Know Your Enemy
1919
1 During the three years since her class graduated from Hogwarts, Celestia studied international wizarding law at the Franconian Institute For Higher Learning. The prestigious university was located in the largest all-wizarding town in the German Kingdoms, Albenheim – in the middle of the lovely Black Forest. The plan was simple, straightforward, and gave her complete peace of mind: she’d get her degree, go back home and get a job, marry Alastair and move in with him. Yes, it was utterly predictable, her life, but it was exactly what she wanted.
Unlike Nocturna, Celestia didn’t really have a taste for adventure. She loved venerable halls and old books and quiet dinners, not traipsing around East European and Russian woods, getting singed by rabid dragons.
Alastair himself wasn’t much of an adventurer, either. No, his parents owned a number of magical retreats all over Britain and the European continent. He intended to get into the accounting business. It wasn’t glamorous or exciting, but it was good, steady, satisfying work.
They both loved their quiet years at the Franconian university and were both loath to leave, even though they were looking forward to the rest of their lives together.
All of that changed when, upon receiving their diplomas, they returned home to England.
The last day in Albenheim was bittersweet. Not one for extended and tearful goodbyes, Celestia convinced Alastair to pack his things early and head to the station for the early train. From there, they’d travel first to Paris and then take the transcontinental to London. It was a lovely, two-day journey she looked forward to.
It was a chilly early spring morning. The sky was overcast and it was drizzling, but nonetheless, the view from the station platform was breath-taking: in all directions, the dark-green forest spread like a blanket. From the tops of the conifers, white steam rose, as if dipping the trees in wispy clouds. There was silence surrounding the little station. Straight ahead, the university stronghold rose high above the treeline: millennia-old, impenetrable, venerable, eternal. It was peaceful.
Celestia couldn’t help but sigh wistfully.
Alastair took her hand. His skin was cold; unlike her, he wasn’t wearing gloves. “You can always take comfort in the knowledge that as people, we haven't made any progress in the past three-and-a-half years.”
She snorted laughter, shook her head, and hugged him, leaning her head against his bony shoulder. “You’re so silly.”
“Who was it again that said that some people might grow old, but never grow up?” He put an arm around her waist and placed his other hand on her neck.
Through her scarf, she could feel the coldness of his skin and shivered. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, though.
For a moment, they stayed like that, holding each other, eyes closed.
Finally, as they heard their train approaching, she unclasped his grip, took his hands into hers, and ran her gloved thumbs across his prominent bare knuckles. “I’ve always loved your hands…and if you make some silly, innuendo-laden joke now, I’m afraid I’ll have to hurt you.”
“Not in front of the kids, dear,” he said, and snickered. Then, more serious, he added, “Honestly, I wish they were stronger.”
“They’re beautiful like the rest of you.” She raised her face and placed a kiss on his lips. “It was good to spend all this time here with you, away from the family drama.”
“And that’s a lot of drama,” he said, mockingly distraught. “You are, after all, dear Miss Prewett, half a Black. Your Hufflepuff dad doesn’t really compensate for all the crazy.”
“Idiot,” she said, feeling a smile spread across her face. Despite the humidity and the chill, she was warm.
“I’m an idiot, yes, but I’m your idiot.” He smiled, too. It was a warm, honest expression that lit up his whole face and made him seem, to her, like the most lovely sight on Earth. “Now, how about I pretend I’m actually stronger than you and drag your luggage over to the friendly Franconian employee?”
“I think the friendly Franconian employee is heading our way, anyway,” she said, and kissed him again. “Come, now. Time to go home.”
“This is going to sound corny enough to give you diabetes, my love, but anywhere is home as long as I can go there with you.”
The train came to a halt, the right compartment ahead of them.
She felt like she’d never be able to stop smiling again. “Do I even have to say it?”
He pretended to mull it over, then replied, “No, but you do know I’m a man of romance, so…”
“All right, then.” She stood on the tip of her toes and whispered, straight in his ear, “I love you, Alastair Fawley.”
“Hm,” he made, placed his hands on her waist, and kissed the spot behind her ear. “I love you more.”
They left their luggage for the employee to handle and boarded the train.
