She hadn’t been this angry in months. She hadn’t felt much of anything in months, if she was honest. It was exhausting, being here, drowning in regret and frustration. Victoire wanted nothing more than a box of cheap wine and the solace of her flat. As a child, these dinners had been made bearable with Teddy’s humor and the promise of the quiet of her room. But her room was miles away and Teddy had no humor to share with her. 

Her family, nosey as ever, was beginning to crowd around nearby. They were making half-hearted attempts at concealing their curiosity. Victoire tensed, her spine straightening and heart racing. The feeling of eyes on her made her skin crawl and yearn for the comfort of a disillusionment charm. Her ears burned under the weight of eyes and whispers. The sycamore wand in her pocket was uncomfortably hot, and she half wondered if it would throw up sparks. It had always been attuned to her temper. Sometimes it felt like it was egging her on.

His words cut, but it was her guilt that wounded her more than anything else. He had never stood in her way between her and her family—she had done that all by herself. She had been the one to isolate herself, to hide behind shifts at the hospital and letters. He said she belonged here; Victoire couldn’t disagree more. She loved her family dearly, but Victoire could never quite breathe when surrounded by her plethora of cousins and aunts and uncles. As miserable as the hospital had made her, the freedom from the constant din had been a welcome relief. Living with Naoko had been wonderful. Naoko was more than happy to spend a Friday night on the sofa, listening to radio dramas, or curled up with a book. There were no explosions, no shouting, no demands, no curious eyes, and no elaborate pranks in their home—just peace and quiet. She loved the quiet; and she hated herself for how much she wished that he [i]would[/i] stand in her way.

Victoire felt a muscle in her jaw twitch. Her fingers were burning—her hand had automatically moved to her wand, touching the handle through the pocket of her dress.
“That’s bollocks, and you know it,” she snapped, her voice a low hiss. “My place has never been here. We’re all better for having you here and me at the hospital. Don’t be stupid, it doesn’t become you.”
He told her to piss off. And, despite having caused this, despite having [i]deserved[/i] this, she yearned to hex him. Victoire grit her teeth.
“Gladly.”