s expression softened slightly, though her arms remained crossed. "I didn't mean to worry you."

Sebastian’s brow furrowed as Evangeline took another small step closer, the soft light catching the subtle lines of her face. She still didn’t look angry, but there was something unreadable in her expression.

“Well?” he prompted, a little too sharply, before he could stop himself. “Are you going to tell me where you were?”

Evangeline sighed softly, her gaze dropping for a moment before meeting his again. She seemed to weigh his desperation, the tension in his posture, before finally speaking. “I was called to the Ministry,” she said simply, her voice steady but carrying the weight of something far bigger.

Sebastian blinked, the words taking a moment to register. “The Ministry?” he repeated, his tone laced with suspicion. His mind jumped immediately to Alaric Thornton. “What for? Was it… Was it about Alaric? Did he invite you to some Auror meeting or—?”

“No,” Evangeline cut in sharply, her expression tightening. She another took a step closer, “It had nothing to do with him.”

Sebastian faltered, caught off guard by her tone. “Then what?” he asked, his voice softer now, more uncertain. “Why would the Ministry—?”

“They have information,” Evangeline interrupted, her voice quieter now, her voice suddenly far less steady. “About my family.”

That stopped him cold. For a moment, he just stared at her, his mind struggling to process what she’d said. “Your family?” he repeated dumbly.

Evangeline nodded, her gaze dropping to the floor as she wrapped her arms around herself. “They found some records,” she admitted, her voice tinged with vulnerability.

Sebastian’s chest tightened as he watched her, the weight of her words sinking in. Evangeline Sterling, the girl who had grown up an orphan, who had always carried that quiet resilience like armor, was standing in front of him with a crack in her usually unshakable composure.

“Evie,” Sebastian started again, his voice softer this time, tinged with a kind of awe that mirrored the tightness in his chest. “That’s… that’s incredible. Did they tell you—what did they say? Who are they? Your—”

“They didn’t tell me much,” Evangeline interrupted, shaking her head. Her arms tightened around herself, a small, almost defensive movement. “They said they’re still verifying everything. I was just there to sign a bunch of consent forms and whatnot.”

Her voice wavered on the last word, and Sebastian’s heart twisted painfully at the sight of her. She looked so small in that moment, like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. This wasn’t like her.

“And you… you went there by yourself?” he asked carefully, guilt already creeping into his voice.

Evangeline nodded, her gaze fixed on the floor. “I didn’t have a choice. They sent for me this morning—an urgent summons. I barely had time to grab my cloak before I was gone.”

Sebastian opened his mouth to say something but Evangeline beat him to it. She raised her head, her hazel eyes meeting his with a mix of exhaustion and something sharper. “And when I got back,” she continued, her voice quieter now but no less pointed, “I looked for you.”

Sebastian froze, the weight of her words landing like a punch to the gut. “You were looking for me?” he asked, his voice faint, as though he couldn’t quite believe it.

Evangeline nodded, her gaze unwavering. “Of course.” She took a small step closer, and he caught the faintest tremor in her voice as she added, “But you weren’t anywhere. Not in the Great Hall. Not in the library. Not even in the Undercroft.”

She hesitated, her expression tightening before she continued, her tone quieter now, “And then Ominis told me you’d gone off with a Hufflepuff. So I thought I’d check by their common room.”

Sebastian felt his stomach churn, the hurt in her tone cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. His mind raced, grasping for something to say, some explanation that would make her stop looking at him like that. But there was nothing.

He’d made assumptions about her whereabouts—assumptions that now felt glaringly unfair, cruel even. He’d assumed she’d been hiding something from him on purpose, that she’d gone out with Alaric, assumed the worst without a second thought. And his solution? To drown his jealousy and frustration in the arms of another girl, seeking solace in meaningless distractions while Evie had been facing something monumental. Alone.

“Evie,” he said finally, his voice low and uneven, filled with regret he couldn’t quite put into words. “I didn’t know. If I had… God, if I had known—"

Evangeline blinked, her mouth parting slightly as if she were about to respond, but she never got the chance. Sebastian moved without thinking, closing the distance between them in two swift steps. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her against him with a kind of desperation that startled them both.

Her body stiffened for a moment, caught off guard, but then she softened against him, her arms slowly lifting to rest against his back. She didn’t say anything, didn’t pull away or question him, and for that, Sebastian was grateful. His hands tightened slightly, one splayed across her back, the other curling at the base of her neck as though he were trying to anchor her—or maybe himself.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice muffled against her hair.

She didn’t respond immediately, her breath warm against his chest. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, almost fragile. “Why?” she asked, the single word carrying more weight than he was prepared for.

Sebastian swallowed hard, his throat tight. “For not being there,” he admitted, his voice raw. “For—” He hesitated, his grip on her tightening slightly as he forced himself to continue. “For being an idiot.”

Evangeline let out a soft, shaky laugh, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You are an idiot,” she murmured, her tone somewhere between teasing and resigned. But there was no malice in her words, only a faint undercurrent of hurt she couldn’t fully hide. "And anyway, you're here now."

Sebastian closed his eyes, letting out a quiet laugh, "So you'll tell me all about it?"

Evangeline pulled back just enough to look up at him, her hazel eyes searching his face. There was still a flicker of vulnerability there, but her lips quirked into a faint smile, the teasing edge returning to her voice. “All about what? How much of an idiot you are?”

Sebastian huffed out a quiet laugh, though his chest still felt tight. “I mean, that’s obvious,” he said, his tone softer now, his hands loosening their hold but not letting her go. “I meant about the Ministry. About your family.”

Her smile faltered slightly, and she let out a small sigh, her arms slipping away from his back as she stepped out of his embrace. Sebastian let his hands fall to his sides, but his gaze never left her face.

Evangeline glanced down the corridor, her arms wrapping around herself again as if to ward off the lingering tension. “Not here,” she said softly, her voice steady but quieter now. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

Sebastian nodded immediately, a flicker of relief washing over him. “The Undercroft?”

She gave a small nod, her hazel eyes flicking to meet his for a brief moment. Then, with a small gesture for him to follow, she began walking down the corridor, her steps slow and measured.

Sebastian fell into step beside her, the silence between them heavy but not oppressive. He resisted the urge to fill it with pointless words, sensing that she needed this quiet to collect her thoughts. Still, his mind raced with questions, his chest tightening with every second that passed without answers. What had they found? Who were they? What would this mean for her?

When they finally reached the Undercroft, Evangeline pulled out her wand and tapped the entrance, the hidden door sliding open with a low groan. She stepped inside first, her shoulders visibly relaxing as the familiar, dimly lit space enveloped them. Sebastian followed, closing the door behind him before turning to face her.

She was already moving to one of the stone benches, sitting down with a sigh. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, twisting the hem of her cloak as she stared at the floor. The sight made his chest ache all over again.

He crossed the room slowly, lowering himself onto the bench beside her, careful not to sit too close. He didn’t say anything, waiting for her to speak when she was ready.

After a long moment, Evangeline let out a slow, shaky breath. “It’s strange,” she began, her voice soft, almost distant. “I’ve always wondered about them. My family. Who they were, where I came from. But now that there’s a chance to know…” She trailed off, her hands stilling as she glanced at him. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Sebastian’s brow furrowed, his heart twisting at the vulnerability in her voice as she continued. “What if… what if I find out things I don’t want to know? What if they’re terrible people? Or… what if they didn’t want me?”

Sebastian’s chest tightened at the pain in her voice, and without thinking, he reached out, his hand covering hers where it rested in her lap. “Then they’re fools,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Evangeline blinked, her hazel eyes widening slightly as she stared at him. Her lips parted as though she wanted to say something, but no words came out.

Sebastian tightened his grip on her hand, leaning forward slightly to hold her gaze. “Whatever they are—good, bad, or something in between—it doesn’t change who you are. And it doesn’t change how much you mean to the people who do know you. To me.”

Her breath hitched slightly, and for a moment, Sebastian worried he’d said too much. But then she smiled—a real, genuine smile—and the tension in his chest eased just a little. She looked down at their joined hands, her fingers curling slightly under his before letting out a quiet sigh.