2 After an overnight stay at a nice guesthouse in Paris, they took the train that would bring them home to England in the morning. It was a quiet, uneventful journey – perfect, in other words. Quiet, peaceful and uneventful were attributes that both Celestia and Alastair valued. That was only one of the reasons why they were, in both their opinion, such a perfect match. In the end, however, one could have a million reasons why two people matched up well, or none could find no reason at all. Either they wanted to be together or they didn’t. There wasn’t really a logical explanation for love. It was either there or not.
Alastair’s family home was in Kent, Celestia’s in East Sussex. Therefore, they said their temporary goodbyes at King’s Cross station. The plan was to go home first, get sorted, find a place to live in London, and then get married before moving in together. That might take a few months, but probably wouldn’t consume more than half a year.
Speaking strictly for herself, Celestia couldn’t wait.
As they exited the train and waited for their bags, they faced each other, holding hands. There was quite the hubbub all around them. It wasn’t as if they didn’t notice, or if the world fell away. It just didn’t matter all that much.
He cracked a smile and ran his thumbs across her knuckles. “It won’t take long now, dearest Miss Prewett, until you’re not Miss Prewett anymore.”
“No, not long,” she said, returning his expression easily. It was impossible not to. Her face felt warm, her body light. She gave his hands a gentle squeeze. “But before that’s all settled, I look forward to seeing you next month.”
“It’s going to be weird, isn't it? Being apart for weeks at a time.”
“A little. It won’t be too long, though; you’ll see. Besides, it’ll be worth the wait.”
“I know.” After leaning in and placing a soft kiss on her lips, he chinned in the direction of the wall exit. “There’s your ride.”
She cast a look over her shoulder and saw her father approaching. Raising her eyebrows, she said, “Father’s picking me up personally? That’s unusual,” let go of Alastair’s hands, and turned to face Professor Prewett.
Father approached them smiling. It looked a bit strained, and he seemed unusually pale. “Tia! Alastair! Welcome home.” There was something stilted about the way he said this, as if he were forcing himself to act cheery against his better instincts.
Celestia exchanged a wary look with Alastair, who’d clearly picked up on the other man’s oddness, and then briefly hugged the latter. “Thank you. Are you all right?” She broke off the embrace and scrutinised him, a frown creasing her forehead. “You look ill.”
“Ill, me? No, no – I’m fine. Just a little tired; that’s all. Come on, now, dear. Your mother’s waiting.”
All right, now she definitely knew that something was off. Her whole body tensed up. “Did something happen while-”
“Nothing happened. Everything is fine.” Could he sound any more artificial if he tried?
It seemed unlikely to Celestia. Without even thinking about it, she took Alastair’s left hand in her right one. The touch reassured her at least a little. Something was up, though. Something was undeniably up, no matter what Father tried to tell her. But why would he lie? This did not bode well in the slightest, especially because it was clearly something that could neither be told via correspondence, nor in Alastair’s presence – a family matter, then. Oh, dear.
A uniformed man pushing a trolley with Celestia’s luggage approached them.
Father said, “Follow us, please,” nodded toward Alastair, and started marching off.
Feeling a little dizzy, her stomach already in knots, she gave Alastair a last brief kiss and hurried after Father.
All the way to their enchanted car, neither of them spoke a word.
The luggage was stowed in the boot, the Prewetts settled on the leather-covered backseat, and the driver started steering the vehicle through the London traffic, between the Muggle cars and unsuspected by them.
Finally, Celestia could take it no longer. “Father, just tell me what’s going on, please. Your attempts at deflection are transparent and not fooling me in the slightest.” This sounded stilted, too, but it was hard for her to find the right words when she was preoccupied.
Father opened his mouth to – no doubt – spout another lie, but then reconsidered. His shoulders slumped a little. He scratched his high forehead and blew out a heavy breath. “Tia, what you’ve got to understand is that all your mother and I want is for you to be happy. However, family comes before personal contentment. In our circles, family duty is everything. You need to understand this.” At no point during his little speech did he look at her.
Her heart picked up the pace. She felt cold; her skin erupted in gooseflesh. Her mouth went dry. Sweat started to bead on her forehead. She placed her left hand on his right arm. “You’re frightening me. Just tell me what’s happening – please.”
