Title: Of Ancestry and Honor

Pairing: James Potter/Isadore Vaisey, James Potter/Lily Evans, etc.

One month before the start of his seventh year at Hogwarts, a house-elf summoned James Potter to the parlor in Potter Manor. He gritted his teeth, knowing what was coming. It wouldn't be pleasant, but he had given his parents his word of honor. Nothing would cause him to break it. He inhaled deeply and stepped into the room.

"James, darling, have a seat," Dorea Potter said, gesturing to the armchair that was opposite the loveseat she occupied with her husband.

"Yes, Mum." He did as she requested, palms sweating the slightest bit. At least Sirius was over at Remus's house for the day and wouldn't be able to tease him about the situation.

"Did you manage to secure Miss Evans' affections for you?" Charlus Potter asked.

James squeezed his eyes shut behind his glasses and bit his tongue. He had tried everything to get Lily to return his love, and she had merely thrown it back at him as if the Potter bloodline and honor meant less than the grime beneath Snivellus's fingernails. He had been so sure that she would realize how earnest he was and how disrespectful her own comments about him were. . . . She hadn't.

"No, Dad. I've been informed that she wouldn't consider me if I were the last living wizard." The cruel words still cut deeply, resounding through his head day and night. He might have been childish a few years ago, but all young teenagers were. Those words were more vicious than anything the Marauders had ever spewed at Snivellus.

His mother's nose wrinkled in distaste, and James could see her make the connection between the blatant lack of respect and Lily Evans' Muggle-born status. His parents weren't bigots, but they wouldn't tolerate people who couldn't act politely and properly. There were many graceful ways to rebuke someone's intentions without being heartless.

"I see," said Dorea, lips twisting in a moue of satisfaction. "Then you won't have any objections to keeping up your side of the bargain."

James's parents had offered him the same arrangement each Potter Heir received when he first went to Hogwarts: If he found someone to love before his seventh year, he could bond with her if she would have him. If not, he would be required to submit himself to several pureblood courtship dates in the hope of finding a compatible partner.

"No objections, Mum. I won't go back on my word." Both of his parents smiled at him and nodded their approval. "But I would like to make a request. Is that acceptable?"

Charlus stretched out his legs and grasped his wife's hand. "It depends on the request."

James thrust a hand through his hair as his cheeks colored. "I don't want to marry anyone older than I am," he admitted. "And please don't pick women taller than me!" he blurted out. He was only five-foot-ten, and he didn't expect to get much taller. Several pureblood families birthed witches at least his height, if not over. Leaning up to kiss his wife would be too embarrassing to endure.

Charlus chuckled, shoulders hitching with his amusement and eyes sparkling. "I think we can handle those requests. Don't you, dear?"

"Of course," said Dorea, lips twitching. "They're very reasonable."

Still blushing, James got to his feet and nodded. "Well then, I'll just go . . . fly or something."

"Not yet, young man. You don't want to be late for your first date, would you? What kind of example would that set? The Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter would be quite shamed by your absence."

His mother's amusement was all that kept him from fainting in shock. Today? It was all going to start today? He had expected at least a few days for his parents to arrange a preliminary courtship date with a suitable family given his criteria. It was as if his mother knew what he—

"Of course I know your tastes in women, darling. You are my only son, after all." Dorea smiled tenderly and then stood. She feathered a hand through his wild black hair and kissed his forehead. "Go change, darling. You're meeting in less than an hour."

"An hour?" James's jaw dropped as he turned and ran from the parlor, his mother's laughter trailing him down the hallway. While he wasn't overly excited about these courtship dates, he had given his word, and he didn't want to shame his family or himself. How would he possibly have time to acquire a first meeting gift? "Mum must already have one," he grumbled.

James tore into his bedchamber and ripped open his armoire; it might look like a regular piece of antique furniture from the outside, but it was an enormous walk-in wardrobe with its own sitting area. He tugged his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor; his socks and trousers joined it almost immediately. Formalwear was required, that was for sure.

"Lagnok!"

The air beside him was disturbed as his personal house-elf appeared. "Yes, Master James?"

"I need to shower. I'm going on a preliminary courtship date. Please have appropriate clothes prepared when I leave the shower," said James.

"Finally!" Lagnok muttered. "It will be done."

