A/N:
It's been some time and I'm not dead yet. I'm still sure I'll finish my stories within the next 30 years or so. Meanwhile, here's something I wrote a while ago. Kudos to Ell for allowing us to play with her ideas - bonds, Maiden's Kiss, none of that is mine, I just tweaked it to fit my purposes and built a small story around it. If you like this, go read hers, her current pen name here is Ellory (/u/1614796).

Merry Christmas!

In Midst Of It All

"If you love him, let him go," she whispered, as if the soft words, barely audible to herself, might make true what every iota of her magic was screaming against.

The pale, porcelain face of Miss Astoria Greengrass, second daughter of the current Lord of House Greengrass, stared back from the silver mirror on the vanity, looking far too ghostly white in this twilit darkness to be beautiful. The lovely features were marred by teartracks, the warm look in her eyes now haunted, hollow and empty; she was far from her usual appealing appearance, far from being presentable in any manner, but tonight, she cared not. This was her private moment and no one but the mirror would see her like that; not her sister, not her friends, not the Muggleborns with whom she shared a bedchamber at Hogwarts and who knew better than to enter when she forbade them to, no one. No one. She was utterly, terribly alone.

Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Astoria was a demure creature, in love with Magic and her books, soft-spoken and reserved. She wasn't as cunning as her sister, as unwaveringly loyal as Bones, or as unflinchingly brave as Vane, and yet, today, she needed to show all of that. He needed her now. More than ever, he needed her now, but not in the way she desired, rather the opposite; needed not her undying love, but her eternal scorn and her complete and total rejection, and that was so hard, oh, so very hard to give. The pain threatened to rend her apart, impossible to contain, hands pressed above her heart that felt as if it would break.

"Why do you have to torment me so?"

A summer in a few, short words, but in truth, an entire life.

Since she had been bequeathed a wand and deemed worthy by Magic to pass through Hogwarts like her ancestors before her, she had seen him. Watched from afar how he struggled and excelled, how he despaired and persevered throughout the years; rejoicing in his victories and suffering in his defeats.

Had seen, too, all the people that looked hardly deeper than the surface, missing the true person underneath – how he grew up to be a fine light wizard, worthy of Magic, worthy of her, worthy of far, far more than he seemed to possess and most of them inclined to give him. Respect, deference, aid – and yet, she witnessed ignorance and incomprehension, and she found herself appalled. When he was defamed as Slytherin's heir and everyone should have known better as the Dark Families never embraced him, when the Ministry, recognising his increasing influence, tried to slander him; when finally he left Hogwarts and chased Pettigrew for satisfaction, as was his right and rightful task, and no one near him understood.

She would have given him it all and more. Her heart ached for this wizard, even as she herself blossomed into a radiant light witch, attracting her fair share of suitors, and she scorned every single one. No one could compare to him.

But he never noticed.

The summer of her fourth year came, and with it a wellspring of fresh, new hope, upon reaching adolescence at fifteen years, when, at long last, she was old enough for him to bid for her. A second daughter was no great catch, but as he had passed up her sister, when their houses had held amicable relationships for the last five generations, she felt her fortunes wax. So bright eyes stared through the open window, the summer breeze ruffling flaxen hair, heart full of excited torment, waiting for the one owl, the one letter that would come and fulfil all her dreams, and crown herself princess of the kingdom of all her yearning.

Nothing had come from it till weeks later, and so she had pleaded with Father to extend an invitation to join them for the midsummer celebrations at Greengrass Green on her behalf, making abundantly clear what the occasion was.

Being around her, when at midnight, day's light was not yet gone and would not go throughout the night, and her magic at its strongest, pulsing with every beat of her heart as it only ever would for a Light Witch; that was honour vouchsafed to an outsider once in one lifetime. To be together at this wonderful night, dance around the fire, lose themselves in the moment, see the pyres blink around them, all over the land, watch flames wink in and out of existence and shadows dart across the embers, as the the pixies played and chased each other … it was a night like no other.

But to everyone's consternation, no reply had come.

Somewhere between waking and dreaming, between hope every morning and despair every evening, life flowed past her, out of her, had her meandering without aim and purpose through the usually so lovely parks in Greengrass Green that now seemed dull and lifeless. The tinkling laughter of the fountains, the shades of the old oaks, the rambling paths – now it all only seemed a symbol for her existence, mocked by fate, light replaced by gloomy shadows and ways ahead unclear, a labyrinthine maze setting her on a chase for the end of a circle.

