Note: I’m sorry for this chapter coming so late. Thank you for the reviews, they keep me writing, even in the darkest times. I hope you enjoy the chapter. : Please, leave a comment, a review, whatever you want to call it. It would be very appreciated.

MOVEMENT TWO.

ANDANTE CON MOTO.

You look at the mirror and think you are beautiful: you are by far the most beautiful high-class woman among all the Pureblood families your family knows. You inspect closely every single pore on your face, in search for some imperfection that would irremediably ruin the perfection of this day. Because this day must be perfect, and it is not because you want it to be so, no, it is because it is supposed to be perfect and no flaw on your part will ever be forgiven.

The mirror reassures you, “Perfection, milady, your skin is absolute perfection.” You are finally satisfied, you can stand up from the golden chaise-longue you were resting on and adjust the white veil on your beautiful silky black hair. You smooth down an inexistent wrinkle on your dress and you think you are ready to go. There is no fear in your eyes as you take a deep breath and turn the handle of the door, ready to go out among all your friends, your family and all the people that really matter in the Wizarding World. You stop for another second, look once again in the mirror and suffocate the little anxious voice which has just raised in your chest. You are a pureblood: you are not supposed to be anything else but calm and collected on the day of your marriage.

You turn again to the door, this time really ready to go. You already made the guests wait more than enough to see you, as it is prerogative of a bride. But once again, you are not able to get out of the small carpeted room which has been assigned to you: you hear a loud crack! and then he is right in front of you, slightly towering over you. He has a naughty glint in your eyes and you do not know what to expect from Orion. You never know what to expect from him: he seems to skillfully get around the Pureblood manners he has been taught and do whatever he pleases, whenever it pleases him. You have grown to find it quite fascinating of him, but now he is not supposed to be where he is. He shouldn’t. He must go, has to, and you are going to send him on his way.

“Orion, the groom is not supposed to see the bride before the wedding ceremony. You must go.” You address him harshly, hoping he will immediately catch the hint that you are not going to be messed up with on the day of your perfect marriage. He is not going to spoil the perfect first day of your new life as a married woman.

He does not take the hint you placed in your words: either he has not got it or he has chosen not to understand it. It really gets on your nerves sometimes, seeing his mischievous smile and his eyes fixed on your lips as you talk, as if you are not really speaking, just moving your lips like a Marid outside the water.

“I happen not to care,” is his answer. “I came here to know if you were dressed properly for the occasion, my darling. After all, you are supposed to be perfect, both on the outside and inside.” He underlines the last word with a wink that sends shivers down your spine. But you are not going to let down you calm façade, he is not going to know what he does to your body: it would give him too much power over you, power which you are not going to let him have this easily.

“So, now that you have seen me you can freely go your way. You are supposed to be somewhere, darling.” And you show him, you show him you are beautiful, so that he will have no reason to stay further: you turn around and let him see the long white lacy train of your bridal gown. But you make a mistake and the second you notice you have done it, it is already too late.

Turning around you have let down your guards for a crucial amount of seconds that give him enough time to get close to you, close as he is not supposed to be. And now he is all hands, all incomprehensible whispers, all feather kisses placed at the base of your neck. Your hair is going get ruffled, but you know better than to stop him. Your mother told you the way to keep your husband faithful.

You pretend to give in and lean into him, whispering a conspirative “Orion…” into his ear. You count in your head one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. “Orion, you have to go.” The sweetness in your voice is gone; you are once again cold and firm as the ice. This time, you are not going to give in. He has obtained more than enough for a single day.

He places another couple of feather kisses on your shoulder and then, after a crack! he is gone. You look pleased into the mirror: you have him in the palm of your hand, as any good Pureblood wife would.

You open the door and you are greeted by the cold smiles of your family and ihis/i family, which is almost the same: purebloods are all related to each other, in some kind of way. The icy stares of the guests do not spoil the perfect happiness of your day. You regard them with the same coldness: after all, you are not supposed to show any kind of feeling on the outside. Purebloods do not feel emotions.