James entered his en suite bathroom, stripped the rest of the way down, and got in the shower. He knew that Lagnok had never approved of Lily—not since the house-elf found out she had called James a 'toe-rag'. At the time he had laughed it off, but he couldn't do that anymore. Ever since her vicious statement on the Hogwarts Express at the end of the year—that she would never consider him—he had been forced to reexamine all their interactions. It hurt to realize he had been so blind. Lily tended to treat him and Sirius as most of the Slytherins treated Muggle-borns; it was reverse prejudice, and he hated it.

Yes, James and the Marauders had been bullying gits to Snivellus. However, Snivellus had honestly started it. James had merely been seeking recompense, as any pureblood would. Everything got blown out of proportion, and then Lily had involved herself in the dispute. The first prank against Snivellus would've solved everything and canceled out the problem, but then Snivellus had dared to malign James's heritage. And so, as honor demanded, he declared a blood feud against Snivellus.

Sirius had taken it upon himself, since he was essentially James's adopted brother, to bring the feud to its natural conclusion. However, as they weren't yet of age, such a result would've been disastrous for them. And Remus was not a weapon; he was a friend. Now Snivellus owed James a life debt, which voided the blood feud. As far as the Marauders were concerned, Snivellus didn't even exist anymore. Honor was satisfied.

James stretched as he left the shower, turning in a circle beneath the lion statue that breathed warm air on him. He always loathed the necessity of towels at Hogwarts. Being dried off by family magic always felt so comforting, as if nothing could touch him.

He padded over to the marble vanity and picked up his glasses. He stared at the lenses for a moment, and then twirled them by one earpiece. He had worn them for over six years now. His mum had Transfigured them for his eleventh birthday party as a joke; he had kept them. He wore them to Hogwarts as a prank, pretending he was in disguise. He kept wearing them because he thought they might make him look studious and attract Lily's attention.

"Time to grow up," James whispered. "Time to stop catering to others." He folded them carefully—they were a gift from his mum after all—and set them back on the vanity. He stared in the mirror, shocked at how different his face looked without them. He had his mother's high cheekbones, his father's strong jaw, and his grandfather's burning hazel eyes.

"You look smashing, dear. The witches will be crawling all over you. Especially if you go out like that." The mirror whistled at him and James blushed and rushed from the bathroom to clothe himself.

James yanked on his boxers before glancing at what Lagnok had laid out for him: black dress trousers, dragon-hide boots, a white dress shirt, a gold cravat, and a burnished red, open front, knee-length dress robe. "Wow!" James was somewhat dazzled by the splendor, because he and Sirius tended to avoid the formal side of their wardrobes as much as possible. He couldn't remember the last time he had worn something this resplendent.

After dressing, he stalked over to the full-length mirror in his wardrobe. "Well, look who's expensive and devilishly handsome this morning," said the mirror.

He was too stunned to blush. He looked like an adult—a true pureblood heir—someone with the talent, wealth, and knowledge to challenge the world and emerge the victor.

Lagnok appeared at his side. "Is Master pleased?"

"Yes," James breathed.

"Good." Lagnok smirked his pleasure at the comment. "Mistress is being in the parlor. She is having the gift."

"Right. The gift. Of course." James shook his head roughly, which caused his hair to swish about his face. Maybe this wouldn't be as horrible as he had first thought. . . . James strode out of his room and down to the parlor.

Dorea stood when he entered the room and grinned at him. "You look wonderful, darling. All grown up. And I daresay you cut a dashing figure in that," she said as she smoothed her hands over his shoulders and down his arms.

"Thanks, Mum," he muttered, embarrassed once again. James ducked his head and rubbed his right forearm, where he always kept his wand in the invisible holster. He never took it off; only a fool would willingly remove their first line of defense. "The gift?" he asked. Technically, he should have chosen it himself. However, he hadn't known about this courtship date until about an hour ago, and he knew his mum and dad wouldn't tell anyone about the break in protocol. James would bet that most mothers helped their sons choose such gifts.

"I have it right here." Dorea turned and lifted a smallish box off an antique yew table. "I'm sure she'll like it." She removed the lid of the beribboned box to reveal a hair ornament. It was blown glass—a tasteful sculpture of forget-me-nots that would complement any hair color.

James reached out and touched the fragile glass. "It's lovely, Mum." Any girl who wouldn't appreciate something like this had no taste and wouldn't be a good match for him. He accepted the box from his mother and replaced the lid. "Where am I going? Who am I meeting?" he asked breathlessly. The weight of the gift in his hand made this all the more real, and he found himself strangely anticipating the courtship date, wondering what witch his mother considered most worthy of him.