This time, he briefly glanced at her, looking more than unhappy. No, he actually looked desolate. “We need to be home for this, sweetheart; I’m sorry.”
She leaned back, closed her eyes, and tried to calm her heartbeat through her breathing. It didn’t work at all. Something horrible was about to happen. There was no breathing one’s way through it. That much was clear to her.
3 The Prewetts lived in a small village called Ninfield. It was only a few miles away from Bexhill-on-Sea, from whose beach promenade one could glimpse the French coast on clear and sunny days. The house Morgan Prewett had renovated in order to make it suitable for his bride wasn’t too big, but it was beautiful and scenically set: three stories high and two centuries old, it stood alone on a vast and wild meadow, efficiently concealed from Muggle eyes and inaccessible to any magical folk who were not welcome.
The ground floor was where the largest chamber, the drawing room, was set. In there, not only Mother waited, but also Janus and Pandora Malfoy and their youngest son, Apollo.
By the time Celestia walked into that room, she’d started feeling like a lamb being led to the slaughter. Her hands were shaking and her head was swimming; she was strangely beside herself. Was this even real? Was any of it happening? No, she must still be in Albenheim, safe in her bed, having a bizarre nightmare.
The presence of the Malfoys could only mean one thing.
She stepped inside, the heels of her shoes clacking on the linoleum floor, her innards in knots. There were bright stars dancing all about her field of vision. She stopped at about six feet from her smiling mother and the Malfoys. All were looking at her expectantly.
“Celestia, don’t be shy,” Mother said, crossed the distance to where her own youngest was standing, took her by the elbow, and gently guided her toward her illustrious guests. “I trust you had a pleasant journey?”
“I had. Thank you,” Celestia said stiffly.
“And how is young Mister Fawley?” Seriously? She had the bloody nerve to ask after Alastair? Seriously?
Celestia stared at her as if she’d gone mad.
“You of course know our guests,” Mother went on without a hitch, motioning toward the Malfoys.
What a farce. This was nothing but a ridiculous farce. Why even bother keeping up pretence? Whom was this serving? It was all so utterly devoid of meaning, so utterly pointless.
Still, unable to actually voice any of this, Celestia said, “How do you do?” She couldn’t bring herself to smile, though. A strange little conversation resurfaced in her memory: she and Apollo, standing outside the Hogwarts castle, in the cold, talking about family duty or some such. She’d told him that he clearly knew something she didn’t.
He’d told her that one day, she’d know, too.
Now, she did.
“Celestia, can you imagine why we are here today?” Janus Malfoy said. He was what both his sons would one day become, if the almost uncanny resemblance was any indicator. It wasn’t exactly clear, but he came across as someone trying his hardest to be empathetic and kind. That couldn’t be easy.
Well, ten points to Slytherin for trying, right? Celestia crossed her arms, if only to hide her shaking hands, and barely refrained from snorting with disdain. Her head had started to pound dully. Alastair came to mind, reluctant to let her go yet so sure of their soon-to-follow reunion. What a joke. There was a knot in her throat. Her vision grew blurry. She sniffled. “Yes, Mister Malfoy, I get it.” She exchanged a look with Apollo, who did not seem phased in the slightest.
Why would he?
Clearly, he’d known for years. Clearly, he’d expected her less-than-thrilled reaction. Clearly, he’d lied to her because he thought it would be pointless to make her fret about their upcoming marriage before she graduated university. It would undoubtedly influence her academic achievements, which would then reflect badly on his parents’ choice of bride. Maybe she was being unfair, projecting like this. Maybe he was just better at hiding disappointment and heartache than she was. Maybe, maybe, maybe. It didn’t matter. The result was still the same.
She heard herself saying, “So what’s the payoff, my dear parents? Uncle Baldur’s early release from Azkaban? That embassy in Prussia?”
Father awkwardly shuffled his feet. Mother just returned her look flatly.
“It’s the latter, then. Well, that’s good to know. It’s good to know you’re getting decently compensated for selling me like cattle.”
“Tia, sweetheart, please don’t make a scene,” Father said – more like mumbled – as Mother shook her head in disapproval so obvious, it was almost comical.