And in the centre, it was always he.

She felt drawn towards everything he was, everything he said. How could she not? Their magic, so compatible, was calling her, how could he be unaware? So why?

It was only on the day ere her return to Hogwarts' halls that she learned of the loss of his godfather. The light fled the dark shadows on the wall and on her soul, a tremor to shake a mountain and yet of no notice to anyone but herself, and a final look look at a blank space at her side … for naught. No picture of her heartache existed in her surroundings, no letter that might speak to her heart – it had not come, not today, not yesterday and not the days before, all the minutes and hours spend in agonizing wait, with hands pressed on the trembling heart, in vain – and the unforgiving truth was that it would not come, not now, and not ever.

Intentionally or not, he had left the old ways. His last link to this family, his last link to the ancient laws and customs, ancient bonds … frayed, broken, gone.

She had lost him.

And so she tried to let go. Banished from her thoughts, expelled from her heart, he disappeared from her life like the dew on the grass in the morning sun, and only left behind a hole that nothing could seem to fill. She managed to even ignore him in halls and floors for a while, but tonight, in a stroll over the grounds, in the darkness of the chamber, everything returned. The desperate longing. The ghost of his magic's touch. Never could she speak the words that Magic forbade her to, but there was one thing, the only thing – the last thing. Magic granted Witches one way to achieve their desire. Binding him without regard or care, his life forever entwined with hers, preventing everything she feared … a terrible, an unthinkable thing to do. It tempted her, so deceptively easy, and so terribly wrong.

If she gave in now, he was lost, and hers the blame; a victory bought with the most bitter of defeats.

But resisting was so hard. Why needed Magic to ask of her the one think she could not give, when she gladly would have given him everything besides?

The shadowy outline of her features stared back at her from the vanity in desperation, in her throat a desperate cry that would not be released.

In the face of daunting futures, she faltered. She was not strong enough, the selfish desire for her own life in the end truer. She needed him. Giving him up, giving up her happiness, not for now, but forever, to ensure his, seemed more than she could bear.

The candles flickered silently in the cold air creeping inside through the shutters, disturbing this sparse source of light illuming the smudged face, until the flames were doused by her tears.

o ][ o

From her place at the table of the Ravenclaws' house, she glanced up from dinner to see him entering the Great Hall, surrounded by his friends, or those that might call themselves such; the muggleborn and the blood-traitor, because he was far too polite to ever rebuke them even in face of the most egregious transgressions; disturbing with their incessant chatter his sombre mood, for though he hid it well, she saw through him clearly, saw his hurt and loneliness, his grief and pain, his loss of the last link to his family, and her heart ached in his stead.

They moved to sit down. And suddenly, she saw. The future stood before her in stark clarity; outings in Diagon Alley, that thing on his arm, strolling down the lane next to him, skipping all public events because she cared not for traditions, but only for entering his bedchamber, the large bed theirs, not hers, no strong hands tangled in her fair tresses, the only person she would ever grant that liberty; no shared celebrations of midsummer and Yule, no regard for Magic and all respect lost: a life ruined by one bad decision, a life that should have held only joy and happiness finally coming to an end in bitterness and tears.

If he now sat down, and drank, and ate, it would be too late – too late – too –

With a despairing cry, she launched herself at him, across the entire hall, heedless of all astonished murmurs at her extraordinary behaviour. His friends pushed aside, the thing thrown off the bench –

And then she kissed him, with an intensity she had not known she possessed, pouring all her heart and soul and magic into it, unashamedly stealing what was not hers, savouring the first and the last time her lips met his, tasting cinnamon and fresh spring water, feeling his magic surge violently, so compatible to hers, wild and demanding, where hers was calm and giving, felt a part of herself travel to him and leaving an imprint there – and then it was done.

Her Maiden's Kiss was his, she had him, heedless of any of his wishes, bound, and forever lost.

Around her, people were frozen and silent, amazement, outrage, everything in between – but the only thing that mattered was his look. A quick look up was enough – no friendliness, as if there could be!, rage, disgust – and most of all, cleaving her heart in two, disappointment.