“So, I got the summons very early this morning,” she began, her voice steadier now but still soft. “It was delivered by owl, marked as urgent. At first, I thought it had to be some kind of mistake. Why would the Ministry want to talk to me?” She glanced at him briefly, her eyes flickering with uncertainty. “I almost didn’t go.”

Sebastian tilted his head slightly, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand in a soothing gesture. “What changed your mind?” he asked gently.

Evangeline hesitated, her gaze dropping again as she fidgeted with the hem of her cloak. “Curiosity, I guess,” she admitted, her shoulders lifting in a small, uncertain shrug. “I couldn’t ignore it.”

She took a deep breath, her fingers stilling as she continued. “So I found Professor Weasley and showed her the letter, got my absence excused, and then I took the Floo to the Ministry. They had me meet with an official from the Department of Magical Records. She was kind, I guess, but very... clinical. Formal. She kept asking questions about my background, things I didn’t have answers for.” Evangeline’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Sebastian frowned, his jaw tightening slightly. “What kind of questions?”

“Basic things, mostly,” Evangeline said with a small shrug. “Where I was born, where I grew up, if I remembered anything about my parents or had any items that might have belonged to them. She asked if I’d ever noticed unusual magical occurrences growing up—before Hogwarts, I mean.”

Sebastian’s frown deepened. “That’s… odd. What did they say they found?”

Evangeline let out another sigh, her free hand brushing over her cloak as though smoothing invisible wrinkles. “They wouldn’t tell me much. Just that there are records—old ones—that suggest I might be connected to a particular family. But they need to ‘verify’ things first.” She shook her head, a faint bitterness creeping into her voice. “Whatever that means.”

Sebastian was quiet for a moment, processing her words. “Did they at least give you a name? Or anything to go on?”

Evangeline hesitated, her gaze flicking to him briefly before dropping again. "Muldoon."

Sebastian blinked, his breath catching as the name registered. His grip on Evangeline’s hand tightened reflexively, his mind racing.

“Muldoon?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, though the word carried an unmistakable weight.

Evangeline frowned at his reaction, tilting her head slightly as she searched his face. “Yeah,” she said, her tone cautious. “Why? Does that mean something to you?”

Sebastian let out a quiet, incredulous laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Does it mean something? Evie, the Muldoons aren’t just some random wizarding family. They’re—” He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair as he tried to find the right words. “They’re practically legend.”

Her frown deepened, confusion etched across her features. “What are you talking about?”

Sebastian stared at her for a long moment, as if trying to gauge whether she was serious. “You’ve never heard of them?” he asked, disbelief lacing his voice.

“No,” Evangeline said firmly, shaking her head. “I mean, should I have? They’re just a name on a piece of parchment to me.”

Sebastian leaned back slightly, his brow furrowing as he processed her words. The Muldoons. He’d heard whispers about them growing up—stories that felt more like folklore than reality. An ancient Irish pure-blood family, their lineage traced back centuries, older even than the Gaunts or the Blacks.

“But they’re…” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “They’re not like other pure-blood families. They don’t attend events or make alliances the way the twenty-four do. Even Ominis hasn't met them, and trust me, he knows everything about the old bloodlines.”

Evangeline raised an eyebrow at that. “So they’re… reclusive?”

“Reclusive doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Sebastian said, his voice low, almost reverent. “The Muldoons are known for their mastery of ritualistic magic—stuff most wizards wouldn’t dare to touch. It’s said their knowledge goes back to the days of the Druids. Powerful, dangerous magic.”

Evangeline’s brow furrowed, her expression unreadable as she absorbed his words. “And the Ministry thinks I'm... related to them somehow."

Sebastian nodded slowly, his dark eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her shift slightly under his gaze. “The Muldoons don’t just show up in a file by coincidence.”

Evangeline let out a shaky breath, her fingers twitching slightly under his as if she wanted to fidget but couldn’t with his hand still holding hers. “I don’t understand,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why now? I’ve been here all this time, and no one’s ever mentioned anything about my family—not the orphanage, not Hogwarts, not anyone.”

Sebastian frowned, his thumb absently tracing circles over the back of her hand. “I don't know. But the Muldoons aren’t just any family. If you are connected to them, it could explain… well, everything. Your abilities. The ancient magic you can use.” His voice softened, his tone laced with wonder and unease. “It wouldn’t surprise me if it’s tied to them somehow.”

Evangeline’s brow furrowed, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip as she processed his words. "Then... how did I slip through the cracks? Why didn't my parents want me?"

Sebastian’s heart twisted at her words, the pain in her voice cutting through him like a blade. He didn’t have an answer—how could he? But the sight of her, vulnerable and raw, her usual fire dimmed by uncertainty, pushed him to try.

"Have you told Ominis about any of this yet?" He asked gently, "He might know some things about the Muldoons that could explain things..."

Evangeline hesitated, her lips pressing together as though debating whether to say what she was thinking. Finally, she let out a soft sigh, her fingers shifting slightly under his.

“No, I haven't,” she admitted, her voice quiet but resolute. “Not until I could tell you first.”

He stared at her, his grip on her hand tightening slightly as he processed her words. She waited to tell him first. The weight of her trust settled over him, equal parts humbling and crushing.

Evangeline tilted her head slightly, her expression softening as she studied him. "Why do you look so surprised?"

Sebastian swallowed hard, searching for the right words, but they didn’t come easily. His gaze flickered down to their joined hands, then back up to her face, his expression torn between vulnerability and disbelief.

“I guess I didn’t think I was… the person you’d want to talk to first,” he admitted, his voice low. “Not after… everything.”

Evangeline’s brow furrowed slightly, hazel eyes narrowing as though she were trying to piece something together. “Sebastian, you do realize you're my first choice for almost everything, don't you?" She paused, her expression darkening as she recalled the conversation she and Sebastian had shared by the Black Lake.

Maybe, sometimes, I do trust Ominis more.

The words had left her mouth before she could take them back. And sure, maybe Sebastian had pushed her to say them, but she realized now that maybe they'd left a lasting impression that she didn't intend.

Evangeline squeezed Sebastian's hand, "I trust you more than anyone else."

Sebastian froze, his heart skipping a beat at her words. He blinked, her statement hanging in the air between them like an unspoken spell. For a moment, all he could do was stare at her, his chest tightening in ways he couldn’t quite describe.

She simply nudged him with her shoulder, smiling softly down at their intertwined hands, the gesture as natural as if they'd done it a hundred times before. “You should know by now.”

Sebastian let out a quiet laugh, though it was tinged with something heavier. “I guess I didn’t,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “I don’t… I didn’t think I deserved it”

Evangeline’s smile faltered, her brows knitting together as she turned to face him more fully. Her hand shifted slightly in his, her fingers tightening their hold, "I pinky promised you only a few weeks ago and you've already forgotten? You’re my best friend, and you always will be.”

Sebastian’s breath hitched at her words, the weight of them settling over him like a warm blanket and a sharp ache all at once. Her unwavering gaze, so filled with honesty, made it impossible for him to look away. For a moment, he forgot how to speak, his throat tight with emotions he didn’t know how to untangle.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight as he tried to find the right words to respond. “You’re too good to me, Evie,” he said finally, his voice rough with emotion.

Before she could respond, the door to the Undercroft creaked open, the faint sound echoing through the chamber. Both Sebastian and Evangeline turned toward the source, their hands still loosely joined. Standing in the doorway was Ominis, his wand raised slightly, the tip glowing faintly to guide his steps. His expression was characteristically composed, but the slight tilt of his head betrayed his surprise at the scene before him.

"Am I interrupting something?" He asked, stopping in his tracks.

Evangeline's hand slipped from Sebastian's as she stood, her cheeks tinged with a faint flush. “No, you’re not interrupting,” she said quickly, her tone warm but slightly flustered. She straightened her cloak, as if to distract herself from the sudden shift in the atmosphere. "I'm glad you're here, actually. I... have something to share."

Ominis paused in the doorway, his wand emitting a soft, steady glow as he turned his head toward them. His usual composed expression was tinged with curiosity, though the faint crease in his brow betrayed deeper concern.