"You have lunch reservations at The Golden Fleece," Dorea said.

It was an exclusive restaurant and club in Diagon Alley, and James hadn't used his family's membership in years. He had heard that a Squib from the Black family had changed his name and opened a mimicry of it centuries ago in the Muggle world and dared to call it White's after his assumed name. But that was, from what he had heard, a club for gentleman only. The Golden Fleece was for purebloods only—wizards and witches—and the best purebloods at that. It was also a safe haven from feuds and such. Offensive magic didn't work inside the wards. More than one Dark Lord had sought to subjugate the rich only to be run through with a sword or two.

"And?" James asked excitedly. What was her name?

"And you'll just have to find out."

"Mum!"

"Now shoo. You're about to be late, darling."

Grumbling, James turned on his heel and Disapparated. He reappeared inside a room that was floor-to-ceiling yellow marble: the Apparation chamber at The Golden Fleece. A house-elf appeared and bowed to him, before turning to lead the way. He passed the fencing chamber and the chess room before following his guide into an intimate tearoom that overlooked an oriental garden.

In direct opposition of most wizards' opinion on the subject, James adored tea ceremonies. He appreciated the elegant nature of a pureblood witch's turn of wrist as she poured the tea. It was grace and beauty in motion; he had learned that at his mother's knee as a child.

James set the wrapped gift on the low table and then knelt on a large silken cushion. It was as soft as his pillows at home, much to his pleasure. As soon as he was comfortable, the door opened. James rose to his feet with alacrity, but without appearing like a fool. Of his many faults, clumsiness wasn't one of them.

"Lady Isadore Vaisey," the house-elf said before bowing and moving to the side.

The witch who walked through the door was a more frigid version of Narcissa Malfoy. She was slender, and had pale blue eyes and hair so fair that it was almost white. Her face was expressionless, and he couldn't help but wonder why his mother had thought she was most worthy of the first preliminary courtship date. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about it, but she was beautiful as marble was beautiful—hard and cold and lifeless.

"I'm Heir James Potter," he said, valiantly keeping his disappointment to himself as he bowed and searched his mind for any knowledge of her. He knew her family was neutral and that she was a year younger than him. In fact, he vaguely remembered a Ravenclaw prefect last year who must have been her. What little he recalled was her sitting properly and never speaking to anyone.

Great, he thought, a snob of the highest order. Perhaps this is Mum's payback for something I did that annoyed her.

She stepped into the tearoom and lifted the hem of her deep turquoise robes; Isadore sank into a respectful curtsey and whispered, "I'm honored, Heir Potter. P-please call me I-Isadore."

The stutter was barely audible, but he didn't miss it; his years of sneaking around under his invisibility cloak and learning secrets served him well. The brief stutter reminded him of when he had first tried to befriend Remus, who was shy and feared no one would like him because he was a werewolf. For a pureblood lady's stutter to be audible . . . she had to be shy in the extreme. But she also had undeniable courage, and she must already have some affection for him since she had offered her given name so readily.

James retrieved the gift from the table as she rose from her curtsey. Her hands trembled the slightest bit, and he acknowledged that his first impression had been entirely incorrect; she was scared, not snobbish. He should've known better than to try and judge a lady at a glance. "Then feel free to call me James." A delicate blush colored her pale cheeks and he felt victory swell within at the sight.

He took several steps forward and extended the beribboned box. "For you, Lady Isadore." When she accepted it, he couldn't help but compare their hands; his were significantly larger than her own. He was also at least six inches taller than she was. Standing beside her made him feel powerful and protective.

"Thank you, Heir James," she whispered, head tilted down. When she opened the box, a flash of unadulterated delight consumed her visage, causing James's breath to catch in his throat. Her manicured nails traced the delicate glass blossoms. "Would y-you put it in my h-hair?"

If James hadn't been standing so close, he never would have heard the request. He grinned and replied, "Of course." He carefully removed the hair decoration from the box and raised it, sliding the comb part into the silky smooth hair behind her left ear. Once it was securely in place—and from its quality he knew it would be Charmed not to slip or come free—he lowered his hands and stared at the sight of the forget-me-nots in her hair. "Beautiful," he murmured.

"It is," she agreed.

James ducked his head so he could stare straight into her eyes. "I didn't mean just the comb."

"Oh." A deeper blush consumed her face and her hands started shaking again.

