“Thank you.”

His congratulations should have pleased her. Once, she had practically lived for his approval. Her whole life, she had been acutely aware that she was being watched. She had been six the first time her photo ended up accompanying a scathing commentary penned by Rita Skeeter. Her father had been so [i]furious[/i]. It had been one of a handful of times she had ever seen him angry. While he had assured her that he wasn’t angry with her for having accidentally toppled a cart at the apothecary, Victoire had resolved to never let it happen again. She’d policed herself relentlessly to keep things peaceful and her name out of the paper. But with Teddy… somehow, she could actually not [i]care[/i] about what others thought of her when she was with him. It had been freeing. It had been mortifying, of course, to read about the World Cup in Patagonia, but in the end they’d had a laugh at Skeeters commentary. She hadn’t been [i]entirely[/i] wrong; Victoire remembered very little of the final match. Teddy’s self-satisfied grin had wiped away her embarrassment. If she was honest with herself, she missed that.

Perhaps it was the dispassionate way he offered his praise. It was ridiculous to expect anything else, but his cool politeness stung. He’d always been so unfailingly sincere with her. She couldn’t bear it, the empty small-talk. Merlin but she was a fool, for everything. She should have stayed home and dealt with Dominique privately, should have gone back to work by now and convinced Senior to let her cut short this miserable excuse for a holiday. She should have nicked a Time Turner and stopped herself from ever setting foot in St. Mungos. At the very least, she should have had a few more glasses of wine.

He mentioned the Prophet—Teddy [i]worked[/i] for them? Victoire had stopped her subscription ages ago, after Skeeter had published a vile, and wildly incorrect, exposé about one of her Mediwizards, who had the misfortune to be the son of a recently exposed Death Eater. It didn’t sit right with her. Logically, she knew that he wasn’t responsible for what his colleagues wrote, but… 

“The [i]Prophet[/i]?” She couldn’t quite keep the trepidation out of her voice. Victoire’s bit her tongue, determined to keep her contempt for the newspaper separate from him. He’d found work, and obviously he enjoyed it. Who was she to judge? At least he seemed happy enough. She couldn’t exactly say the same. “That sounds… exciting.” 

Merlin, why couldn’t she at least sound pleased for him? A pang of envy shot through her, selfish and petty, and Victoire tried to push it away. She didn’t [i]want[/i] him to be miserable. Not truly. But it was one thing to be happy for him from afar and quite another to be dancing with him. This close, it was impossible to forget the taste of him, the dozens of nights she had spent learning him. Even now, she felt almost compelled to be closer to him, and it was only the knowledge that [i]she[/i] had broken them that kept her at bay.

The song had to end, soon—she didn’t think she could handle this proximity much longer. A sense of panic began to set in, as the more logical side of her brain assured her that this was an entirely Bad Idea.