With a sob she turned away, not being able to bear his look, nor the reflection of herself as seen in his eyes, so clear in the emerald green, and fled from the hall.

o ][ o

The coming days passed in a daze. Sick of heart, her reputation in tatters, she retreated from the world. His happiness won, and everything else lost, she ceased to care. About classes, about the contempt of her peers, who now were her peers no longer, about the letter from her parents, at the same time concerned and upset, berating and chiding her for her foolishness, demanding answers she could not give … it passed without notice.

The forceful imprint on an unwilling wizard left her cold and lonely, her magic bleeding away, slowly but surely, eventually in the Hospital Wing, hysterical, weak and frail, so unlike her usual strong and silent self. Among the sad looks of her parents, she lay in the bed under Madam Pomfrey's care, now apathetic and shivering, but there was no cure for this ailment.

The worst, though, was that he came to her visit ere she was moved. She could not bear to see his face, so she kept close the curtains, or pretended to sleep when she became aware of him sitting besides her bed. Eventually, he thus left, and in the solitude of the empty room she allowed herself to express all the things she could not say, finally calling the name that was not hers to call, listening to her whisper lingering in the room, and slowly dying, suffocated by the silence.

Loath me, loath my existence as is your right, but I could not let them get you … Harry.

"I certainly do not hate you, Miss Greengrass."

The well-articulate, smooth voice had her freezing. He had not left! She felt her face burn, wished for the earth to swallow her whole, or the ceiling to cave in over her. And yet … had not he just declared a falsehood her statement? A negation of any reaction she would have attributed to him, expected, clearly, because nothing less was fair after this terrible breach of decorum, trust, and everything that mattered?

Could indeed he be so noble, so unassuming, so … perfect? A tiny grain of hope started to take root in her heart. She gathered the remaining rest of her fleeting strength and risked it all on a single sentence, barely audible, even to herself.

"Do you speak truthfully?"

"I cannot deny a certain disconcertment; yet I'm willing to hear you out." When she didn't turn over immediately, he added: "My dear Miss Astoria, you have been naught but a picture of propriety in the years I have seen you. What extraordinary circumstances must have prompted you to take such a step, I cannot imagine. It saddens me to consider you forced into any one such situation."

Suddenly, she felt his touch, hesitantly, warm, on her arm; the hope blossomed, exploded; selfishly cradling the touch and words she had yearned to receive, calling her his; even if that was never the intention and she again stealing from him, the warm feeling in her chest a sudden surge of strength from the wizard near her. Their shared intimacy was solely of her manipulation and he only here to demand what would be a highly improper discussion, about things he would not know, had no way, and perhaps: no right to know.

She choked down a hysterical laugh. They – she – had left propriety miles behind, days ago. She had enough strength, now, to tell the story he needed to hear, if at all it might be possible for him to understand. She turned towards him.

"It started a week ago. Or a month – or years." Where do you begin, when an entire life is the motivation for one action?

Perhaps in figuring out where everything went so horribly wrong.

"Might you answer about the reasons that prompted you to never even condescended to me the honour of a decline for my invitation this midsummer first? Was it so disagreeable to you?"

Was I so disagreeable to you?

She tried hard to keep the hurt of her voice, and still did not manage. She saw his eyes, clear, honest focused on her, concerned, but also confused.

"I certainly would have considered attending, and replied in any case. Yet I never received one."

He never received …?

Oh, those dirty …

"Traitorous, scheming hags!"

It burst out of her, and immediately made her turn away again in embarrassment. His voice called her back.

"Now I am truly concerned. Tell me all of it."

It was warm, but nevertheless a command. She closed her eyes.

"I can't."

"You – ah."

Had he understood her meaning? She looked at him again.

"What do you know of bonds, Lord Potter?"

He winced.

"Not much, I'm afraid. Given everything, there always seemed more important matters to study, and when my godfather perished, and that last source of knowledge vanished … It's an oversight that I feel I am coming to regret shortly. Tell me what you can."

Her fingers played with the hem of her bedspread.

"Usually, every wizard and every witch possesses multiple ones. Bonds to family members, to godparents, even to animals or wands, eventually, if they are so lucky, to … spouses. The bonding ceremony between a wizard and a witch before Magic is one of the greatest blessings to be received. You would not squander it. Certain … desires should be kept in check, especially so for witches. Not everyone adheres to this." Her cheeks flamed red, but she plodded on. "Every wizard and witch needs bonds. Magic is capricious and wild, bonds yield stability. A lack of it will eventually lead to serious bond-withdrawal and perishing."