“Well,” he began dryly, his lips twitching into a faint smirk, “I hope whatever you have to say will explain your absence today, Evie. And perhaps shed some light on why Sebastian has been pacing like a caged dragon all day.”

Sebastian groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “Ominis, must you be so insufferable?"

Ominis ignored him, his focus entirely on Evangeline. “I’m serious,” he said, stepping further into the room. “He's been borderline unbearable.”

Sebastian scowled, his cheeks coloring as he crossed his arms. “She disappeared without a word. What was I supposed to think?”

Ominis sighed, his tone light but pointed. “He’s underselling it. He’s been positively insufferable, Evie. I hope you have a good reason for being so elusive.”

Evangeline let out a small, shaky laugh, the sound doing little to mask the nervous edge in her posture. “I do,” she admitted, brushing her hands over the fabric of her cloak. “It’s… a long story.”

Ominis tilted his head slightly, his expression softening. “Then I'm all ears,” he said gently, though there was a faint urgency in his tone. “You’ve clearly had quite a day.”

"You might want to take a seat," Evangeline suggested.

Ominis raised a curious brow, his head tilting slightly as if to gauge the seriousness of her tone. “If you insist,” he said, his voice carrying a note of intrigue. He moved carefully to one of the benches.

Evangeline drew in a slow, steadying breath before starting. She explained the urgent summons, the hurried Floo trip to the Ministry, and the unnervingly clinical nature of her meeting with the Department of Magical Records. Her voice was measured but tinged with vulnerability, the weight of the day clearly pressing on her as she recounted every detail.

Sebastian watched her closely, his gaze never leaving her face. His jaw tightened as she spoke, his hands twitching faintly at his sides when she described the questions they’d asked—questions she hadn’t been able to answer.

When she finally reached the part about the records they’d found, her voice wavered, and she hesitated for a moment before continuing.

“They think I might be connected to a family,” she said quietly, her gaze flicking between the two boys. “The Muldoons.”

The effect was immediate.

Ominis, who had been sitting with a calm, almost detached curiosity, stiffened visibly. His grip on his wand tightened, his knuckles paling as his usually composed expression faltered. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out at first, his breath catching in his throat.

“The Muldoons?” he repeated, his voice low and strained, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.

Evangeline nodded slowly, her brows knitting together as she took in his reaction. “Yes,” she said, her voice quieter now. “You’ve heard of them, then? Sebastian said they're quite... infamous."

Ominis didn’t respond immediately. His grip on his wand remained tight, his knuckles white as if he were anchoring himself. His usual composed demeanor was gone, replaced by something sharper, more unsettled.

“Infamous,” he echoed faintly, as though tasting the word and finding it inadequate. “That’s… putting it mildly.”

Evangeline’s brow furrowed further, her hazel eyes flicking between him and Sebastian. “What does that mean?” she asked cautiously, her voice quieter now. “Are they dangerous?”

Sebastian, who had been watching Ominis closely, jumped in, his voice tinged with unease. “I told her they’re not just a pure-blood family—they’re… different.”

Ominis finally found his voice, though it was strained, his words deliberate. “He's right. The Muldoons aren’t like the others,” he said, his tone heavy with something close to reverence. “They’re not part of the 'sacred' twenty-four. They never wanted to be. They’re older than the lists, older than the hierarchies. They exist outside of the power plays most pure-blood families are obsessed with.”

“How is that possible?” Evangeline repeated, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Ominis tilted his head slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “They predate the other families, including my own. Their magic goes back to ancient times—to the Druids and their rituals. While the rest of the wizarding world evolved, they… preserved. Cultivated. Their knowledge is said to be as vast as it is dangerous.”

“Dangerous how?” she pressed, a faint edge creeping into her voice.

Ominis hesitated, his expression darkening. “Ritualistic magic,” he said finally, his voice low. “Blood magic, arcane runes, things most wizards wouldn’t dare attempt. Some say they have knowledge of magic that would make the darkest wizards in history look tame.”

Evangeline’s breath hitched, her expression unreadable as she processed their words. “But why would they lose track of me?” she asked quietly, her voice laced with uncertainty. “If they’re so… powerful, so protective of their line, why didn’t they come for me? Why leave me at an orphanage?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Ominis said softly, though his tone carried a weight that made her stomach twist. “It doesn’t make sense. The Muldoons are notoriously meticulous about their bloodline. They don’t just lose someone...”

Sebastian let out a frustrated sigh, raking a hand through his hair. “Do you think the Ministry’s lying?” he asked, glancing at Ominis. “Or exaggerating?”

Ominis shook his head slowly, his gaze distant as though piecing together a puzzle. “Certainly not,” he said carefully. “The Ministry wouldn’t dare fabricate something like this. Not when it comes to the Muldoons. If they’ve reached out, it’s because they’re certain."

Evangeline’s brow furrowed deeper, her fingers brushing nervously over the hem of her cloak. “If they’re so meticulous about their bloodline, then surely there’d be something I could find. Records in the Hogwarts library, maybe?” She looked between Sebastian and Ominis, her voice growing steadier as she latched onto the idea. “If they attended Hogwarts, there must be some trace of them, right?”

Ominis hesitated, his expression unreadable. His grip on his wand loosened slightly, but his posture remained tense. Finally, he shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “You won’t find anything about them in the Hogwarts records.”

Evangeline blinked, startled. “Why not? If they were magical and lived in Ireland, wouldn’t they have come here?”

Ominis sighed, his lips pressing into a thin line. “The Muldoons are an exception,” he explained, his voice low and deliberate. “They didn’t send their children to Hogwarts. They had special permission to attend Durmstrang.”

Sebastian’s brows shot up, and Evangeline tilted her head, her confusion evident. “Durmstrang?” she repeated. “But… why? It’s on the other side of Europe, and they’re Irish.”

Ominis nodded grimly. “Their practices, their philosophy—Hogwarts would never have allowed them to study the kind of magic they value."

Evangeline sat back slightly, her fingers tightening around the edge of her cloak. “But surely they had ties to Hogwarts at some point,” she pressed. “Even if they chose Durmstrang, there must be something. A record, a connection, a—"

“There’s nothing,” Ominis interrupted, his tone steady but heavy with certainty. “As far as anyone knows, the Muldoons severed ties with Hogwarts the very year Durmstrang opened."

Sebastian began to pace, a nervous habit he'd never been able to kick, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor of the Undercroft. His hands flexed at his sides as though searching for something to do, his mind racing.

“It’s strange, though, isn’t it?” he said, his voice cutting through the tense silence. “If Evie really is connected to the Muldoons, why Gryffindor? Slytherin’s practically synonymous with pure-blood families like theirs. I mean, sure, there are exceptions, but... very rarely.”

Ominis turned his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. “That’s a fair observation,” he admitted. “Slytherin values ambition, cunning, resourcefulness—traits that align with the philosophies of families like the Muldoons. But sorting isn’t always about bloodlines or traditions. It’s about the individual.”

Evangeline glanced between the two boys, her brows furrowed as if she were trying to piece the puzzle together herself. “You’re saying the Hat saw something in me that the Muldoons wouldn’t?”

Ominis nodded, his tone even. “Precisely."

“Maybe that’s why they left you at the orphanage." Sebastian reasoned quietly, "If the Sorting Hat saw something in you that doesn’t align with them—values that don’t match their own twisted philosophy—it could have been enough for them to cast you aside.”

Evangeline’s face tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line. "If that's true... what has changed?" She looked between the two men, her eyes shimmering with uncertainty. "Why has the Ministry has suddenly figured out I belong to them?"

Ominis’s gaze shifted toward Evangeline, his pale eyes narrowing slightly as if he were weighing his words. “Perhaps the Muldoons assisted them,” he said evenly. “But Evangeline, the Muldoons are not a family known for sentimentality. If they want you back, it’s not out of a sudden surge of affection."

Evangeline stared at the floor, her mind racing with possibilities, each one more unsettling than the last. Her breath quickened, her chest rising and falling as the weight of their words settled over her like a suffocating blanket. Her fingers twisted into the hem of her cloak, gripping it tightly as if it were the only thing keeping her anchored.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Why me? I didn’t ask for this—I didn’t ask for any of it. Ancient magic, the Muldoons, all of this… It doesn’t make sense. I’m just—” She cut herself off, her throat tightening. “I’m just me.”