“You people just love saying that to me, don’t you?” She sniffled and blinked. Tears spilled down her cheeks, clear mucus ran from her nose. She dug a handkerchief out of her coat pocket and angrily mopped at the mess, not caring about how undignified this was. “You knew – all of you – for years, and yet you let me think…let me live in the certainty that I would…that I…” It was too much. Her voice broke. Pressing her lips together, she spun around and ran out of that wretched room, that wretched house, into the well-tended garden. The fresh air helped cool her furnace-hot face. She found her favourite bench, underneath a wrought iron rose arch, dropped herself on it, buried her face in her hands, and burst into choked, painful sobs.
This was a nightmare.
After a moment, she felt more than heard someone settling down to her left. “I’m sorry I lied to you, kept this from you. It wasn’t my idea, but I agreed that it would be best if we waited until you came back from Franconia.”
Celestia drew a few deep, ragged breaths, sat up straight, blew her nose noisily, and then said, “I don’t care how sorry you are,” without gracing Apollo with a direct look. From the corner of her eye, however, she could see him run his black-gloved hands through his almost white hair.
“It can’t be changed. It’s a done deal. I grant you your grief – we all do – but you need to pull yourself together. Believe me: you’ll only make your life harder if you don’t.”
Yes, indeed. She knew. Of course she knew. This was so terrible. She couldn’t even blame Apollo, who didn’t exactly get a say in the matter, either. He wasn’t a bad person; he’d never mistreated her, and she was sure that they’d be able to develop a fine relationship over time – just like her parents.
The problem was, he wasn’t Alastair.
She felt fresh tears coming on. Her head was howling in pain now. She felt ill. Grabbing fistfuls of her skirt, she chewed on her lower lip. “What do I do? What do I do?”
“Your duty to your family,” he said, and gently took her left hand into his, “for the greater good.”
4 As they all knew she would, Celestia did calm down, did not rebel, did resign herself to her fate. It was for the good of the family, she was told. If she kept repeating that to herself often enough, she might even end up believing it. In time, she would. After all, her reaction had been selfish, hadn't it? Throwing a tantrum like that was hardly dignified. At least she’d had her wonderful years with Alastair, and those would forever be memories that she treasured.
There was also always the distinct possibility that she was merely rationalising the fact that she’d caved to her family’s demands like a right coward.
Was there a way not to, though? Nocturna, bless her rebellious little soul, had found one. She’d joined the ranks of wizarding superiority advocate Gellert Grindelwald, everyone else be damned. Truth be told, that was a little easier than refusing a carefully arranged marriage; after all, most Pureblood families supported Grindelwald’s ideas, one way or the other. Yes, Mother and Father had had other plans for Nocturna, but her rebellion wasn’t nearly as shocking as if Celestia were to just send them all to hell.
Once she’d come to terms with the thorough shattering of her beautiful plans, there was really only one thing to do: meet up with Alastair and tell him that they were no longer a couple.
To her shame, she nearly accepted Apollo’s offer to do it in her stead. The prospect of facing Alley and breaking up with him was daunting, overwhelming even. However, for once she forced herself to not be a coward. Her compliance and cowardice had helped get poor Newt Scamander expelled from Hogwarts. He’d landed on his feet, mostly due to his mother’s acceptance and Dumbledore’s support, but still, he’d come out of the whole debacle relatively unscathed.
That didn’t mean that the number they’d pulled on him – Leta Lestrange, the Malfoy brothers, Alastair, and Celestia – hadn't been horrid and simply unforgivable. It had. There was no changing that now. There was no taking it back. There was only learning from one’s mistakes. Celestia only hoped that doing what was expected of her was actually the brave choice instead of the cowardly one. She honestly didn’t know. It was all so confusing, so terribly confusing.
She met up with Alastair in Diagon Alley, in front of Flourish and Blotts. It was cold and draughty, belying the oncoming spring. Her hands, though gloved, were numb, as were her nose and ears. Her stomach was roiling. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed, fall asleep, and wake up from this bleak reality. When she spotted him, her heart started thrumming.
