Light in the Darkness

Chapter Seventeen

The first week of working at the Ministry had gone decently well. He was respected and trusted on the sheer basis of his last name, and so long as he did his work on time, he would have no problems.

He was surprised, however, to discover that it wasn't the Augury who brought attention to the Greengrass scenario, but Mr. and Mrs. Nott. They were appalled and shocked that the Greengrasses were aiming to put their bloodline in jeopardy. New hatred blossomed inside him. How they acted as though the Greengrasses were the devil's spawn. The Notts were pompous and arrogant and self-righteous --

And he was starting to sound like Astoria. He smiled at the thought.

Astoria. He was so ridiculously worried about her, even he was telling himself how over the top he was being.

But he couldn't help it. He had no idea how she was, how it all had affected her, what her family was going through --

And. It. Was. His. Fault.

He was so exorbitantly worried about her that there was a constant tapping of his fingers and gnawing at his insides. Anywhere he was was not where he wanted to be, for it was where she was not.

It was the not knowing that was killing him.

But, at the end of the week, there would be a party at the Bulstrodes.

He was completely unaware (surprise, surprise) as to whether or not she or her family would be in attendance -- part of him hoped they wouldn't be, so she wouldn't have to endure the stares and whispers and judgement that would, without a shadow of a doubt, be waiting for her. But then, how he wished and hoped for her to come -- to know the situation, to maybe finally quell the ever present apprehension buzzing about him.

And so, the party came and --

She wasn't there.

His level of disappointment was jarring. Even after he'd told himself it was probably better for her this way, he was still completely disheartened.

And so he went to work for another week, tapping his fingers, tapping his heels. Waiting.

The next party would be at the Flint's, and he told himself time and time again that she wouldn't be there. There was no way she would be there. And though he tried to squash any and all expectations, there was still a peeking hope buried deep down.

So he stood in the Flint's ballroom when the next Sunday evening arrived, off and away from the rest of the party, receiving countless death glares from Pansy, and looking dispiritedly down at a firewhiskey that was only serving to give him a headache.

His eyes absently fixed on his drink, the room quieted, the chatter replaced with harsh whisperings. He looked up --

She was there.

She was there and he felt like a fool for the outrageous amount of elation that washed over him. She was there, and she looked so beautiful that he had to suppress the flush that threatened his cheeks.

She was there and she looked utterly miserable.

Gripping her sister's hand, she and her family sat down silently at a table far off in the corner, the room easing back into a semblance of normality even though all eyes were still darting to them.

He willed his legs to move, but they were lead and unyielding. His ecstasy was completely deflated when he remembered all of the doubts and worries and the cruelly simple fact that this was his fault. When he remembered Astoria's disgust when she had discussed Lawrence Avery -- his arrogance, his blood purist views, the pride he felt in his last name, and wondered if he too was just as bad as Avery. Too similar to ever win the favor of Astoria. He'd realized, prompted by Astoria's proclamation that night, that he didn't want to be any of those things.