His hands pause for just a moment before continuing their gentle work. "Not much to tell. Lost them young, been on my own since."
"That must have been terrifying."
"You adapt." The automatic response, delivered in that neutral tone people use when they don’t want to talk about something. But then he glances at me, and whatever he sees in my face must convince him to try again. "Yeah, it was terrifying. But also… freeing in a way. Nobody’s expectations to live up to. Nobody’s disappointment to carry."
"I can’t imagine that kind of freedom." The admission tumbles out before I can reel it back in.
"What do you mean?"
I focus on working through a tough tangle, buying myself time to find the right words. I should be careful. He's practically a stranger—someone I found hiding in my cottage just days ago. But the patience in his gaze makes me feel safe enough to tell the truth. Or maybe I'm just desperate to finally say these things out loud to someone who might actually understand.
"I’ve never made a decision that was entirely my own. Where I live, what I study, who I spend time with, whatI wear to dinner—everything gets filtered through what my parents think is appropriate or safe or beneficial to the family image."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It’ssuffocating." The word comes out sharp, filled with years of carefully suppressed frustration. "Sometimes I feel like I’m living someone else’s life instead of my own."
Draco goes very still beside me. "Whose life?"
The question hits like a slap. I’ve never put it into words before, never admitted even to myself what I’ve always known on some level.
"My sister’s," I whisper.
Lucky shifts between us, but neither of us stops our gentle brushing. We’re frozen in this moment of truth that feels too big for the cozy room.
"Tell me about her."
I close my eyes, seeing Grace’s bedroom exactly as it’s been preserved for twenty-seven years. The white canopy bed with its perfect coverlet, the bookshelf lined with classics and Harry Potter, the silver hairbrush set—almost identical to the one I’m holding—still waiting on her vanity as if she might return at any moment.
"Grace. According to everyone who knew her, she was perfect. Beautiful, brilliant, charming. She was supposed to take over the family foundation, marry someone appropriate, carry on the Pembroke legacy." My voice gets smaller with each word. "But she died in a car accident when she was sixteen. My mother was driving." The silver brush in my hand feels foreign, as if I’m holding Grace’s instead of mine.
"How old were you?"
"Not even born yet. My parents had me two years later." I open my eyes and find Draco watching me with an expression I can’t read. "They named me Charity because… because they said after losing Grace, they needed to remember the virtue of giving. Of hope after devastating loss."
"Goddess, Charity."
"I think they’ve been trying to turn me into her replacement ever since. Same education, same expectations, same careful cultivation for the same life she was supposed to live. The only difference is they’re more protective now, more afraid of losing another daughter."
The words hang in the air between us, and I'm shocked I said them out loud. I've never told anyone this. Not my therapist when I was younger, not even the few girls my parents allowed me to see during shared tutoring sessions. But somehow, sitting here with dog hair all over us and Lucky sighing contentedly between us, it feels safe to say the truth.
Draco sets down his brush and studies my face. "You want to know what I think?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"I think Grace was probably wonderful. But she’s been gone for twenty-seven years, and you’re here now, and you deserve to live your own life instead of the ghost of hers. That isn’t rebellion,” he adds. "It’s justice."
The words hit me with startling clarity. For the first time in my life, someone is suggesting that being myself might be more valuable than being a pale imitation of someone else.
"But I don’t know how," I admit. "I don’t know who I am when I’m not being the perfect daughter or the replacement child or the charity heiress. I’ve never even been to a movie by myself, never chosen my own clothes without considering whether Mother would approve, never had a conversation with someone who wasn’t carefully vetted first."
"Then maybe it’s time to figure it out."
There’s challenge in his voice, and something else. Possibility. Like he’s offering to show me a world I’ve only imagined.
Lucky chooses that moment to stretch luxuriously, showing off his now-gleaming coat. Our grooming session has transformed him from a bedraggled stray into something beautiful.
"There," I say, running my hand through his silky fur. "Much better."