She collected herself again, trying think of all the things her mother had told her so long ago now, it seemed.

"The strength of these bonds vary. The strongest, though, can only be forged once, and their nature is reciprocal. What you give, you lack. What you get, you keep. Such is the nature of Magic."

She swallowed.

"I gave you one such bond. I am now lacking it. I gave you my Maiden's Kiss."

Countless emotions moved across his face, as she watched his reaction. Had he truly not known?

"Your Maiden's Kiss," he breathed. "An imprint of your magic, a part of your self, a prelude to a bonding, where I would affirm my part … Sirius told me, and I feel it now, certainly I did, but never did I guess …" Then he froze. "But without knowing, I never reciprocated, I would have considered the ceremony –"

"I never intended you to, my Lord."

Her voice was tired and resigned. In the span of a heartbeat, he had understood. His eyes widened.

"You will never be able to bond to any other wizard. You will never find fulfilment. Your magic will dwindle, and you eventually even could perish – you just spoke of it, so bad your state is already that you are here – and all this you choose, willingly, just so that I …?"

"It was the hardest thing," she whispered. "I very nearly didn't, couldn't bear to live in your disgrace, even to save –"

The words caught in her throat, skirting too close to the edge of the curse, dangerously close. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes anew. He shook his head.

"I believe I have a way to get to the bottom of this. Do you trust me, Miss Greengrass?"

There was no one she trusted more, and no one she would less want to perform what she perceived as the only way to possibly overcome this particular problem and what he would intend to do.

"More than anyone else," she whispered.

His wand already pointed at her, and then it began.

o ][ o

Night had fallen over Hogwarts Castle. The yellow glow of the high mullioned windows painted stripes of warm light onto the dark lawn, vanishing long before reaching the first trees of the Forbidden Forest, who stood as a forbidding wall, black and silent. Autums's herald, as yet, only was the early night's onset, not the freezing fingers of winter; the air still balmy and soft, full of lingering fragrances of summer. The sweet smell of ripe apples and the spiciness of heather's last blooms blanketed the valleys and Hogwarts' grounds.

Miss Astoria Greengrass ran barefoot across the lawn, her tresses open and kissing her cheeks. She loved the caressing fingers of the wind in her hair, and the feel grass under her soles, the dew sparkling on her toes, arraying her better than any diamonds at Gringotts.

The peace and silence of the night after all the hectic voices of a busy day was her sanctum. She was therefore dismayed to find it disturbed by voices near the old willow, and made to turn and leave, though a familiar name pushed her closer.

The muggleborn and the blood-traitor, Granger and the female Weasley, out at night and talking about a person that wasn't there? She crept closer, her heart fluttering, ready to thwart any nefarious plans they might conceive that involved Lord Harry Potter.

It took her only minutes to discern the abomination they were plotting, the outrageous deed they were attempting to commit; of which no one else seemed to be aware of – or, indeed care! – about. It rested on her, and hers was the responsibility to protect Lord Potter from those two things that has lost any and all right to call themselves Witches – but oh, did she have the time to do it? She started to creep away, but a sudden hex had her topple down with a cry.

In seconds, the two were onto her.

"Greengrass!"

They were standing above her, and looked far too pleased.

"Not quite so ladylike now, are you? Always so prim and proper and now caught snooping:" Weasley held her wand trained on her. "Since we are talking, it will please you to know that Harry will not be answering your invitation, nor any other you might consider sending. He wants nothing to do with you. In case you are still waiting."

A lie, a lie …

But he had never answered, had he?

"And of course we can't have you running around tattling to the next person you see." Her wand tipped her chin. "Yes, I think a vow will do nicely."

"I will never agree to an oath!" she spat.

"That fits rather nicely, because I never intended to ask. Ligo." Her wand glowed maliciously red, and she felt the onslaught of magic begin.

It was minutes or an eternity later that she was stumbling towards the lonely tree on hill, whose sturdy trunk stood as a dark shadow in the night. She felt violated and sick. They had bound her memory of the event, so she would never be able to speak of it, forced her magic down, forced their magic on her, in a way it should never be done, defiling her in the worst of ways –

Her forehead rested against the rough, cool bark, in an attempt to contain the heaving of her stomach. She had struggled, she was strong, but they were two, and she was alone. It had been a futile fight.