Sebastian took a step closer, his hand reaching out as though to steady her, but she pulled away, pacing the length of the Undercroft like a caged animal. Her hazel eyes were wide, unfocused, and her voice grew more frantic with each word.

“If they abandoned me because I wasn’t what they wanted, why now? Why do they get to decide I matter now? After years—years—of nothing? And what if... what if I'm like them? What if I—” Her voice cracked, and she turned away, pressing her fists to her temples as though trying to block out the whirlwind of thoughts.

“Evie,” Sebastian said firmly, his voice cutting through her spiral. He stepped in front of her, blocking her path, his hands braced on her shoulders. “Stop. Whatever they are, whoever they are—you’re not them. You’re you.”

She shook her head, her voice breaking. “But what if I am? What if they are the reason I have this magic? What if it’s… been something dark this whole time I've been using it?”

Sebastian’s grip on her shoulders tightened slightly, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. “That’s not true,” he said, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “You’ve already proven that, Evie. Over and over again. You’ve used your magic to help people—to protect them. That’s who you are.”

She stared at him, her hazel eyes shimmering with unshed tears, but the words didn’t seem to reach her. The storm inside her was too loud, too overwhelming. She shook her head again, stepping back and breaking his hold.

“I can’t—” she choked out, her voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t do this. I need to—” Her voice faltered, and she turned on her heel, her cloak swirling behind her as she headed for the door.

Sebastian moved to follow her, but Ominis raised a hand, stopping him. The gesture was subtle, but the tension in the air was palpable. “Let her go,” Ominis murmured softly. His expression was pained, but his voice carried a quiet understanding. “She needs space.”

“But she’s—”

“Sebastian,” Ominis said, more firmly this time. “Let her go.”

Sebastian stood frozen, torn between chasing after her and respecting Ominis’s judgment. His fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tight as he watched her disappear through the stone door.

Evangeline hurried through the castle corridors, her footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The cool air bit at her flushed skin, but she barely noticed, her mind racing far too fast to process anything else. Her chest felt tight, her breaths shallow as she climbed the spiraling stairs to Gryffindor Tower.

The Fat Lady raised an inquisitive brow at her arrival, her usual jovial expression replaced by concern. “Bit late, dear, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.

“Puffskein Jelly,” Evangeline muttered tersely, barely waiting for the portrait to swing open before slipping through. She ignored the warmth of the common room and the friendly murmurs of her housemates, keeping her head down as she darted up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory.

Her hands trembled as she pushed the door open, her cloak snagging slightly on the frame. Her roommates glanced up at her sudden entrance, their chatter halting mid-sentence.

“Evie?” Nellie asked cautiously, sitting up straighter on her bed. “Are you alright?”

Evangeline shook her head, her throat too tight to form words. She offered a strained smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m fine,” she managed, her voice barely audible. “Just… tired.”

Without waiting for a response, she moved to her bed and drew the curtains shut with a flick of her wand. The soft, muffled voices of her roommates faded as she cast a silencing spell around her bed, the sound of her own breathing suddenly deafening in the heavy stillness.

She sank onto the mattress, her hands gripping the edge of the blanket as tears welled in her eyes. For years, she had wondered about her family, dreamed of the day she might learn where she came from—who she was. She had hoped for something simple, something comforting. Maybe even something good.

But now, as the weight of the Muldoon name settled over her like a shadow, she finally understood the bitter truth of being careful what you wished for.

Her breath hitched, the tears spilling over as a sob escaped her lips. She pressed her face into her pillow, the fabric muffling her cries as she let the storm inside her break free, raw and unrestrained. The flood of emotions overwhelmed her—fear, confusion, guilt—each one crashing over her like a wave, pulling her deeper into its depths.

The thought of her magic, of the ancient force that coursed through her veins and bound her to the Muldoon name, gnawed at her relentlessly. What if it was dark? What if it had always been dark, and she had been too naïve, too eager to believe in something better, something purer?

Her mind drifted to Isidora, who allowed herself to be consumed by her desire for more, never once stopping to question the cost. And yet, in the end, her downfall had been her obsession with using ancient magic for control, her unwillingness to accept its darker side. Could Evangeline be like that? Could she—would she—become someone who valued power over compassion? Someone who wielded her magic without thought of the consequences, like Isidora, like the very family she was now tied to?

The idea was unbearable, a poison seeping into her thoughts. But no matter how hard she tried to push it away, it clung to her like a shadow, lingering in the corners of her mind, refusing to let go.

Evangeline had chosen to keep Isidora's power contained, locked away in the hidden repository deep beneath Hogwarts. She’d promised herself that she would never let it escape, never let it control her the way it had with Isidora. But it still haunted her—that power, that legacy—even in the quietest moments.

The nightmares she'd been having were a testament to that. Sometimes, she dreamed of Ranrok, of the battle that had claimed Professor Fig's life, the grief, the terror, and the fury that had burned so brightly in that final confrontation. But other nights, the nightmares took a darker turn—she was standing at the edge of a vast precipice, a chasm of swirling, chaotic magic stretching out before her, dark ancient power twisting around her like a storm, a tempest that beckoned her to step into it, to embrace it.

What if I do?

The question sliced through her, sharp and dangerous. Could she resist it? Could she fight the pull of something so deeply embedded in her bloodline, in her very soul? And even if she could, what if, deep down, this magic was who she was? What if that’s who I truly am?

The thought lingered, a quiet whisper in the back of her mind. Her body shook with silent sobs, her chest tightening, as though the very weight of that possibility was too much to bear.

The Ministry officials had been clear. If what they’d said was to be believed, she was a Muldoon—a bloodline steeped in magic, power, and darkness. The truth she’d always longed for had been nothing like what she had imagined. No family, no comforting past, no simple answers. Just a name, a legacy, that she was powerless to undo.

She pressed her palm to her forehead, her mind spiraling. What am I supposed to do with this?

For hours, she lay curled in the safety of her bed, her tears eventually subsiding into quiet, exhausted breaths. But when sleep finally claimed her, it brought no comfort.

The nightmares began almost immediately.

The air was heavy with the scent of earth and old magic. Visions of Ranrok, of Fig's death, of the destruction and devastation in the underground cavern flooded her mind like an unrelenting tide. The roar of the battle, the heat of the flames, the weight of the grief that had followed—all of it came crashing back, as though her nightmares had become an extension of the waking world.

But then, something shifted. The dreamscape morphed, the chaos of the battle fading into a darkness so profound that it swallowed everything around her. The sounds of war died away, replaced by the eerie silence of an ancient, forgotten place. The ground beneath her feet was cold, cracked stone, worn smooth by centuries of time. In the distance, there was a faint glow—a shimmering, violet light, pulsing with a rhythm that felt almost alive.

She couldn’t look away. The light beckoned her, not with words, but with an overwhelming presence, a force she couldn’t ignore. She stepped forward, each movement slow, deliberate, as if she were being drawn toward it by some unseen hand.

The closer she got, the more the air thickened, the magic growing stronger. It was familiar—too familiar. Like the magic that hummed through her veins, the magic she wielded. But this was different. This was... older.

Her heart pounded in her chest, a primal instinct screaming that she should turn and run. This is wrong, she thought, the words echoing in her mind. She had to get away from this power, this force that felt both magnificent and terrifying. The fear curled in her stomach, deep and cold, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.

And then she saw them.

Hooded figures stood around the amethyst light. Their forms were vague, shadowy, but there was no mistaking the pull of recognition deep in her soul.

One of the figures stepped forward, the faint shimmer of its robes flowing like liquid shadow. The others remained still, their heads bowed in a silent reverence, or perhaps in waiting.

The figure that moved was shorter than the others, its hood falling back just enough to reveal the face of a stranger that was hauntingly familiar. It was a woman, her features sharp, regal, with eyes that glowed a fierce hazel—a shade that matched the hue of her own eyes.

Evangeline recoiled, but her body stayed put, betraying her instinct to flee. Her heart raced as she took in the figures around her, their hands now raised in unison. A ritual was unfolding, and though no incantation was spoken aloud, the magic that crackled in the air was undeniable

She couldn’t see exactly what the figures were doing, but something about it called to her with the promise of more—more power, more knowledge, more control. It whispered to the deepest, most primal parts of her, urging her to join them. What if she gave in?

