“Don’t apologise,” Porphyria scoffed firmly, and perhaps a little fond; she was not terribly interested in hearing Mrs. Malfoy make excuses for herself. She hardly expected the woman had done it on purpose, after all. So, as she attempted to gently pull her up to a sitting position, Phyri shifted beside her and tucked her arm around November’s back to steady her there.

(She tried very hard not to be reminded of her own Browning poem, sitting side by side like this, an arm about the waist; Porphyria’s yellow head and still-blushing cheek propped against her lover’s shoulder through the night. That thought stirred something in her before she could help herself.)

“Does it happen often?” Phyri asked after a movement, curious but guessing November Malfoy might indeed have a habit of it – for her part, this whole circumstance was rather uncommon. “I could almost thank you for it, besides,” she added (to make her feel less embarrassed), with a little ironic smile. “Now I know just what it must feel like to be a handsome rake.” She shook her head with scornful amusement at the thought – she felt like handsome rakes in general were already afforded too much power by society, even before eligible young ladies came swooning at their feet to catch their attention or their hand.

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