He grasped one carefully and escorted her to the table, a wide grin on his face each step of the way. Perhaps his mother knew him better than he knew himself. James kissed the knuckles of her hand before walking to the other side of the table. He waited until she had knelt before copying her. As soon as she started silently serving the tea, slender wrists and fingers dancing gracefully, the final weight of doom vanished from James's shoulders.

There was nothing agonizing about this courtship date. In fact, the future looked brighter than it had since Lily Evans had cruelly verbally assaulted his honor and ancestry.

Time passed as it was wont to do, and James couldn't remember a happier time in his life. Sirius had only teased him for three days, because then his mum had set up a courtship date for Sirius. Sirius had since been declaring over and over how perfect Leanne McLaggen was.

James's only contact with Lily Evans was fleeting. Though they were in many of the same classes, he never sat near her and he never sought her out. Other than polite greetings and their mandatory communication as head boy and girl, people might have assumed they didn't know each other at all.

James's eyes lit up when Dumbledore entered the prefects' meeting and announced, "We've decided to host a Yule Ball this year."

He glanced surreptitiously down the table at Isadore, whose eyes betrayed her excitement. Protocol didn't allow for dancing outside an official function, and he had longed to hold her in his arms and prove to everyone how truly compatible they were.

"We've allocated a budget and we're allowing the twenty-six of you to plan the event." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled brightly. "Your first meeting is scheduled for tomorrow morning, so I suggest you create strategies to convince your fellow prefects tonight. Good night!"

As the students chattered excitedly and started leaving the room, James leapt to his feet. Elation waltzed through him as images of Isadore clutched tightly to him danced through his mind.

"James?"

"Hmm?"

"James!"

He shook the thoughts from his head and glanced to the right. "Yes, Miss Evans?" he asked, one eyebrow raised. What could Lily possibly want now? He needed to immediately secure Isadore as his partner. Besides, she was patiently waiting for him by the doorway, and no true gentleman kept his lady waiting.

Lily looked flabbergasted for a moment at the formal address, but then smiled up at him. "I, uh, I've noticed how much you changed over the summer. You've matured a lot, James."

"Thank you," he replied. It was the only acceptable response, no matter how little her opinion meant. He turned to leave, but froze when he felt a hand on his arm. Shock spread through him and appeared on Isadore's face as well. Witches weren't supposed to just grab wizards—that was so improper and unexpected that he couldn't move or speak.

"I was hoping that . . . well . . ." Lily pursed her lips and then blurted, "I think I'm in love with you! Will you take me to the dance?"

Several months ago, James would likely have ignored the breech of propriety and good manners, but not anymore. He stepped to the side, removing his arm from her grasp. Isadore's face had crumpled at the question, and he wouldn't allow her to believe for one moment that he still preferred Lily Evans. Lily's rude assumptions enraged him more than her unearned insults and almost as much as the pain on Isadore's face.

He gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw. "No. You don't get to say that. Not now. Not anymore. It's too late. I already found someone who loves me back." He ignored how pale she had become and bit out, "Excuse me."

James turned on his heel and walked away from the shell-shocked girl; he could feel her eyes following him in disbelief. What had she expected? That he would forgive all of her transgressions and cast aside his honor? She had never even apologized to him! The nerve!

Inhaling deeply to calm himself, James offered his hand to Isadore. She placed her own smaller one in his grasp, eyes beaming her joy at him. He kissed her knuckles and asked, "Lady Isadore, would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to the Yule Ball?"

Isadore's unoccupied hand rose and caressed his cheek. "The honor is m-mine, Heir James."

He ignored the loud, indrawn breath behind them and leaned into the caress. This was what he wanted for the rest of his life: care, beauty, gentleness, and love. "Forgive me for assuming to know your heart," James whispered, suddenly embarrassed at remembering his declaration of Isadore's love for him.

"I f-forgive you." She glanced down at the floor before meeting his eyes as bravely as any Gryffindor. "Your words were true, after all. At least on my part."

James wondered if it was possible to choke on happiness as the words resounded through him. "I assure you, my Lady, the implied emotions on my part are just as true." The unspoken three words echoed from his eyes to hers as he shifted his head and pressed a kiss to the palm of her hand.

Isadore glanced at both of her hands, which he held captive, and then nodded. The light in the room reflected off the glass comb he had given her, making the flowers shine radiantly. "I assure you, James"—his heart fair burst at the use of his first name by itself—"I shall never forget."

Isadore Vaisey perched upon the window seat in her chambers, hands fisted so tightly that her smooth nails bit into her palms. Her reflection in the windowpane was pale and melancholy, bordering on lifeless. Her usually riotous curls hung limp to her waist, and her pale blue eyes resembled frozen tears.