The pull was intoxicating, but with it came the undeniable truth: she could feel it—this power—deep in her bones. It was as if it had always been there, waiting for her to claim it.

And then, the world shattered, and she awoke.

Gasping for breath, Evangeline shot upright, her heart racing, her body drenched in cold sweat. Her sheets were tangled around her legs, and her chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked breaths. She looked around the dimly lit room, half-expecting to see the flicker of violet light still lingering in the shadows. But there was nothing.

Nothing except the soft rustle of the common room beyond the door and the distant hum of life outside the dormitory.

Read more stories about Sebastian and Evangeline Read on AO3

Gryffindor Divider Credit Support Divider Credit

9 notes · View notes

beautifulsavagegarden · 7 months ago

Text

Window to the Past

Cressida hadn't been able to help herself when she had seen the jewellery box, resting on the counter at the antique store. Her mother had worked at the store for years and Cressida had fond memories of coming by after school and helping her mother around the store as was needed. The owner had been particularly fond of her and so long as she was careful and considerate, he had let her into the backroom on weekends to read the books that had been donated from the families whose loved ones had died and didn't know what to do with them. Dorothea Perkins had jokingly said that every book had to be vetted by Cressida before it was worthy to be sold. Cressida remembered well the smell of the store, the fresh cut flowers on the counter mixing with the old book smell in the air. After her mother had died, Cressida had stopped coming by so often but she had still maintained the relationship to a degree. Dorothea had been overjoyed every time the bell rang and she looked up and saw that Cressida was in the doorway.

She had come to the store, carrying a box of her father's things, a few weeks after his funeral and when the bell had went, Dorothea had gasped and then rushed to Cressida as much as she was able to considering her advanced years and the damage that years of lifting heavy things had done to her book. She was a little more stooped than when Cressida had been young but age changed them all in the end. Dorothea was still lovely and her smile hadn't changed one bit.

"Cressida, you should have called ahead. I would have made some tea." Dorothea chided her just a touch as Cressida heaved the box up onto the counter.

"I'm sorry Dorothea, I didn't think. I was just in the zone you know? Anyway, I was clearing out the attic and I know that my father would want you to find new homes for a few things." She patted the box with one hand. It was then that she noticed the jewellery box and her interest in it must have caught Dorothea's attention because the next thing Cressida knew, the box was swept off the counter into Dorothea's wrinkled hands and she was presenting it to Cressida.

"I know that look when I see it; take it. As a thank you for, well, everything." Dorothea was watching Cressida with a gaze that clearly told her that there was no point in arguing, that it wouldn't accomplish anything. She wanted to ask Dorothea if she was sure but she always had been sure of herself and almost everything she did.

"I was so sad to hear of your father's passing. Arthur deserved better than that."

Cressida nodded her head, agreeing. It had been a lot, so much, too much for her and it was part of why she was considering putting the house on the market. She didn't feel like she belonged in Salem anymore. She wasn't going to tell Dorothea though, or anyone else, not until she had decided for sure what she was going to do.

She had stayed for tea, thanking Dorothea and giving the older woman a large, warm hug and then she had gone on her way home. They had recounted memories of her father but mostly of her mother and Cressida felt the weight of their losses weighing heavily on her shoulders. If she hadn't felt crushed by the grief, then perhaps she wouldn't have made the decision that she did.

Later that night, she pulled out the few pieces of her mother's jewellery that she still had and placed them in the box on her vanity. When she had opened the drawer they rested in, her fingers had brushed against the velvet of the bag that housed her angel cards. She hadn't touched them in so long, hadn't read in so long, and she felt that she needed their reassurance then more than anything else in the world. Perhaps she would get comfort from the angels.

She had lit a candle and had placed the cards next to the jewellery box that she just couldn't stop staring at. There was something about it that called to her, as though it had always been meant for her, as if it's creation was connected to something buried deep inside of her that she couldn't understand or name.

She had started to draw the cards, selecting the first for the past and that was as far as she got. There was a sudden wind, the flame of the candle guttered in the wick and the card fell from her fingers, landing on the table face down so she could not see it. It seemed that she didn't need to though because the card wasn't going to hold any answer for her. No, the answer was in the room with her, in the mirror. There was a man standing behind her and Cressida jumped, whirling round in her seat, eyes wide, hand trembling as it rose to her mouth. There was a man standing in her room.

"W-Who are you?" She asked, a tremor in her voice.

@symphonyofmalice

#the lions soul (cressida)#symphonyofmalice

14 notes · View notes

feldspursfiyero · 8 months ago

Text

okay, some vague overall thoughts for bridgerton 3x01-04 (spoilers ofc)

benedict didn't get much to do. am disappoint. all he did was run away from mamas and debutantes, and find a widow and then he did a lot of fucking. impressive

this so far is the season of the sideplots being more interesting

creloise is the literal damn highlight of the season so far. ESPECIALLY cressida

anthony is also, to me, always the damn highlight of any season. except for s1 on my first watch. heh.

but on that note, since cressida's gone the same way as anthony, now i get to rewatch s1 and s2 cressida scenes and just skjfgnkfg fall in love with her even more, like i did with anthony

ugh, cressida's dad! :( but as someone else said, what's wrong with befriending a bridgerton? haha maybe eloise is not Male enough. THEN LET HER MARRY A WOMAN, U ANCIENT DICK

i love i love i love all the a&b scenes we got, and anthony being the big bro and looking out for gregory

speaking of gregory, what was the purpose of him having a broken arm lmao. IS there a purpose? will there be a purpose?

rip that anthony went on a second honeymoon and had the balls to do it, i miss him being chained to his desk with violet slowly eviscerating him with a blunt knife

(i did detect some potential delicious conflict though re how slow violet's been at moving out of the house. i wonder if the show will get into that)

francesca and john stirling. aaah they snuck that one right by us. i love him and i love them! i'm not sure how much i like francesca yet though; i don't hate her but there's nothing i particularly like yet

so this is the first season where it's not (primarily) told from the point of view of a bridgerton. interesting.

i thought debling would've caught on earlier that some weird shit is going on with pen/colin, and with pen/eloise/cressida. but... well, either he did, or he's as dumb as a doornail (haha i know switched up the phrase). but yeah, at first i liked the idea of pen/debling, but by ep 4 he had become rather flavourless

portia's gonna be shook when she finds out pen and colin are getting married :3 she better be happy for pen! and also like, be nicer to her; i feel like there was a look from her towards the end of the ball in ep 4 where she might be rethinking how she talks to pen

anyway, will add to this post if i think of anything more.

ETA:

that spoiler we got after the bowral screening of anthony being gifted a venetian glass ball; has that been cut from the ep...? instead he's just holding a ball which he is gonna try and fit into his mouth and/or hole for Science. string somehow attached ofc! can't have it getting lost 😈

SKDJNGK nearly forgot. okay so i have some thoughts re will and alice mondrich. with how gossipy and snipey and judgey the ton is, i'm surprised they were fairly well accepted into the ton. that is something i had not extrapolated on based on s1-2. but i do feel like cressida's mum and her friends are doing them dirty behind their backs. so that's... good... good as in, it doesn't invalidate what i headcanoned for a/b fic lmao

aaaaaand, once again for good measure - anthony's gay lil sit:

#on the giffing thing: i'll wait a week and see what everyone's giffed. and if there's something i still want giffed then i'll do it then #i hate giffing with a passion. it gives me no pleasure #so here's hoping someone does good gifs of what i want giffed haha #OTHERWISEEEE #sigh #bridgerton #bridgerton spoilers #anthony bridgerton #creloise #benedict bridgerton #a&b #ramble.txt #cressida cowper

