Prince of Ruin

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Coco

Roughly eight months ago, I was on a balcony drinking wine with my mother and brother, while I plotted to crash a party I hadn't been invited to.

Today, it was a lovely spring day, and the same people I tried to hit with a firework were all out on the porch of the home I shared with my husband.

Baz was up playing a game of cornhole with Daphne, Broderick, and Blaise. Over the last several months I had come to realize how competitive Blaise was especially. The man never met a game he wouldn't push to obliterate everyone in.

The grill was up and going, the food cooking itself, When it was done on one side, it would flip, and when it was done, it would move itself to the table where everyone was free to help themselves. Pansy was stretched out on the outdoor couch that we had outside, her legs laying over Draco's the blonde man's eyes closed.

"All I'm saying is- I have all the time in the world-" Alistair was arguing.

"Yes and you make no real money, What does Freelancing even mean to you?" Pansy was a hand talker, if you got too close while she was on a roll you could lose an eye. Her nails- painted her favorite shade of purple so dark it could be black- glinted in the sun as her hands flew.

"Whatever people need me for, I write articles for The Prophet-"

"No, you don't." I interrupted. He had sent in some letters to the editor.

"I work as a consultant, I have done wonders to help Blaise out in his line of work-"

"No, you haven't," Blaise called over.

"And I work as a model. Astoria has painted some wonderful portraits of me."

"That one is actually true," Daphne responded, lining up her throw. "He's a pretty good model." Alistair beamed at the compliment.

"Sure, but the question remains, Have you made any money?"

"No, but who needs money over having the satisfaction of a job well done?" Alistair groaned and dramatically draped himself over the outdoor chaise he was occupying.

"Most people." Pansy rolled her eyes. "People whose parents didn't leave them buckets of money."

"Technically mine haven't left me shit yet. They're still alive... for now." Alistair shrugged. "I'm trying to connect with someone in Azkaban to handle half my problem." He said it lightly, inspecting his nails, painted the same dark purple shade as Pansy's.

"And the other half?" Draco asked, not opening his eyes.

"If I talk about it now then it's pre-meditated." Alistair chirped.

"Because that's definitely how that works." I quirked an eyebrow.

"We need more drinks," Broderick called out. I rolled my eyes and stood up, slapping Theodore's leg before heading inside to make another pitcher of drinks. There was a set of doors near the porch that led directly into the kitchen. I started to gather the bottles of alcohol and mixers, pausing only once to rotate my shoulder. It rarely hurt anymore, but once in a blue moon, I felt the phantom pains shooting through my arm- at least I hoped they were phantom pains. The stitches had been removed, everything had healed physically.

And when mentally it got to be too much, Theodore seemed to always know, and he'd make me stop and talk about it, get all the emotions out. It was weird- trying to strive for emotional intelligence.

A month after it all happened, Kaitlyn was sentenced. She didn't get Azkaban, much to Theodore's chagrin. She was sent to a regular wizarding jail and it would be a long long time before she'd be getting out.