"Why?" The word was barely audible, but it clamored louder than a dying scream in her mind.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Her seventeenth birthday should have been the best day of her life, but each day that existed past it only increased her suffering. It had been two weeks since her birthday. That was fourteen days without a letter.

Isadore had hoped he would send one on his own birthday, even though it was early, but he hadn't. So she had convinced herself it would come on her birthday and be the best present ever. It hadn't.

Two hawks and an owl flew past her window, each carrying a letter on thick parchment. She squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled deeply, chest shaking with the effort to lock away any more sobs. He owned an eagle.

"What's wrong with me?" she whispered.

He had never promised to send an offer, but she had been so sure that he would. It was something she intrinsically knew, just as she knew Geoffrey and Charlotte Vaisey were her parents. Isadore had known since she was eleven years old that she wanted no one but him.

"If only—" Her throat closed as she tried to eliminate the thoughts and questions that harassed her. If only a pureblood witch could offer for a wizard. She would have penned him the moment she came of age.

"James . . . why?"

He had been courting her for years, and there were no secrets between them. Isadore believed with all her heart that he had known she was in love with him. Yet an offer never came—not from him. That could only mean that . . .

She couldn't bear to finish the thought.

Isadore leaned her cheek against the warm glass, wishing it were winter. Then the glass would be cold and frosted over; it would more closely align with how she felt inside.

A sharp, rapping sound echoed through her room, but she ignored it. She didn't want to hear about the newest suitors for her hand. She didn't want to attend any more courtship dates; she didn't want to be forced to smile and accept another expensive gift from someone who only wanted her for her power or beauty.

For not the first time in the past two weeks, Isadore cursed her petite frame. Short and slender pureblood witches had always been the most sought after; it was a sign of great power. Her own mother was slight, but Isadore's power exceeded even Charlotte Vaisey's.

At five-foot-three, Isadore sometimes felt like a child. The wizards her own age were significantly taller than her, and she loathed looking up at others. Even though her height made her prestigious, desirable, James had never viewed her like that. And where many of the taller wizards unnerved her, James made her feel completely safe.

The door hinges didn't creak, but Isadore felt it open. Her chambers were keyed to her magical signature to keep her safe, and she knew whenever anyone other than her opened a door or window or secret passage. As it was, only she had the ability to Portkey or Apparate to or from her chambers. Not even her father, the future Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Vaisey could intrude on her privacy in such a way.

Light footsteps padded across the wood floor, and then Isadore's eyes met her mother's in the glass. Charlotte lifted a hand and tentatively brushed it down Isadore's fair curls. "You've been up here all day."

"I know." Her nightgown was rumpled, as she hadn't bothered to dress for the day.

"Bilnook told me you haven't eaten," Charlotte chided gently.

"I haven't," Isadore said. She couldn't even feel upset that her father's favorite house-elf had tattled on her. It was part of his duties to ensure the welfare of their entire family.

Charlotte wrapped her arms around Isadore tightly, offering silent comfort. It didn't help as much as it normally did. "How can I fix it?" Charlotte asked.

A tender smile was reflected in the glass as Isadore's lips curved the barest bit. Her mother was a truly remarkable witch; she didn't bother asking if something was wrong, or what was wrong—she just demanded to know how whatever was wrong could be made right, and then she would do it.

But this time . . . "You can't." The two words tasted of broken hearts and shattered dreams.

For the first time in her life, hard work, money, her name, and her societal position couldn't be used to get what she wanted. Isadore Vaisey wasn't ignorant; she knew that nothing could purchase love. True love wasn't for sale. And if James Potter wasn't in love with her—as the lack of an offer for an engagement clearly proved—then she knew he would never be hers.

Her father appeared in the doorway and walked toward them, a frown twisting his face in an expression Isadore had rarely seen her whole life. Joy usually lit his face day and night.

"If one of the suitors did something inappropriate I—"

"They did nothing wrong," she said, interrupting him before his imagination could take hold of the erroneous thought. She had no desire to learn where it might lead him.

Isadore shivered as she was forced to remember her four courtship dates. She had never felt more uncomfortable in her entire life than when Heir Bartemius Crouch Jr. kissed her hand; she still couldn't believe her parents had allowed the supercilious prat a chance at all. She wasn't blind enough to think he was interested in her for any other reason than providing him heirs, and she would rather die than touch his bed, let alone lie in it.