He was wearing a long, dark coat. His usually pale cheeks were flushed from the cold. His black hair was windswept. He was intently studying the shop’s display.
“Alley.”
At the sound of her voice, he turned and smiled. It wasn’t a happy expression, though, but a pained, forced one. Well, of course. He was no fool – never had been. “You look awful, my love. What have they made you do?”
That was it. Before she even knew what was happening, she burst into desolate sobs, slapped her hands to her face, and would have fallen to her knees if he hadn't caught her.
For an untold number of minutes, he just held her tightly whilst she clung to him for dear life. This was the end of everything, wasn’t it? It must be. Of course it was. She recognised it.
5 He hadn't tried to convince her to change her mind, to ignore her family, to follow her heart – none of that. Instead, all he’d done was hold and comfort her as she held and comforted him. He’d tried to keep himself from crying, though that didn’t work out too well. Somehow, this was worse than if he’d thrown a tantrum. But she’d known in advance that he’d never do that, hadn't she? She’d known. Alastair would never make things harder for her – never. That just wasn’t in his nature…
…and yet, there they were, both unhappy, both having to pick up the broken pieces and somehow glue them back together. What a godforsaken mess.
After the hardest goodbye she’d ever had to say, she dragged her unwilling body inside Madam Malkin’s, needing to be fitted for her engagement party’s new frock – what a colossal, tasteless joke. It was the old owner’s daughter who greeted her. As far as Celestia was informed, she’d taken over the shop a couple of years ago. Celestia told her what exactly she was looking for and then took a seat as she waited for the tailor to return with some fabric samples.
When the little silver bell above the door chimed, she didn’t look up, but kept staring gloomily at the gloves in her pallid hands. Her skin was dry; some of her nailbeds were a little cracked.
“Celestia Prewett,” a familiar voice said, to her right, sounding unsure.
Moving slowly, as if under water, she raised her aching head and focussed her sore eyes on the newcomer. Recognition was quickly followed by the sharp, unpleasant sting of guilt shooting through her guts. “Newt Scamander. How are you?”
“All right,” he said, in that muttering manner of his, and started fumbling with his knitted scarf. It was clearly handmade – in the Hufflepuff House colours, no less. This was both sweet and sad. He looked down at his mud-caked boots, then squinted at her. “What happened to you?”
She had to close her eyes for a few seconds and collect herself, lest she start bawling again. It would simply not do. Besides, this wasn’t his problem, and she was pretty sure he didn’t want to be bored with her drama. “I had to break up with Alastair because my family wants me to marry Apollo Malfoy.” It was almost funny how flat and unemotional those words sounded.
A few seconds ticked by in awkward silence.
Finally, he said, “I’m sorry. That’s just awful.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” She raised her face and smiled wryly. It probably looked like a grimace. At least it felt like one. “This probably means nothing to you, but I wanted to apologise for my conduct at school. I was a coward. I should’ve stood up for the truth, but I didn’t. I’m sorry – truly.”
He let this sink in for another short moment, before saying, “It’s all right. It was a complicated situation. I got over it. You should, too.”
“So…it’s not meaningless to apologise?” She hadn't got any forgiveness from him and didn’t expect it. To be honest, she didn’t even know if she wanted it.
Her words, however, made him smile a little. “Never. You’re the only one who has – you, the one least involved in the whole mess.”
“Guilty all the same, as you’ll no doubt agree.” She rubbed at her eyes. That only made it worse, somehow. “You’re doing all right, I’m told.”
“I am. Thank you.” He pressed his fist to his lips and quietly cleared his throat. “Maybe it would be braver if you did what you really want.”
Oh, how heavy she felt – heavy and as old as time. She looked down at her hands in her lap again. “Maybe. It doesn’t matter.”
“It might one day.” He chuckled lowly. “I believe that we all get to the point where we can’t deny ourselves anymore, no matter what our families think.”
What was she supposed to reply to that? Perhaps he was right, perhaps not. Did it matter? The question was: did she want it to matter? Well, of course – of course she did. Should there ever be a quick fix, she’d take it. Hell, she’d take any fix. There wasn’t a way out, though – none that she could see.
That was when young Madam Malkin returned and their conversation was cut short.