16 notes · View notes

savingthrcw · 7 months ago

Text

stares at "fiancée" from across the room cause so pretty. @bcnedict

Cressida was nervous. Of course she had told Eloise everything, the full truth, if only because explaining she had tried to say no may perhaps keep her friend from kicking her out of the Bridgerton's house; Eloise had understood that Benedict had accidentally put her on the verge of being ruined and had refused to be ungentlemanly, but even so it was clear she didn't know how to feel about the matter. Mrs. Bridgerton did not know the whole truth, since that was something that Cressida felt up to Benedict. And so Mrs. Bridgerton had spoken of taking walks together as a family as if she were one of her daughters, however, and had been happy to bring her to the modiste to buy her new dresses since all she was relying on was Francesca's old ones and what she had brought from her house when forced to run off. Cressida had let her choose everything, because as Benedict's 'future wife', if he still wouldn't change his mind, she was determined to do whatever pleased him, and whenever he wasn't available, she'd whatever pleased his mother, who was all too kind to her. If only Cressida could stop herself from being on the verge of crying whenever Mrs. Bridgerton treated her with affection. Hair down and delicate dress, she felt a bit more like she had a family again, but still out of place in such a bright drawing room. She had gone at the window again, in an attempt to see her own reflection and fix something, when her attention had been caught by Hyacinth and Gregory seemingly attempting to murder each other down at the garden. Another sting of longing then, watching the children being allowed to play and be loud. Her father had nearly thrown a fit when he had learned that her cousins had taught her card games and, worse, how good she was at them; she was not allowed to indulge in such unfeminine things, unless of course a husband would make her play, in which case she'd have to lose. Clear rules that didn't exist here, but that she'd still have to follow since men did seem to be that prideful.

A giggle escaped her as the girl hit her brother, but when she turned around, tempted to go see what they did at a safe distance, she found Benedict there at the door; she beamed, tension leaving her entirely and her smile turning wide and happy, because that was her fiancée, her unexpectedly joyful future standing there, watching her in a way that she didn't quite recognize but she assumed was curiosity over the brand new dress. "Mr. Br-Benedict," she greeted him, forgetting all about playing coy for a moment; he had already decided to marry her for her honor, it wasn't as if she had to worry about seducing him anymore, only about not changing his mind. "Your mother took me to the modiste today, so that we may be able to take a walk in public soon. If that pleases you, of course," she added quickly to tamper her own excitement. At least about the walk, the enthusiasm about Violet Bridgerton taking her to the modiste was palpable.

#cressida: I was about to be married to a man who doesn't accept MUSIC if benedict doesn't want to walk at the park it's cool #after lord greer the bar went so low #bcnedict #muse: cressida #show: bridgerton #cressida threads;#cressida answers

1 note · View note

petalsmooth · 7 months ago

Text

I do like Eloise or I wouldn't be infuriated at the character assassination by placing her with Cressida. I do not believe either book or show Eloise EVER would have gone that direction and this is where I get into huge doubts about the writers crafting original stories when they deviate too far off the narrative of the book. Most of their original ideas do NOT WORK.

Now Polin's story may not mirror the books exactly because getting together much younger, but the basic construct for THIS season at least (Danbury aside) is much closer to a faithful adaptation even if you have to make tweaks for how written previously.

Which is a reason I fear for Benedict's book because his book story is NOT adaptable imo without sweeping change and the writers of the show have not impressed me with their original content that is not at least inspired by the book. Even if I don't like Debling, even that you could say was ripped form the book because there is self introspection by Colin about another world in which Penelope had moved on and found someone else.

At any rate, spending an entire season having Penelope grovel at the feet of Eloise who presumes nothing but malicious intent by her doesn't play with me. Colin is going to be mad like 10 minutes, or passage of a day on the show. He'll talk with Anthony and Kate and work past it. That is what you do when you love someone and know deep down know the person who hurt you wasn't trying to do so.

There is an imbalance in the Eloise and Penelope relationship and until or IF they address that I don't want them friends again no matter how much I love Claudia's chemistry with Luke and Nik. Because whether the show realizes it or not, having Eloise completely unaware of Pen's feelings when Cressida points a big flashing red arrow right on them as Colin crashes Debling's dance...does not scream "best friend" or "soul mate". It screams girl who is entirely caught up in her world to the point she never listened or paid attention to anyone else...including her brother.

By all means, I will be the first to say Pen is wrong not to tell Colin but I at least understand her fear of losing him. But there is the issue. I generally can understand how Pen gets into these situations and she often will admit wrong or feel torn. Eloise just barrels ahead taking no accountability, making erroneous assumptions of people and listening to no one. This needs to change

0 notes

cress-meadowforge · 1 year ago

Text

She turned, desperately willing him to be gone. To have given up, for both of their sakes. But there he stood, wedging her between him and the counter, and they were about the same height, which left her no choice but to meet his angered gaze.

"I don't owe you anything," she snapped, hating the feeling of being trapped, of not having a clear path to the exit. It wasn't Slate's fault. It wasn't. But she couldn't say this to Pharmakos, to the men from last night, to anyone who really deserved it. Furious as she was, she had no outlet to channel her anger. No healthy place to let it out. So Slate, with his smart mouth and his charm, caught the brunt.

"I don't owe you conversation. I don't owe you my time. I don't owe you attention, or access--" the word enunciated as she pushed him aside, forcing him to back off. It all felt displaced, or misplaced. Wrong in the way it wasn't his to hold. It wasn't the most egregious affront, or the most devastating blow. Just the last one. The straw that broke the camel's back. The last Cressida she could bear to hear. "I owe you nothing, so you'll get nothing, and you'll be content with that."

Slate hadn't expected that response, which was to say, no response. That was odd, since typically he expected any level of poor treatment from people, and usually received exactly what he'd expected. But this time, it caught him off-guard, and he felt his guard immediately slide back into place, judgments coming in quickly to mask his hurt. Despite the gifts, the kindness, the books, Cressida was just another one of them.

And Slate -- Slate would never be one of them. Ever.

He must have forgotten his place; or mistaken hers.

He bristled. The barista told Cressida the total, the money was exchanged, but Slate positioned himself so that she couldn't turn and walk away without running into him. He crossed his arms over his chest. "The fuck? You're gonna ignore me?"

#slate #flashback: slate #124

9 notes · View notes

bridgertonbabe · 2 years ago

Note

Bestieee, we need more 👏🏻

Following the events of Michael's birthday on the Greek island, Benedict had been mopier than ever before, wallowing in his own guilt and self-hate for hurting the one person he loved more than anyone.

Another couple of years passed and Benedict focused on his art. If anything the heartache was doing wonders for his rate of production; anytime his mind drifted to Sophie he would pick up a paintbrush and start work on a new canvas, desperate to occupy himself. He avoided any invites he got from Colin or his interrailing gang, coming up with excuses and fabricated plans for why he wasn't able to join them in whatever place in the world they currently were. Benedict tried to give dating a go after hearing from Kate that Sophie was dating to her globetrotting content, but every time he sat down for another first date all he thought was that they just weren't Sophie.

To a certain extent he felt having Sophie out of sight and out of the country was better than having her in close proximity and seeing her regularly; there seemed to be less torture in that. But then one day, despite Sophie being firmly out of reach, Benedict heard something that made him feel violently sick. He had met up for drinks with Henry and Wetherby and as they caught up on the latest news, Henry asked him if he had any intel on the drama his younger brother and his friends were going through.

"What drama's this?" Benedict puzzled, seeing as this was the first he was hearing about it.

"We heard from Alice who heard from Cressida who heard from Fife who heard from George that apparently; Phillip's really ill with some muggle disease whilst Colin and Michael have had a falling out because they got in a love triangle with Sophie,"

"And she's ended up pregnant with twins!" Wetherby finished.

Benedict blanched, just about told them he didn't know any more than them, and then made his excuses and left. He ran home, reaching the fields surrounding his country home and collapsing against a tree after throwing up in a nearby bush.

Sophie was pregnant - with twins?! - and apparently Michael fucking Stirling or his own brother Colin might be the father. Benedict's breathing was becoming increasingly ragged and his heart was pounding so hard against his chest that he thought it might end up bursting out (and with any luck provide him with the sweet release of death). How was he meant to carry on when Sophie was having someone else's baby and was being fought over by her two best friends?

His father found him and talked him through the panic attack he was suffering from and produced a small vial of liquid from his jacket pocket, advising his son to inhale the scent. When Benedict followed his guidance, he was instantly put at ease, taking a few deep inhales before handing the vial back to his father.