Charlotte pursed her lips and tightened her hold on Isadore. "You're sure we can't fix it?"

"Yes, I'm sure," replied Isadore, wishing she could beg her parents to make everything better. Such actions would serve no purpose.

Geoffrey reached forward and lightly grasped her chin, pulling her gaze away from the window. The hazel eyes that met her own were identical to her younger brother's, and dearly loved. "If we can't fix it, can you?"

Can I? she asked herself. Could she make a difference? If so, how?

Tradition and law declared that only wizards could send offers for contracts relating to marriage prospects, so she couldn't offer for him. Love alone guided a human heart, so she couldn't make him love her. So . . . no, there was nothing she could do to make James her own, or herself James's.

The smile on her face was so bitterly accepting that it pained her parents' hearts. "I'll be okay." Those three words were the biggest lie she had ever told.

"That's not what your father asked, darling. If we can't fix it, can you?" asked Charlotte.

Tears stung her eyes, but she barred them from falling as she untangled herself from her parents and got to her feet. She was so pale now that her white nightgown might've been mistaken as part of her skin if it hadn't been so wrinkly. Her eyes were trained on her bare feet as she announced, "Not even you can make him love me, Mum. Not even you can make him consider me worthy enough to be his, Dad."

Ignoring the sharp intakes of breath, she turned and entered her bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind her. She mindlessly stripped and entered the bubble bath Bilnook had drawn for her hours before. It was as warm as she preferred, not that she expected anything different.

For an irrational moment, hatred welled inside Isadore. Her parents were the fairytale romance, especially among the purebloods. Geoffrey Vaisey and Charlotte Nott had been the love of their generation, outshining Orion and Walburga Black.

Isadore had always believed that she and James would attain that distinction, too. Now it was nothing more than a splintered daydream.

Small hands pressed to her flat stomach, Isadore bit her lower lip harshly. She had longed for children of her own, for a family of her own making, for years now. However, that might not be possible now. The thought of anyone but James touching her in an intimate way made her magic crawl beneath her skin. She trusted him alone to not ill-use her.

Isadore was well aware of the many eyes that followed her in public, but especially at Hogwarts. Wizards gazed upon her with lust and desire, as if she was nothing but an attractive vessel that they could own for life to slake their passion in.

The purebloods were wise enough to hide it; the half-bloods succeeded for the most part, but some of the Muggle-born students were crass enough to not only leer, but also speak their filthy thoughts aloud.

In fact, James had broken a wizard's jaw the week before the school year ended when he suggested something that Isadore wished she could banish from her memory.

Her fingers smoothed shampoo through her hair, scrubbing it clean and teasing the tangles apart as she recalled the utter rage on James's face as his fist connected with the wizard's cheekbone. He had always been protective of her, but that one instant in time was when she had managed to convince herself that he was finally over Lily Evans.

"Apparently not," she muttered. The thought that he cared for her enough to protect her honor didn't help. It only emphasized the fact that his love for her was not romantic.

Once she finished bathing, Isadore rose from the bathwater and stood beneath the statue of the tree. Leaves fluttered down and spun around her like a miniature tornado, drying her with the family magic. This one thing, at least, was as comforting as always.

Isadore entered her closet, which was even larger than the bathroom it was attached to, and stared at herself in the mirror. She was a candle that was sputtering, a flame that was almost out of wick, once bright, but now rapidly dimming.

Reaching forward, she touched her reflection; she traced the darkening circles under her eyes, which brought them to her attention. Her magic sped through her body and healed them, bringing some color to her face.

"You look unhappy, dear," her mirror said.

"No," Isadore stated factually, "I look pathetic." This witch in the mirror wasn't her. She didn't loaf around in her pajamas for days on end and bemoan her place in life. She didn't sit and allow time to pass her by; Isadore had always been one to go and do.

Isadore dressed with care, choosing a set of pale blue robes with flowers embroidered along the hem. They matched her eyes, and James had insisted more than once that she looked best in blues.

She opened the ninth drawer of her jewelry armoire and removed the hair-combs he had given her for her sixteenth birthday. It was a set of six antique silver combs, each engraved with a magical creature in a whimsical way. Her favorite had always been the unicorn, because it represented the purity she planned to gift him with someday—back when that had been a possible outcome.

A petty part of her mind suggested that she make herself as beautiful as possible, so that he would see exactly what he had given up. She couldn't seem to overcome it. She tugged the small, intricate lace gloves on her hands, and then slid on matching walking slippers before reaching for the parasol that completed the set.

