The marriage law passes. Heir Lestrange is paired with Heiress Potter. It is compulsory to live in the Lestrange ancestral home for a year. Dartmoor Castle. Suffocation presses in on two young potioneers.
Pairs of footwear lie on the floor. They are neat. They are identical. They are boots. Harry puts hers next to them. Now they are stark: hers are hot pink, gold lace.
The dark stone is not a conductor of heat. The cold is cutting. His warming spells are not enough. Hers are. He scowls, he thanks. He still is not smiling.
Bellatrix is unfathomable. She sends a hex Harry's way on their first meet. She deflects. She hits back. Non-lethal curses, taken from an Auror's handbook. It is a daily occurrence.
It takes three days for him to crack. A duel. Caelum and Rodolphus, for the Lestrange lordship. Caelum wins. He sends Bellatrix and Rodolphus out. She does not look for a hex at every corner.
Caelum, she says, listen— he averts eyes. Later, he promises. It is always later.
There is a rift in their world. If there was no law, they might have been led to this point by themselves. But there is a law. Now it is forced.
The mirror in her room stares at her more than she does herself. It whispers about the honorable Lestranges. It talks about their purity. It chafes at her blood. She wants to throw it out. Lestrange burns it.
It is different afterward. He does not smile, but he does not scowl either. They are fine. The weight begins to ease.
You don't deserve this, he tells her. It is sudden, it is unexpected. The self-deprecation in it is unexpected. You don't either, she tells him.
They brew. It is the one steady thing in their awkward life: Potions. Their dream. Their reality. Perhaps that is why she likes him. The foreign thought disappears as soon as it surfaces.
They make a new breakthrough in the field. Their happiness bursts out from a dormant volcano. They hug once. They stare. He does it again. She swallows.
He scares her once. She is walking through the corridors and he jumps out of a corner. Brew, you! he screeches, the second smile she's seen on him soothening the octave. He has replaced Bohoo! with Brew, you!.
He halts mid pose. She is wearing gryffindor red. He wrinkles his nose and turns about. She sighs. She freezes. Why does she look good in everything? She hears him murmur.
He is dressed in fancy garments for dinner. She chokes. The dinner is muffled laughter, lavish food, and lavish clothes.
He brews to exhaustion often. She asks him why, when he cannot stand properly after it. He says it makes his core stronger. She should try it too, he advises sagely. She smiles at the thought. Her magic is strong enough, she says. She does not need more. He says nothing. As she covers him with a blanket, he grabs her hand. His eyes are glazed with tiredness. She admonishes him. Why worry? I've got you to take care of me, he says, ...brat.
It is fond enough that she chalks it up to his deplorable state. It is a mindless mutter. It was not mindless to her. But like everything else, that does not matter.
She goes out without telling him once. Spends supper with her family, spars with Leo, visits the guild... the outside world brings her back to herself.
She returns to find him panicking.
Where were you?
I went outside, she says.
...let me know next time, won't you? I won't worry needlessly.
Why did you worry? She says.
I thought one of mother's blood warded artifacts had gotten you, he says. He does not say, I thought you were hurt.
She tells him the next time. He starts to do the same. And once, they go together. It becomes a trend. A date, she teases him. He flushes, but does not say anything back. That unsettles her more than a retort.
Is what they have potions and games and awkward posturing, or is it denial? Is what she has for him denial? Yes, she realises, and it is best that way.
What would you like? She asks. His birthday is approaching. He thinks. Look over some potion drafts I have, he says. I would do that anyway, she smiles. She gets him potion vials with a drawing of them on it, arms folded and huffing in the other direction. He says thank you, a little overwhelmed. She catches him duplicating it on all their bottles. James had given her a similar gift once. She remembers her reaction as the same.
He sleeps in a different room. A distance they cannot breach. She wonders, then. Feels guilty and calls him. He declines. Maybe he feels the same. There were some lines you did not cross.
There is a hand on her shoulder. She turns. His face is almost pressed against hers.
Sorry, he says, I know you're trying. I know I'm making it difficult. But, I don't want it to be fake. I don't want our relationship to be fake. Because it is real, whatever we have now. It is potions and it is friends and I don’t want to ruin that. Youdon't want to ruin that. If we have no choice... you are stuck with the worst person possible, halfblood. I won't help you fly, no matter how much I try to. I'll only make you fall. Like I have fallen.
For me? She teases. She cannot take his bitter smile. His bitter words. They are aimed at himself, and she cannot take that. But she understands.
She places her hand on top of his. You will never drag me down, she admits, when I'm with you, even the sky is not the limit. You understand what is important to me. That's all I ever need.
They silently absorb this. Caelum moves to her left, and seats himself on the other side of the bed.
Good night, halfblood.
Now the Castle walls are not so lonely. Two potioneers walk through them, hands held with grins and boots that are identical. Caelum makes hot pink a fashion statement.