As you walk into the impressive ballroom which has been prepared for the nuptial ceremony, you feel like everything in your life is suddenly coming together. Your father holds your arm; then he looks at you and whispers: “My darling, we have all invested so much into this marriage: give us no reason to be ashamed of you.” You courtly nod and hold his gaze and think he has never understood you in the least or else he would not have thought he might be less than proud of your perfect manners.

He covers your face with the immaculate white veil and then it starts. It starts, the show of your live you would think it started eighteen years ago, but it really did not. The show of your life starts now, in this moment: in a few minutes you will pronounce two simple words and you will finally take your place in society as a real lady; you are not a young girl anymore.

I do, I do, I do. In the past few days you have practiced the words in the mirror to give the perfect tone to your melodious voice: you do not want to sound hesitant, but not too keen either. You already know what to do when it comes the right time: say the words and then look expectantly at your groom. Keep him put under your stare: he does not have to flinch for a second. He is not supposed to hesitate: he is marrying the most beautiful Pureblood woman around, after all. He should feel blessed, if Purebloods could have feelings other than disappointment and pain.

You walk to the centre of the room and subtly admire the elegant decorations you have chosen for the day: Prussian blue and white fill the atmosphere with solemnity and lavishness, just as you always imagined a marriage should be. Your eyes then shift to the small clearing where two figures are standing: one is the Ministry officer who will celebrate the nuptial ceremony, the other is the groom. Your handsome groom.

You have seen him no more than ten minutes ago and yet he looks so wonderfully new and amazing and perfect: the perfect Pureblood groom for the perfect Pureblood bride. You smile widely, triumphantly. You know it is not appropriate (you should be shy and hesitant), but you allow yourself to live ten seconds of un-appropriateness – after all, no one will see you, except for Orion and the pompous Ministry official, and he hardly even counts.

You smile and you think you have made it: you have successfully found yourself a place in society, a first class place. You have found the perfect-looking husband, charming enough to attract the envy of other women but not stupid enough to betray you; with him you will form the perfect Pureblood family, the one other Purebloods will look at as a model. You have done everything a Pureblood woman should accomplish in life, so you allow yourself to be freely happy and show it, just this once.

You leave your father’s arm and wait for a kiss on the cheek, fast and precise, as any cold kiss that could ruin your make-up should be. You turn again to the centre of the room, and this time you look straight into Orion’s eyes and find in his a match of your own gaze. He is determined to do this right, as you are: he has been raised to your same principles, and he knows this is no time to mess things up.

You are about to sign a binding contract, the two of you; so are your own families: the Blacks and the MacMillan-Blacks. You are uniting two of the most influential families of the Wizarding world in front of a crowd of people who is perfectly aware of what is actually happening. There are no happy or tearful faces among the guests: the only smiles you know are there are just are either pleased or slightly worried of the economic and politic consequences of this one simple wedding.

At the moment, however, you could not care less for them: your focus is all on Orion and on deciphering the mischievous glint which has flared for a second in his eyes. He would not dare, wouldn’t he? Not now, not in front of a two-hundred-thirty-six people audience. Your smile does not falter, but it turns somewhat cold – a menacing warning has never looked sweeter than yours.

You take two finals steps alone, all the eyes fixed on you. You end up next to him, next your groom, next to the one you have chosen among so many, the one who will be your husband in a few minutes – sixteen, to be exact; in one word, you end up next to Orion, who is all those things in one. Is it wrong that he means so many things to you? Should he even count this much? You forgot to ask your mother, when you were given the chance, and now it is no time for questions or foolish doubts.

You look at Orion, nod and then smile, as you have rehearsed hundreds of times these past few weeks. He knows what to do next: he takes your right hand up to his mouth and kisses it, a second too much for it to be considered formal, you would have to say. Your eyes meet for exactly one, two, three seconds and then you both turn to the Ministry official in front of you.

He starts speaking, you see him moving his mouth, open and then closed, then open again and then close. You could recite by heart what he is saying, but you don’t really pay attention. You feel a little anxious, as if something could go wrong at any moment, as if your groom (Orion, you think, you keep thinking his name, it is becoming an obsession) could run away any moment and destroy all you have worked hard for in your life. If something like that happened, not even your astounding beauty would be enough to save you from complete ruin.