Once he was calm Edmund asked what had got him in such a state and Benedict apprehensively told his father about the drama he had just learned of from his friends about Colin and his friendship group. He was surprised when Edmund told him he was aware of the drama in question but that several crucial facts had been mixed up.

For starters, Michael was the one who was ill with something called malaria (Benedict felt bad that he had barely taken in the news that one of his brother's friends was sick once he learnt of Sophie's supposed pregnancy), which Edmund had been researching to learn more about. There had been in-fighting within the group but between Colin and Phillip. Colin had fallen for a girl they had met on their travels, Marina, but things had gone pear-shaped when she revealed she was pregnant - but with Phillip's babies after they had drunkenly slept together behind Colin's back.

"Wait; so Sophie's not pregnant?" Benedict swallowed, his eyes bright and hope-filled that what Henry and Wetherby had told him had been totally wrong.

"No, Ben." his father responded and Benedict sagged with relief. "By all accounts she's the one playing peacemaker between your brother and Phillip, not to mention ensuring that Michael's getting the treatment he needs."

Benedict nodded in acknowledgement as he processed the fact that not only was Sophie not pregnant but she was not romantically involved with his brother. He might be back at square one with his deep-seated feelings for her torturing him to no end, but it was far more preferable than the godawful alternative that he had thought was real for the last horrific hour.

"By the way; what did you smell?" Edmund asked and tapped a finger against the vial in his hand before returning it to his pocket.

"The smell of grass after it's rained... chocolate... and -" Benedict stopped short before he said the smell of Sophie's hair, and he darted his gaze to his father. "Dad, what was in that?"

"Amortentia." Edmund replied.

"You carry that stuff around?" Benedict frowned, wondering why his father had a vial of love potion on him.

"It's my little remedy for when I'm feeling stressed at work. I take one whiff of it and smell freshly baked bread, bergamot, and baby powder, and it provides me with comfort when I need it most."

A smile played on Benedict's lips as he associated the smells his father had just listed with his mother, and it touched him dearly just how much his father loved his wife, wishing for a grandiose love like that for himself - or at least, having that love reciprocated.

Benedict groaned and buried his head in his hands as he cottoned on to the fact that what he had inhaled from the love potion and what provided him with immediate comfort was Sophie.

"What is it?" Edmund asked him.

Benedict withdrew his hands from his face and solemnly looked out at the countryside before them.

"I love her, dad."

He didn't say Sophie's name and yet his dad responded with a consoling pat on the back. "I know, son. I know. Have you told her?"

"I've ruined my chance with her. Twice now. I hurt her badly - not that I meant to, but I still did. She deserves so much better than me."

"But have you told her? Does she know how you actually feel?"

"I don't think there would be any point. She hates me."

"I don't think she's capable of hate. Ben, you've got to tell her. You've got to at least try."

"She's happier without me."

"You think she's happier without you."

"She should be."

"But what if she's as unhappy as you are?"

It had never occurred to Benedict that Sophie might still feel for him something other than hate. He figured she had moved on, had realised she could do so much better than him, and could never look back - but what if his dad was right? What if there was a chance that at the very least she still held a candle for him? What if he still crossed her mind? What if there was still a place for him in her heart?

"They're coming home at the end of the month." Edmund mentioned. "Just in time for Simon and Daphne's wedding. No better place for romance then during a celebration for love."

Benedict nodded and as they watched the sunset together, he decided he was going to talk to Sophie one way or another at the wedding. He would apologise for everything he had said and for hurting her - and he would tell her how his heart was all hers, whether or not she chose to accept it. His dad was right; he had to at least try if only to not live with the regret of never telling her what she meant to him.

#asks #bridgerton drabble #benophie #harry potter au #benedict bridgerton #edmund bridgerton

25 notes · View notes

ijustwant2write · 4 years ago

Text

Fight or Flight-Anthony Bridgerton x Reader

(GIF credit to @ladycolinbridgerton)

Requested by anonymous: ‘Hiii,Love your writings! Could you do something Bridgerton, Anthony x reader where the reader tries to stop the duel and gets hurt? Angst/fluff?!’

Characters: Anthony Bridgerton x Reader, Daphne Bridgerton x Reader (sister-in-law), Collin Bridgerton x Reader (brother-in-law)

Meanings: (Y/N)=Your name

Warnings: Duel (guns, mention of death), injuries, angst, fluff

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Collin and I laughed as we both carried Violet through the foyer of the home, clearly someone had too much to drink. My mother-in-law continued to deny this through her giggling.

“Of course not, you are completely sober.” Collin joked as we made it to the stairs.

“And I’m sober enough to know when you’re being impertinent.” Violet said to her son, still holding my hand.“Good night dears.”

“Good night mother.”

“Good night.”

Collin and I shared a look as she went upstairs, failing to hold in our laughter. We both doubled over as we laughed, until we heard someone call us. Turning to our left, we saw Anthony and Benedict in the doorway.

“Come here.” Anthony hissed.

“Good God. Did someone die?” Collin whined.

“What? What’s happened?” I asked, suddenly panicking.

“Collin, get here, now.” Anthony instructed, his younger brother complying.

I followed.“Anthony, what’s wrong? Is someone hurt? Are you in trouble?” I didn’t mean for all the questions but I loved him too much for something to happen to him.

He shoved Collin inside, stepping out and shutting the door behind him.“It doesn’t concern you darling. Just go up to bed.”

“Wait,” I grabbed onto his arm before he could get away,“Anthony, please don’t shut me out.”

“This isn’t for women’s ears. Please, do as I say.”

Anthony kissed my forehead tenderly, before he quickly ripped his arm away, looking sympathetic as he did so. The door shut, and although I was tempted to burst in there, I knew this was something out of my league. Sighing, I reluctantly walked away, slipping off my heels before slowly making my way upstairs.

As I prepared for bed, my mind was distant. I couldn’t stop wondering what their meeting was about. Anthony looked stressed (even more than usual), and the fact that the eldest brothers were together meant this business was serious. Once my maids were finished and gone, I sat up in bed, having left some candles lit. At first I thought reading might take my mind off things, but the romantic novel only made me think of my husband more. I was tired from the ball, feet throbbing from dancing, which made me believe I could fall asleep. I wasn’t able to fool myself, unfortunately stuck awake again. Groaning in frustration, I stood, making my way to the door. I hesitated, wondering if I should really go storming downstairs when Anthony told me otherwise. No, I had to check on my love.

Opening the door, I heard someone else do the same. Poking my head out, I looked down the hall, seeing Daphne also awake. She rushed towards me, grabbing my hand without a word and dragging me out of my room.

“Woah, Daphne, woah, slow down!” I exclaimed quietly, stopping her at the top of the stairs.“Why are you rushing downstairs? What’s wrong?”

“My brother is doing something terribly stupid, and I cannot stand by doing nothing.” She said, tugging on my arm as she continued her route.

That made my heart beat even greater, terrified for what my husband could be a part of. I kept up with her, still tightly holding her hand until we burst into the room the men had their meeting in. Collin was the only one in there, looking alarmed when he saw us.

“Where have they gone?” Daphne demanded to know.

Collin sighed.“Daph-”

“Tell me where this duel takes place.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Duel?! Anthony has gone to a duel?! With who?!” I exclaimed.

“So that I may prevent it from happening.” Daphne continued.

“Hastings has done you a grave dishonour.”

“Can someone please explain what is happening?” I stood beside them, though neither took any notice.“What does the Duke of Hastings have to do with any of this?”

“Surely you wish to see him pay?”

“Not with his life.” Daphne snapped back.

“Anthony is dueling with Hastings?! What if they kill each other?”

“It will not come to that.” Collin finally addressed me.“The Duke will remember his honour once he finds himself on the deadly end of a pistol.”

“And if he does not?” Daphne said.

“They will both do the gentlemanly thing and fire their pistols wide. Now allow them to bring this ugly business to a conclusion themselves.”

Daphne groaned as I began pacing around the room.“Do you know how many times I’ve heard that said? Myself and (Y/N)? That we should leave the men to their business and to not concern ourselves with such weighty affairs? Whose affairs, right now, are my future, my family.”

