They have the heir and the spare, and the spare is useless. Astoria knows this as deeply as she knows anything – Father loves Daphne, as he well should, because Daphne is perfect. And Father loves Maman, because Maman is perfect. And Father couldn’t care less about Astoria if he tried, and in truth, she can’t particularly blame him.
She is eight years old and she is certain of this. It hasn’t stopped her from trying to win him over; of course, it never works, and she’s a fool for thinking it might. Tonight, she wears a cardigan over her dress, the sleeves pulled over her hands, and she keeps her right hand in her lap and her lips pressed together in a thin line to stop herself from crying. Under the table, her wrist is swollen and bruised and red, an indication of the broken bones beneath. She’d been climbing a tree and she’d fallen, and before she could find the House Elf to help her, Father was calling her to dinner, and she didn’t dare be late.
She didn’t dare ask him for help and so instead she is pale and shaky and in pain, eating with her left hand and wincing when her fork scrapes the plate and her spoon trembles. She’s making a mess but she doesn’t say a word; Father already thinks she’s useless, and weak, and there’s no point in conforming it.
Under the table, her mother accidentally knocks against her leg when she moves to stand, and Astoria shouts out loud at the pain shooting up her arm when her wrist is moved. Conversation stops; Daphne looks at her in concern that morphs into horror when she realizes, and Veronique carefully reaches down to collect Astoria’s hand and hold it up to examine the broken wrist. But Astoria doesn’t see them – she sees Henry, looking at her with disdain. He doesn’t say a word and neither does she, even as the House Elf is summoned, even as Proteus heals and bandages her wrist. She misses the rest of dinner and Henry says that it’s her own fault; Proteus sneaks her food anyway when they’re in the kitchens.
Henry kisses Daphne goodnight and tucks her into bed but when Veronique comes to Astoria’s room, she comes alone, and she tries to make up for his absence but they both know that it’s not enough.
Still, she tries. And it’s more than can be said for Father.
She’s here for Daphne and for nothing else.
There’s a bottle of wine in each hand; it’s because she knows herself too well to think she’s making it out of a family dinner without being absolutely smashed. She’d considered asking Roger to come with her but she can’t quite bring herself to subject him to a Greengrass debacle quite so soon. Once I’m knocked up and you’re stuck with me forever, she thinks dryly, but she misses him if only because now, there’s no buffer, no one to guarantee that either she or Henry are on their best behavior.
Veronique opens the door with a bright smile and a kiss for her daughter. They are close, and Astoria adores her mother as much as she could adore anyone. Even so, Veronique knows better than to try and keep her daughter’s attention when Daphne is nearby; she smiles indulgently, smooths Astoria’s hair, points her towards her father’s study before taking the wine bottles to bring to Proteus.
She doesn’t bother to knock. Instead, she merely pushes the door open and leans against the frame, acutely aware of all the things that make her attire unacceptable – the Muggle designer, the asymmetry, the bare shoulders and the amount of leg showing between the hem of her dress and her shoes, also too high.
“Hey.” Her greeting is directed at Daphne rather than at her father; for him, she merely spares a glance, before her attention returns to Daphne. “You look gorgeous as ever. I brought wine. And I’m borrowing that dress sometime.”
That night, he stayed with Daphne. Telling her stories of Greengrass’ long before her time, as the other half of her history is removed for the manor’s walls. And days later when she asks about coos for her mother, it’s not Cassandra who answers her call. It takes months for her to stop saying that word. But when it happens, Henry begins to teacher her others to fill the gap. Daphne’s just two, but she knows seventy-five different words still Henry grows frustrated when she can’t seem to learn the one he wants her too most. “Brother.” He repeats, holding Daphne on his lap and making her face him. “Baby.” She replies, a confused giggle leaving her as the cycle begins again. He’s patient with her, as thoughts of his son swirl around in his head. How he’ll look, how he’ll talk, how he’ll be everything he dreamed of and more. An heir, his heir. Someone to carry on his legacy in name and more. Everything he wanted, even before Daphne. And he knows he’ll have to be patient with the daughter in his lap, he’d quell her anger before it started. Teach her how to take second best in stride, and love her brother if only because she loved her father and his legacy. She’ll be nothing like her mother, he thought.
She’d need her still, for everything that daughters were good for. Her brother would rise, by standing on her shoulders and she’d take it with grace because her father told her too.
She thought she’d have more time. Henry’s head is the first to turn when he hears the door open, everyone knocked. Except her. It’s the first look of disapproval for the night, and it twists Daphne’s stomach into knots. “A shame.” He breathes low and almost inaudible. Almost. But he makes sure it’s loud enough for Daphne to hear, and her nervous mind to think of a thousand things to fill in the blanks he leaves. “You look beautiful, Astoria.” Daphne compliments, a soft smile offered as she takes in the dress. Everything wrong with it evident in her mind, and it makes her feel uneasy. But maybe he won’t notice, maybe he’ll just...Does she? Daphne hears from her side, and her shoulders shrink into her chest as Henry rises to his feet.
Please, she thought to herself. Please don’t do this now.