The worst of it, however, were her feelings for the target of their schemes. All that she had kept neatly contained and set aside now had burst free once more, but amplified by her acute fear for his future, and her helplessness in preventing it. All because she had let herself caught, because she had not been strong enough –

Once more, she tried to collect herself, and almost managed. On the way back to her bedchamber in Ravenclaw's tower, bitter tears spilled down her cheeks, for them, for her, but mostly: for him.

o ][ o

Astoria closed her eyes, after the memory had passed.

There. Now let him judge me as he may.

But there was no immediate response. And the first words, when eventually they came, where not about the incident at all. "I never knew," he whispered. "All these years, yet you never said a word –"

She opened her eyes, regarding his almost anguished face, and smiled sadly.

"I never wanted to burden you, it was clear you had other things on your mind. Just this one time, this summer, I needed to know. I had to cease waiting."

She thought she saw a flash of something in his eyes at her final words, but it was gone, before she could be sure.

"Tell me about how such bonds can be created artificially," he eventually said.

Her heart sang as it was clear he had understood, as much as topic disturbed her very core. "A love potion," she spat, disgusted by the mere word. "A poor substitute for a true bond, a mere ghost if it, perverted to enslave rather than elevate, the tool of witches unworthy of you and any wizard, never truly of any use, easily overridden as it is, as the weakest of all bonds – but you – you –" She swallowed again. "You had none ," she whispered. "No relatives left, your parents gone, your godfather dead – it would have been enough."

And you would have been lost – to you, to me.

She didn't add the last, but saw it in his eyes, and turned away again, unwilling to confront the bit of selfishness that even in this action remained.

"I see." There was a hard note that crept into his voice, and her heart sank. "I thank you for bringing the matter to my attention. And I am in your debt for preventing this rather dire outcome. Cease worrying. It shall be resolved to your satisfaction. This I promise, my lady."

Her eyes flew open, her heart leaped – had he truly said – truly meant –

He was gone before she could ask, but the promise settled inside of her as a comfortable weight as magic accepted his pledge, and the words, the title, a world implied in in three short syllables, warmed her like a fire after an endless, freezing night, invigorating her and beginning to fill the hole she had torn and that had seem bottomless just an hour ago.

And then, it might have been evening, he returned, to fetch her; no longer should she be allowed to be assumed in disgrace. As in a daze, she stumbled to put on her robes when he bade her to and made herself presentable, walked down into the Great Hall with his aid as if dreaming, sitting down at her House Table, listening to shouts and cries when he severed ties with two girls now exposed, and suddenly became aware he was approaching her. He came to her place, asked for her neighbour's leave, and turned to her, a warm look in his eyes.

"It is high time that I restore your honour with mine. You deserve no less."

He made a movement, and produced from nowhere, encased in fine crystal, a burning branch of holly, the same wood as his wand.

"Miss Greengrass, I realise it is rather late and you might have received various offers and courtship gifts already, but would you condescend the honour of considering mine? It is everlasting fire, as a token of myself, the way you granted me yours. There is many a thing I have yet to do, and as yet, not more than fondness on my part, although that has been there for years – but if you will wait, so shall I, and thus I hope you will find it in you to accept my gift now."

She was aware that her former peers were watching, that the entire hall was watching, but instead of feeling shy and bashful, she only felt strong and wanted. The light of the flickering fire inside of the crystal danced across her hands as she touched it, refracted, reflected in a mesmerising display of colours, the magic brushing against her fingertips, intimate and comforting. Gubraithian Fire was unmistakeable, the act of gifting it to her in public irrevocable, as true a declaration of their courting as any she could think of.

"Yes," she breathed, eyes shimmering. "Yes! I shall wait, I –" her voiced choked. How ever could he wonder whether she would wait? But why should, why would he wait? For her?

"How could I not?" he asked softly, having read the question in her eyes. "For a witch that was willing to forsake her happiness in exchange of mine? It is you who should have doubts, for I am less than what you deserve. You proved yourself worthy a thousand times, more than I could ever ask."

Her magic danced in happiness at his words, and daringly she extended a bit of it towards him, sighing in contentment as not only she felt the comfort of his, strong and warm, slowly restoring her strength, but also a welcome caress reaching her in return. All this would be hers. No, he did not love her yet. But he would, in time, and whatever Magic would throw at her yet, she would weather it, her happy ending in sight. Strife, trouble, secrets, now and then – but it was all worth it, for against all odds, in midst of it all, she had found the love she had been looking for.