"You look beautiful and proper, dear," said the mirror.

Isadore agreed with it, but she still didn't look like she was planning to visit James. This outfit was too proper, too formal, too distant, and perhaps just the armor she needed to keep from bursting into tears the moment she saw him.

"You can do this," she told herself. Her mirror reflection mouthing the words back at her was what finally gave her the push she needed to follow through with her plan. Taking a deep breath, she marched determinedly into her room.

Geoffrey and Charlotte stood up from where they had been waiting in the window seat and stared at her in disbelief. "You look lovely, darling," said Charlotte.

Her father nodded his agreement before asking, "Where are you going dressed like that?"

"To find out who stole my place in his heart." Before they could speak another word, she turned on her heel and Disapparated.

Isadore reappeared in the foyer of Potter Manor just as Lady Potter stepped into it. Before she could offer a greeting, Dorea Potter said, "I think it would be best if you leave, dear."

"What?" The word barely managed to escape her throat. Dorea couldn't have possibly just politely kicked her out of her home, could she?

"I doubt he could bear to see you," said Dorea.

Isadore stumbled backward, as if the words were a physical blow. Her arms fell limp at her sides, and the parasol tumbled from her slackened grip to clatter against the floor. He couldn't bear to even look at her anymore? Who had stolen him so completely away from her? "Why?" she asked.

The smile on Dorea's face was pained and sympathetic. "He needs time, dear."

"For what?" asked Isadore. What did James need time for? Time for whatever witch he was courting? Time alone? Privacy while he sought another's love? Each thought was more vicious and agonizing than the last.

"To accept that you'll never love him as a woman loves her husband," Charlus Potter said from the doorway of the front parlor.

"I don't understand," Isadore said. What were they talking about? She did love James as a woman loves a man.

"Please give him until the season starts to try to put this behind him, dear. That's all we ask," Dorea said.

"What are you talking about? Put what behind him?" Isadore felt as if she had accidentally Apparated into a foreign country; she couldn't make any sense out of the words they spoke.

"Your family's rejection of his bonding offer, of course. Are you feeling all right, Isadore?" Charlus asked.

Isadore felt like she was going to faint, swoon and crumple to the floor like all those pathetic women in old-fashioned novels. "My family's rejection of his bonding offer?" she repeated dazedly. That couldn't be right. It wasn't right! She hadn't heard anything about such an offer, and she would never have rejected it.

"Yes, dear. I must admit we were surprised when Geoffrey replied that you hadn't come to love James. Charlus and I had been so sure that—"

Isadore swayed alarmingly, causing Dorea to gasp in worry and rush forward to steady her. Her father had refused James's offer because he thought she didn't love him? He couldn't possibly be that blind! Surely she wasn't that accomplished at hiding her true feelings! Yet, her mother must have agreed with him. That meant . . .

"Where is he?" The words spilled from her lips as a soft sigh.

"I still don't think now is a good tim—"

Implacable resolve steeled her spine as she bit out her question once more. "Where. Is. He?"

"He hasn't left his room in two weeks," Charlus replied.

A bitter laugh echoed through the foyer as she ripped herself from Dorea's gentle hold and raced toward the grand staircase. They were alike, even in their suffering. Except for the courtship dates she had been obligated to attend, she had shut herself away in her chambers, too. Tears stung her eyes, but didn't fall. She had to make this right.

"Where do you think you're going, young lady?" Charlus yelled as he followed her.

"She can't possibly be thinking of . . ."

Isadore tuned them out as she hitched up her robes in an unladylike fashion and sprinted through the manor. Though she had never been in James's bedroom before, she knew exactly where it was. She had never crossed the threshold into his private chambers, just as he had never been into hers. As pureblood heirs, as the social elite, such a thing was taboo. Right now, Isadore didn't care in the least.

If Charlus and Dorea had cast spells at her, they would've caught her before she did the unthinkable. However, likely due to their love for her, they did not. She would be ever grateful for that oversight on their part.

Isadore paused outside his bedroom door for just a moment, and then daringly twisted the knob and thrust the door open. It slammed against the wall behind it, causing James to shoot up in his bed and stare at her in disbelief.

One step was all that stood between her and crossing a line her parents would be horrified to learn she had even briefly considered crossing. She took it.

