Chapter Text
It was dreary. That much she would always be able to recall. The night was surprisingly cold and the air seemed tangibly moist, to the point where her bones felt drenched and frozen over. It was almost unbearable. He walked ahead of her – far enough that all she could make out was the rustle of dark woollen robes and the swish of his hair. She knew that hair so well. He rarely looked back to make sure she was still following, perhaps every few minutes or so, but she was certain he was keenly aware of her every movement. It would not be surprising to her – his senses often tended to astonish her. His auror’s ability to see, hear and notice more than most.
She had once wished to be an auror herself, a long time ago, before having seen what the job had turned the man she loved into. He had been a shell of a person when she had first found him, locked up in his dungeon, brewing his potions until she had forced the real him out.
The city did not care about either of them. This was not Hogwarts, where everyone knew their names. London cared not what they were to each other or how their lives intertwined. It buzzed along with its lanterns merrily lit and its carriages loudly clacking on the wet cobblestone streets. London welcomed them gladly, but not warmly. It had no use for them, but was perfect for keeping secrets the Hogwarts Valley simply could not afford.
He turned into a side street and stopped in front of a pub. This was a muggle-centric part of town. Of course, it was, he was too careful to take her someplace anyone would recognise either of them – an ex-auror and a Malfoy heir were not the simplest of identities to disguise. He opened the door and waited for her to catch up, noise flooding the quiet street. There was music playing inside, people chattering. The smell of spilt beer and unwashed bodies making her want to retch as he pretended not to notice.
A part of the pub, further down to the back, was almost entirely unlit, and it came as no surprise to her when he guided the both of them towards an unoccupied table just there. She followed diligently and without a word, though wondering what kind of business would usually be conducted in as shielded a place as this. He appeared to be thinking the same thing, as he pulled out his wand and muttered an incantation at the leather seating before gesturing for her to pick a chair.
“Speak,” he demanded gruffly, eyes darting around the room as if there could be evil little henchmen listening in, but the people around them were either too enthralled in their own conversations, or too drunk to give a shit about a limping man and a little girl. This thought angered her. She was no mere girl, even if it was only her own mind producing the insult.
“I need help,” she said, not knowing what else there was to say in order to convince him.
“You mentioned,” he sounded agitated. She had indeed mentioned this prior, when she had marched up to him in The Apothecary in Diagon Alley. He had looked at her as though he had seen a ghost, then, having gathered himself, glanced around as inconspicuously as one having just experienced a fright could, and dragged her out by elbow, barked a command to follow, and stalked off into the night. Much too deliberately for someone whose leg used to bear so much pain every minute of every day.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, because voicing it out loud would put more blame on her than she cared to acknowledge. Her ego prickled as her eyes stung with tears she refused to shed. His gaze softened. “I left. Well, I ran away, really, I suppose.”
Now, when he looked at her, it was almost with pity. She could hardly take it, but she needed him too much. His eyes betrayed his thoughts. He could obviously tell she had been forced to swallow so much pride to come back to him, but what he did not know was just how much she had wanted to. This was not simply about survival. No, if it had been, she would have stayed right there and taken it. But she wanted a life, and she craved a future with this man, and leaving her father’s house, abandoning her brother to fend for himself, as selfish as it made her feel, was the only way to do just that.
“What did he do?” Aesop asked. She did not know how to answer. How do you put so many years of abuse into words after refusing to utter a sound about it for years? He had tried asking before. When she had been blissed out and pliant. When she had been at her most vulnerable. When she had wanted so much to tell him everything, but had done nothing more than kissing him long and hard, until he had forgot what he had wanted to know in the first place.
“Nothing more than usual,” she smiled humourlessly, but he knew her too well to fall for such a trick.
“Rhaenyra,” he insisted. She looked up from the handkerchief she had been crumpling up and smoothing out over and over again in her lap – the handkerchief he had given her. Her full name only sounded in his voice once in a blue moon. She tended to be Ren in the comfort of his living quarters, and Miss Malfoy in his classroom. She was only Rhaenyra in the throes of passion or bursts of anger. It was almost invigorating to hear the word fall from his lips.
Rhaenyra allowed his eyes to bore into her, she allowed him a minute to read her like no one else was ever able to. Not Sebastian, not Imelda, not even her brother. Or maybe she was allowing herself the selfish moment of his caring, or of a potential last shard of his love, if any even remained.
“What do you need?” he asked instead of making her explain herself further. This was no ploy to make her beg or repeat herself for his benefit. She could see as much in his eyes. No, this was a broken, longing man, yearning to give whatever he could to the woman he still somehow, mercifully loved.
“You,” she answered simply, because it was simple. It was always simple between the two of them, even if the outside world placed restrictions on them, even if her family placed expectations on her, even if his past made him so painfully reluctant.
Aesop nodded stiffly. The idea of her in his life again seemed to hurt. She promised herself in that moment to never cause him pain again, but it was also only then that she realised that she would have to prove her love and discretion anew. It would be exciting to have such an opportunity, if it did not come with a side of pain. “You know,” she looked down to her lap, “If you tell me to go, I will.”
He chuckled lowly, as if her knew just how impossible that was for her. She could still hear her brother warning her. She knew there had been owls sent all over not only England, but further in Europe, as well. Her only saviour was Aesop.