“This isn’t going to end well, you know it Collin.” I stopped walking around, crossing my arms over my chest in frustration.

“(Y/N) is right. Anthony is too angry to fire wide and Simon is too stubborn to yield. You did not see them in that garden.”

“No, I did not, and neither did anyone else. You should be happy that no one saw anything.” Collin pointed out.

So something dishonourable happened in the gardens of the party. Something that has cause my husband to want to duel an old friend. Part of me felt slightly angered towards Daphne, she had been playing with fire around the Duke, it’s all Anthony went on about for the last few weeks.

“Only someone did see.” Daphne realised.

Collin and I stared at her wide eyed.

“Cressida Cowper. Collin, you must tell me where they’ve gone.”

“I’m coming with you.” I declared.

“Neither of you are going, Anthony will have my head-”

“Collin.” I stood in front of him, putting on the angriest face I could.“My husband may be about to lose his life and I knew nothing about it. Believe me, he will be reprimanded for that, but if you do not tell us where these stupid men are right now, it will be me having your head, not Anthony!”

After pressuring Collin to reveal where the men were, we raced to the stables, both Daphne and I still in our nightgowns, with only a cloak to cover us from the wind whipping against us as we rode. Our poor horses were not expecting this early call, using what energy they had to gallop as fast as possible. My throat was dry, heart racing and mind drowning with thoughts about what could be happening right now. Had they even started? Were the shots fired?

We rode out of the country and into large fields. It seemed that we would never reach them in time. I kept my eye out for any signs of people or horses, praying that my husband wouldn’t be bleeding out on the ground. Why hadn’t he told me? He hadn’t even said goodbye. All I got was a simple kiss on the forehead, nothing other than that. Even if he did survive, he would have to leave this place, but was he going to leave without me?

“There they are!” Daphne shouted to us, speeding her horse ahead.

“Daphne! Wait!” I yelled after her, but she was too far away.

There were multiple bodies up ahead, and it looked like the duel had only just started, they were taking their steps already. I urged my horse to go faster, screaming Anthony’s name, but he couldn’t hear me. The men turned, ready to aim and fire. Tears started falling down my cheeks, quickly drying from the wind hitting my face. I was getting so close, but it still wasn’t enough. Daphne had somehow made it to them, but as the gunshots echoed out, she was caught in the middle of it, her horse rearing up and throwing her off.

As she landed on the ground, my horse also got spooked, rearing up as hers did, though I managed to stay on. However, it went hurtling forwards, and I couldn’t regain any control. I screamed as I tried to grab the rein again, feeling my balance slip away. One minute I was managing to stay upright on the horse, the next I had fallen off to my left, with my foot still hooked onto the stirrup. My head hit the ground harshly, and I was dragged through the dirt and grass as my horse continued to gallop. I couldn’t make out where I was, or what was right or left. Suddenly, the horse started slowing down, the dragging finally stopping. As I figured out where I was, my head still spinning, I felt someone lift my leg out of the stirrup and slowly onto the floor.

“(Y/N), (Y/N) can you hear me?” Anthony gently held my face in his hands, kneeling beside me.

“My head...” I moaned.

“It’s alright, my dear.” an older man appeared, and I only just realised he was also kneeling beside me.“You’ve hit your head quite hard, you’ll likely have bruises along your back, and your leg will ache. But it’s nothing rest won’t fix. If you have severe headaches, you should call upon me again to give you something for it. For now, I shall forget I ever saw any of this, just as we agreed.”

“Thank you doctor.” Anthony breathed out, helping me sit up as the doctor walked away.

I clung onto his arm, using my other hand to pull his face closer to mine. I kissed him hard, relieved that he was still alive and unharmed. He seemed to be feeling the same way as me, until I pulled away and slapped him round the face. His mouth was open in shock.

“That’s for going to a duel without telling me.”

“(Y/N), I...what?”

“I can’t believe you thought you could just go and get shot, or shoot someone and leave me behind! What would happen to me? I couldn’t bear it if you died, or left, either way, I am furious with you!”

“Darling, I had to do it. He dishonoured Daphne, therefore, dishonouring our name.”

I tried to stand by myself, though felt dizzy, annoyed that I had to have Anthony to help me. He kept his arms around me, and although I loved the feeling, knowing he was safe, I had a hatred for him in that moment.

“But why wouldn’t you tell me?” I looked up at him, ignoring the throbbing in my head.

“We would have to leave society, make a life as...I don’t know what but we wouldn’t be allowed here anymore.”

“So? Do you really think I regard myself so highly that I would diminish my love for you to remain in society?”

“What?”

“Anthony, I would rather leave all of this behind, and be with you wherever you go in the world. That fact that you think I would prefer to live without you hurts me.”

“(Y/N), I didn’t mean-”

I slipped out of his hold, hopefully stable now.“I don’t want to speak of this right now. I’m finished with this topic of conversation.”

Anthony knew there was no point trying to reason with me in that moment. It was also no time to argue when there were more pressing matters at hand. He huffed, only walking away from me once Collin approached, letting me loop my arm through his for support. I watched as he glared at Simon, who was in a deep discussion with Daphne.

“We must resume before someone should find us.” he said to Simon before taking a pistol from Benedict again.

“There will be no need to resume.” Daphne spoke up. We all looked at her, wondering how she was going to stop the duel.“The Duke and I are to be married.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

We had all ensured we were home before any of the staff could see us, slipping out of our dirty clothes and stuffing them under the bed. I had struggled, feeling nauseous as I rushed. But as I lay down in bed, my headache suddenly returning and my back aching, I heard the door lock. Anthony threw the key onto his desk in the room, hands on his hips as he paced.

“Anthony.” I tried to stop him.“Anthony, please don’t do that.”

“I’m thinking (Y/N).” he mumbled.

“Then why don’t you think in your office? You’re making me dizzy. And nervous.”

“Do not speak to me like that. You do realise how this might tarnish our name?”

“They’re getting married, it will be fine Anthony.”

“It does not matter, he still dishonoured her, I saw it myself.”

“And you have not done that yourself in the past?”

That made him stop in his tracks. His head turned to me so quickly I though his neck would snap off.“They were not eligible ladies.”

“And that makes a difference? Anthony, I need to rest, please leave me.” I turned onto my side, pulling the covers higher so they almost covered my face.

He groaned, and I instantly regretted what I had said. His footsteps were loud as he made his way to the door, but I never heard it being unlocked. He sounded like he was now approaching the bed, and I found out I was right when the bed dipped in front of me me. I opened my eyes to see Anthony shuffling around, and I heard two light thumps on the floor from taking off his boots, before he lifted and covers; he shuffled in towards me, gently putting his arm under my pillow, moving as close as he could to me.

“You are right.” his voice was quieter now.“I, along with many men, have...done things in the past. Those women are, were meant for those things, but as soon as I saw you in the room, I knew I had to approach you. I remember that beautiful blue dress you were wearing, and how well you held yourself. But you were still so enticing, I found you to be so interesting, yet you only spoke with me for five minutes. You danced so elegantly, yet I still thought I could keep up with you.”

“If you are trying to make me swoon so I forget all about earlier, it isn’t working. You use the same story every time.” I said.

“Because it’s one of the best ones. I could retale about the time I saw you first promenading, the balls and social events we coincidentally went to, how I called upon your house-”

“Anthony, you may stop.” I tried not to giggle, but my smile was evident.“I am still angry at you for putting yourself in such an idiotic and dangerous situation. However, I deeply admire your love for your family, I know you would do anything for them. Just...if you ever do anything like that again, you are to inform me of your plans. I go wherever you go.”

“I promise. I was stupid to think I could do that to you. I just wanted to make sure you would still have a good life.”

“The only way I would have a good life is by being with you.”

Anthony smiled, tenderly kissing me.“You should rest darling. You’re hurt.”

“As long as you stay here with me.”

“I promise.”

#anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton imagines #anthony bridgerton one shot #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton fan fiction #anthony bridgerton fanfic #anthony bridgerton fan fic #bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton imagines #bridgerton one shot #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton fan fiction #bridgerton fanfic #bridgerton fan fic

2K notes · View notes