James gazed at her with blatant longing in his eyes, which was overshadowed by the deepest pain. He shared in the torture her father had unknowingly and blindly bestowed upon them. "I'm not sure if this is the best dream or worst nightmare of my life," he said, as she walked across the room and stood at his bedside.

His hair was a total mess, scruffier than she had ever seen it. Isadore stripped off her gloves, dropped them on his floor, and then reached forward and burrowed her slender fingers into his hair. It was almost unbearably soft. He sighed and leaned into her touch.

"Definitely the best dream. You feel real, love. I can almost pretend you're actually here," he said.

Lord and Lady Potter appeared in the doorway, breathing harder than Isadore was. "Isadore, you will remove yourself from my son's bedroom at once!" Dorea ordered, looking curiously scandalized at Isadore's improper behavior.

James groaned, head pulling away from her hands to thump back against his pillows. "Worst nightmare, then."

Disregarding Dorea's demand, Isadore placed her hands on James's cheeks and jolted him with her magic. His eyes widened so far she feared he would never again be able to close them all the way. "You're here."

"I'm here," she agreed.

James glanced from his thunderous mother, who was marching over to physically remove Isadore from the room, back to her. "Why?"

After a quick peek at Dorea, Isadore decided to ensure that she and James would get what they wanted. Her father and mother had foolishly rejected the formal offer, which forbade the House of Potter from sending another. This is the only way, she told herself.

In direct violation of all she had been taught to respect and believe in, Isadore joined James on his bed. Everyone but her froze in stunned disbelief at the action she had taken; that gave her enough time to say, "My father's a complete imbecile."

Before anyone could react to that announcement, she flushed a deep red, leaned down, and brushed her lips against James's. It was so soft she almost hadn't felt their lips connect. When James's tongue came out to taste where she had kissed him, she blushed even harder and turned away, sliding quickly off the bed.

Isadore kept her gaze trained on her slippers as she said, "Lord Potter, I'm quite afraid that your son has compromised me. Honor demands that we be allowed to bond or shame our families and dishonor our heritage for all time."

"Lady Isadore Vaisey," Charlus said solemnly, though a quick peek showed his lips were twitching, "I must apologize for my son's inappropriate attentions before bonding. I swear that this matter will be resolved speedily and honorably, without gaining the notice of anyone outside our two noble families."

"That is acceptable." She wrapped her arms around herself, sighing in relief when James folded his arms around her and hugged her to his chest. She hadn't even heard him leave the bed. "Can I stay here? I don't think I could bear to look at Mum and Dad when you tell them I—"

"Tell them it's my fault," James said.

"No!" Isadore pressed her cheek against his chest and winced. "I would rather he think I acted like a hoyden in the name of love than that you were a dishonorable rake who wouldn't take 'no' for an answer and dragged me into your bedroom."

Dorea walked over and patted Isadore's arm. "Your father will understand. In fact, I daresay he'll blame himself for putting you in this situation."

"She's right," said Charlus.

"I hope so," Isadore said. Disappointing her parents was one of her greatest fears.

"I know so," Charlus replied.

James leaned down and buried his head in her curls, inhaling her sweet fragrance. He nudged each comb, his magic radiating pure pleasure. As his hold tightened, Isadore wished to forever remain in his arms.

Moments later, much too short a time, James released her. "Please leave, darling."

"James?" He wanted her to leave?

James's eyes blazed with fire and love as they bore into Isadore. She felt heat rush to her cheeks and nibbled her lower lip; it was both like and unlike the looks she got from the wizards at school: he clearly wanted her, but she could tell it was because he loved her. That made all the difference. His passion wasn't scary, because she knew he would never harm her.

"I spent the last two weeks thinking you would never be mine," he gritted out, face wretched in its mask of remembered heartbreak. "Now that nothing can stop you from being mine . . ." James closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Please don't make this harder on me, love."

Isadore knelt down and retrieved the lacy gloves she had dropped shortly after her entrance into his chambers. She stepped forward and folded his large, tan, callused hand around them. "So that you'll know my hand is yours," she whispered before hurrying out of his bedroom.

After crossing the threshold for the second time that day, she glanced over her shoulder. Her small, lace gloves were cradled in James's hand. He nuzzled them slowly and then inhaled with his nose pressed against them, being as gentle and tender as he had always been with her.

This unvoiced affirmation of his respect and love for her justified the choice she had made. Even if her grandmother was horrified, even if her grandfather was furious, even if her parents were disappointed, even if word somehow got out and she was labeled a trollop, she wouldn't care.

His approbation was the only one that mattered.