Coiled (Book 1 of 2)

The Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Class of 1945

The Rosier Family Estate (England).

Late Autumn, 1967.

It's been just over a week since Wesley and Toinette first kissed, first began their secret affair. The affair they both know's irresponsibly dangerous and destined to end when he leaves.

But she doesn't care. Doesn't care if it's going to make it all the more difficult when he's truly gone, when she's forced to once again face this existence all alone.

She doesn't care. She's living purely in the moment because it's what keeps her living. Especially since Achille's kept good on his promise to keep Evan away from her for two full weeks.

It's purely the knowledge of her son, the thought of his existence and the brief, fleeting moments with Wesley that keep Toinette going.

It's pathetically sad, yes.

But it's enough to keep going, and that's all that matters.

Tonight, the Rosiers are throwing a huge party. It's a common occurrence; they host at least a small social gathering once every several weeks. It's what's expected, given their coveted position and status. And as always, it serves the purpose of providing a venue for political jockeying and strategising.

But this party - this party's especially important ...

For one, they'll be inviting more guests than usual. The Rosier Estate will be completely filled, its ballrooms once again teeming with life, a witness to huge throngs of pure-blooded royalty revelling together.

But more importantly, all of Mr. Rosier's closest friends from his graduating class at Hogwarts will be here. The Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Class of 1945. They see one another regularly as it is, but to have their entire close knit, elite circle together in one place at the same time's something of a rarity. They are the extreme upper echelon of the pure-blooded society; the ring-leaders. They are the inner circle at the very heart of the movement, the secret society, that Achille and Toinette belong to. Him, willingly; her, compelled.

Toinette's met all of them many times before. They were, for instance, at her wedding to Achille, just as they were at Evan's first birthday celebration. She's met them, seen them, at too many functions to count.

They are, it goes without saying, a completely terrifying group. Perhaps more so because they always sit off together, alone in their privately reserved areas, to the side of all the visible action. They don't eat, drink, or openly socialise in any way. But make no mistake - they are the action. And they spend all their time at each event hovering above and beyond everyone else, observing. Silently watching, calculating.

There are five of them, these men at the very top. These men who exist above and beyond the periphery, above and beyond the fray. They don't follow the rules; they are the rule. And Achille is one of them.

Toinette planned the party flawlessly, and she nailed every detail superbly. Don't ask her how she managed such a thing, because she couldn't begin to say. Years of practice, perhaps? A lifetime of grooming and training? Doesn't matter, in the end. She did it. She did it all completely without thinking or trying. She did it effortlessly. But most importantly, at least in husband Achille's eyes, she did it right.

And now the event's started. Achille's off with them, seated. Toinette's making her rounds, as demanded. She looks spectacularly gorgeous tonight, as she always does. She'd look even better if she were actually happy. If then, she'd be a goddess on earth. But no one knows any differently, because no one sees her sadness other than herself, and now Wesley. No one else sees the reality.

Not Evan, thank Merlin. He would, surely, if he were just a bit older. In fact, he's certainly subconsciously picked up on her misery, her suffering. But his awareness of Toinette's sadness hasn't yet actualised. He's simply not there yet developmentally. She's still able to fool him, to wear the mask of happiness without him realising otherwise. She dreads the day, which she knows must soon be coming, when the fog finally lifts for her son and he truly sees her. It will break her completely, the day her son finally sees her as broken. But perhaps, if Achille keeps depriving them of one another, she'll get just a bit longer before that day arrives.

And so, to everyone around her, she's flawless.

Tonight, she's wearing an exorbitantly priced bespoke gown. Created specifically for her and her alone, the floor length black and grey gown is empire waist, sleeveless. It's been specially designed to billow after her as she walks, the fabric rolling and folding in mesmerizingly eye catching configurations. She was planning on wearing her hair down, but at the last moment Achille changed his mind and insisted she put it up. So she did, exactly as he demanded.

She wears hardly any makeup, just the barest layer. Achille's choice. Scant jewellery, just simple earrings that were crafted to go with the gown. Achille's choice.

And as she moves around from room to room, hosting flawlessly, she's living for two thoughts:

First, and above all else, the comfort of imagining Evan cosy in his wing of the estate, perhaps curled up and escaping in the pages of a book he loves. Or cuddling with his dragon stuffie. Or, perhaps best of all, he's found his dreams. Perhaps he dreams of her. Maybe they're together, living the life they deserve. A life without Achille.

It's a nice thought.

Second, she's constantly looking for an opportunity to slip off and find her way to Wesley. She can't do that yet - far too early in the night - but she will find a time, a way. She will find him. And he will find her, the two of them once again clawing at each other until they leave each other breathless. She loves the way his lips feel on hers, and if she really, really concentrates, she can imagine it perfectly. She'll feel those lips again, all over her body, later tonight.

It's a nice thought.

At some point, Achille catches her eye from across their largest formal dining room, a banquet hall, really. And when he does, he lifts his hand into the air and beckons her over.

And though every bit of her being internally screams at her over it, begs of her not to go to that table - to their table - she's powerless. And so, with heels that suddenly feel as though they're made of lead, she carries herself over. Coming to a stop right before her husband's place, she follows his expectant gaze from her to the centre of the table. There, her eyes meet the cold dark eyes of the gentlemen behind it all. The eyes that see everything, demand everything.

And, as he has occasionally in the past, he deigns to speak to her. Well, perhaps more to Achille. To Achille through her.

"... How is Evan?"

He asks about her son. It's the only thing he ever asks of her, this man. And it's the same question he asks absolutely every parent of every child born into his circle. It's the check-in he performs. It's his way of letting them know he's watching their children, waiting for their children to grow. To grow, to become his agents.

How she finds her voice, the courage to reply to him, she knows not. But, mercifully, the words seem to find their way out all of their own accord, "Evan is very well, My Lord."

For a few short seconds, he stares back at her, dark eyes seeming to bore into her very being. Then, finally, without any hint of acknowledgement one way or the other, he turns his attention back towards the crowd.

Her eyes reflexively flash back to Achille, who stares back at her coldly.

Coldly, but not angrily.

That means she answered properly. She answered correctly.

And with that, she understands she's been dismissed to continue her rounds, which she does. Exactly as is expected of her.