Chapter Text
Septimus
Septimus Hyperion Malfoy, first of his name, stood in a corner of an ornate ballroom in the Malfoy chateau in Saint-Émilion. He sighed as he grabbed a glass of champagne from a floating tray and took a deep sip.
The ballroom blazed with candlelight and the golden twinkle of magic. A grand chandelier hung from the center of the room—candlelight reflecting off thousands of crystals laced within its arms. Globes of golden, twinkling light floated about the ceiling in a magical dance. Gilded trays floated about the room offering guests champagne or lemonade or any number of delectable treats. The sound of laughter echoed off the gilded, frescoed walls.
Septimus could hear the tapping of a conductor’s baton against a musical stand. A small orchestra began to play a waltz. Hands were offered, hands were taken. The dance began. The heat in the room seemed to rise. The scent of the ornate floral displays decorating every corner of the room overwhelmed him. What had begun as a pleasant undercurrent of roses in summer, was now a choking, inescapable odor. The air hung heavy, suffocating.
Septimus tugged at his collar, the heat continued to climb. Suddenly his heavy robes and well-tailored evening dress seemed itchy and unbearable. His heart hammered against his ribcage, begging for escape.
He placed his empty champagne coupe on a passing tray. He slipped out a side door and fled down the hall. He had to get away, he had to escape. Septimus tore his white cravat from around his neck. He wrenched open the buttons on his pressed white shirt—several skidded across the polished marble floor as they were ripped from their places. The sound of laughter echoed down the hall from the confines of the ballroom.
His hand clutched at the brass knob of a familiar room and he heaved the door open. He flung himself into the room and slammed the door behind him. He tore at his black evening robes, wrestling them free from his body.
His chest heaved as he gulped for air that would not come. Deep breaths could not sate him—he felt as though air was coming in but it was mercilessly devoid of any oxygen. He sank against the door, sliding down to the floor. He put his head in his hands and tore at his white-blond hair. Harsh breaths shuddered in and out. After some moments he was able to capture a fulfilling breath.
Across the room, he heard a polite, delicate cough.
Septimus’s head snapped up. His hair, having been mussed in his episode, flung out in all directions. His cheeks were flushed, and his mouth dropped open in surprise. His shirt was torn open at the collar, exposing his lean, muscular chest. He looked, in short, like a madman.
Wide, pale blue eyes stared at him from over the top of a book. A woman with swooping golden blonde hair was sitting in his library—reading. Or, rather, had been reading until he had stormed into the room scarcely dressed.
Delicate, silver silk evening slippers sat in a pair at the foot of the chaise. The woman’s bare feet were tucked beneath her. Ice-blue satin pooled all around her. Her dress was embroidered along its edges with sparkling, silver silk thread. Her dress was cut low and hung about her shoulders, as was the fashion in Paris that summer.
“Are you—” she eyed him curiously, “—quite all right?”
Septimus’s brow furrowed. What was this woman doing in his library? He stood and took a single step closer to the woman.
“You do know that the ball is happening down the hall?” He attempted in vain to refasten his shirt, finding it rather unwilling given its lack of buttons. “Do you usually make it a habit of perusing your hosts’ private libraries when you are a guest?”
The woman raised an eyebrow sceptically.
“Septimus Malfoy, I presume?” she asked lightly.
Septimus tipped his head.
“And you? I don’t believe I’ve yet made your acquaintance.”
She ignored his question.
“Do you usually make a habit of stripping away most of your clothing in front of your guests?”
Septimus’s mouth flattened into a line.
“Not usually,” he ground out.
The woman hummed.
She tilted her chin up, and peered down her nose at him—her gaze made him feel like he was being measured and found wanting. She seemed to decide something, and snapped her book shut, placing it on the table next to the chaise. Her small feet appeared from under her blue satin frock as she untucked them and slotted them into her waiting slippers. She rose from her seat and brushed the wrinkles from her dress.
“It was lovely meeting you, Septimus,” she said as she crossed the room to the door.
“I would say the same, but it seems that this meeting was rather one sided.”
“For the best, I’d say,” she said as she smirked and slipped from the room.
The door clicked behind her, and Septimus was left staring, brow furrowed at the white oak door.
He looked down at his exposed chest and ran a hand through his rumpled hair. First he sighed, and then he laughed—not believing that any of the last several minutes had actually transpired.
Visual inspiration:
Portrait of Millicent Leveson-Gower, Duchess of Sutherland, by John Singer Sargent