Orion’s hand fall into yours and he squeezes it – you wonder for a moment if it is a somewhat affectionate gesture (you have not bargained for affection; affection is a sentiment: sentiments do not belong in the Pureblood way of living), but the you realize you are three minutes in the ceremony and it is exactly what he is supposed to do. Except for the squeeze. You reciprocate it, in a vain attempt to say that he should not even think about doing it ever again. Not in public, at least.

You find yourself yet again unable to listen to the officer – his voice is not monotonous, a series of bla bla bla in the back of your mind, until it comes to the question: “Will you, Orion Black, take Walburga to be your lawful wife, love her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health and, forsaking all others, keep only unto her so long as you both shall live?”

You wait without even breathing. If he hesitates more than three seconds, it will be an official disaster. One, t- “I do,” you hear, loud and clear, and you can breathe again.

The Ministry official keeps on going, as if he were untouched by the momentous event which has just taken place. “Will you, Walburga Black, take Orion to be your lawful husband, love him, honor and keep him in sickness and in health and, forsaking all others, keep only unto him so long as you both shall live?”

“I do.” And it sounds so perfect, like you have always imagined it. You almost have a new life, just a few more sentences to say and you will be done.

“In the presence of our family and friends, I give you, Walburga, my firm commitment to be faithful and loyal to you, in sickness and in health, good times or bad, in sadness and in joy. I do promise to love you…”

“…unconditionally, to help you make your dreams come true and to respect and honor you. I cherish you, my dear Orion, for as long as we both shall live.” You say it, one after the other, without even thinking about the words: your mouths move automatically after all the rehearsal which has been done.

And there you are: husband and wife, as you always imagined it would be. He takes your left hand and slips a goblin-made ring on your ring finger and then gives you the most meaningful look you have ever seen on a man. And then he kisses you, straight on the mouth, like he should not be doing in front of an audience, but you really cannot push him away, because it would just cause a useless commotion. You close your eyes and hope all the tingling down your spine will be over soon.

... ... ...

“Walburga?” He has a sleepy voice, but, except for that, he is perfectly awake. He looks at you from the bed, from a mass of tangled sheets (he is so unable to sleep properly, on his side on the bed) and has probably thought that this was the best moment to ask you something.

He is right. The baby has just stopped moving in your belly and you are calm enough to slowly comb your hair, braid by braid. It quite surprises you how he is managed to get to know you so well when you always feel like you know nothing about your husband.

“Yes, Orion? What is it that you want?” You will not let him name your son Alphard, if it is that that he is thinking. Your son will have a more perfect name, because he too will be perfect, a perfect Pureblood baby. As soon as you knew that you were pregnant you decided to name him Sirius, the brightest star in the sky, a star belonging to the constellation of Orion, the celestial hunter. You will not hear otherwise.

“Do you love me?”

As the question sinks in, your eyes open wide and the brush gets stuck in your hair, in a very un-Pureblood, imperfect way. “What kind of question is that?” What is it that he is thinking? Love is an emotion: Pureblood are not supposed to have any other emotions except for triumph, mild happiness or indifference. That, and hate for Muggle-borns.

Love. What is he thinking? You will have to teach him to think properly: you do not want to be embarrassed in front of your acquaintances, especially in the state you find yourself in. A state he has put you in.

“A question to which I would like to have an answer.”

“I surely cannot love you. Purebloods are not supposed to feel any kind of emotion, you should try to keep that in mind,” is your stern response. You resume combing your hair. Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven... Pureblood princesses brush their hair a hundred times a day.

“But if you were not a Pureblood, would you love me? Hypothetically speaking, of course, dear.”

You take your time to answer; you are desperately trying to decipher his mind, to understand what he wants you to say. But his eyes are unreadable, you see them from the mirror: cold grey steel meets your darker, bluer ones.

“I would surely lust for you, dear. After all, you are the most handsome man I have ever seen.” He seems satisfied, because you hear no further questioning. You stay in silence. Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, a hundred. You put out the candles with your wand and go to bed, but you lie awake, you cannot sleep. After some time the baby starts kicking again.

He does not sleep either, but you pretend not to notice.

“Walburga?”

“Yes?”

“Would you love me, if we kept it a secret?”

“Ask me tomorrow, Orion.” You really fall asleep then, but you do not know if he does too.