its all about giving

It was the summer of 2017, and this was not—as they say—Nathaniel Pinnock’s first rodeo.

The Pinnock family had been fresh off the plane from New York last summer, and the incorrigible heir to the Giggle Water empire with a purported penchant for scandalous behavior and an inheritance that was nothing short of obscene, was the most nastily sought after debutante escort in a decade. An appropriately nasty sixteen-year-old blonde by the name of Evangeline Whitting ended up winning the honor (after a highly lucrative deal was drawn up between Hamilton Pinnock III and the Honourable House of Whitting, of course), and sure enough Miss Whitting was happily betrothed not a fortnight later. 

This summer, Miss Harriet Jane Pinnock would be making her debut. 

Which was half the reason Nate had even bothered to show up this year; his sister loathed this sort of misogynistic gender-roles bullshit, and Nate could think of no better entertainment than watching her cleverly and passive-aggressively subvert the whole charade right under their father’s phony-aristocratic nose. 

Well. That, and the Pinnocks were practically hosting the damn thing. Which was really just a nice way of saying Giggle Water was fronting the bill for the venue, decor, entertainment, and refreshments for tonight’s event. 

Not that they didn’t get anything in return. Crystal chalices of Giggle Water were lined up in neat rows along every table, ten feet long atop crisp white linens lined with gold leaf and iridescent table displays (complete with live, dancing fairies in floating glass orbs on rent for the evening); they were balanced on trays by the dozen that were being distributed liberally throughout the ballroom, into the hand of every glittering, buttoned up partygoer—one in each hand, in a few cases.

Nate, as a matter of fact, held two empty glasses and one entire bottle of Giggle Water in his hands—the good stuff, nicked from the locked storeroom at their townhouse. He was already pleasantly buzzed, and had snuck off from socializing for a few minutes to find Harriet, and properly toast her misfortune before the debutante entrances began. He ducked into one of the back rooms she’d been getting ready in earlier, thinking maybe he’d catch her in the middle of what Nate fully expected to be the successful seduction of a fellow deb with coiffed auburn hair that Harriet had had her eye on all night. 

“Harriet, if you haven’t managed to seal the deal by now then you might as well—”

But instead of his sister, Nate stumbled in on a young woman with blonde hair. She was sitting down, and the bountiful tulle of her long white gown was fanned out around her like an upside-down tulip. And she was crying.

“Oh. Apologies, I was—” The girl looked up, wiping harshly at her cheeks and glaring at Nate like he’d punched her mother. Nate knew this girl—rather well, unfortunately. Nate dropped the formality act right away and remarked curtly, “…ah, fucking—hello, Xiomara…”

“Nathaniel,” she spat back. Even with her nose red and her eyes bleary, Xiomara managed an impressive amount of acid in her tone. It was true that the debutantes could only be officially offered proposals after their entrance ball, but most opportunistic families in society began courting their children as early as puberty. And Nate and Xiomara Winters had been courted, one disastrous attempt after another, for years. 

They stared at each other in testy silence for at least a minute, and then Nate rolled his eyes, stepped into the room properly and closed the door. “Merde, are you incapable of, fucking—leaving me alone?” Xiomara said, turning away from Nate with a haughty sniff to dab at her makeup in the vanity mirror. “…or is that too difficult a concept for your empty pig-head to process?”

“You do realize you’re not the only deb being presented tonight, right?—or is that too difficult a concept for your conceited air-head to process? My sister Harriet, for starters—maybe you’ve heard of her?” Xiomara gave Nate a withering glance, deeply unimpressed, before dusting a powder-coated puff over her shiny cheeks to erase all evidence of tears. Nate’s chest flickered with annoyance. What the fuck did Xiomara Winters, of all people, have to be upset about, anyway? Nate leaned his back against the door, and took a swig straight from the bottle; even at seventeen he’d already built up enough tolerance to the product his family produced that he was immune to its laughter-inducing effects. 

Xiomara, witnessing this in her peripherals, made a noise of disdain in her throat and said, “Classy.”

And here Nate did laugh, mockingly. “Jesus you’re a frigid bitch…I feel sorry for whatever poor schmuck you’ve suckered into doing all of this sober—who is the unfortunate sap, anyway?” Xiomara’s jaw clenched, and she doggedly refused to to look at or even react to Nate, but he caught in the mirror the sight of her eyes shimmering suddenly with some kind of emotion she was trying fiercely to hold in. And that’s when Nate started actually piecing some things together.

You see, Nate and Xiomara had a mutual acquaintance; Isaac Ortega. The only son of well-known magical fashion industry moguls, Isaac was rich and charming and handsome—a society darling. Nate and Harriet Pinnock had known Isaac since childhood, their families often running in the same business circles. And Xiomara Winters had only been at Hogwarts for a single term, but it was clear to anyone with eyes that her and Isaac were the kind of friends who dealt in benefits. 

Nate also loved gossip, and was both told and overheard a shocking amount of it. Like the fact that Isaac’s parents had urged him to choose a debutante to escort that would look better for their collective image and pristine reputation; despite whatever Isaac may have promised Xi during pillow talk, the fact of the matter was that Xiomara had transferred from Beauxbatons not six months ago completely saturated in scandal. And not the any press is good press kind of gossip that Nate’s father liked to drone on about; no, Xiomara’s scandal was one that distinguished wix still hissed to each other about when she entered a room.

It was bad enough she’d been forbidden from entering the social season in her own home country, and had been forced to hold her chin up as a black sheep in a white ballgown in London’s society. Xiomara could be here, and pretend to be one of them, sure—but no way could she be escorted by a prize like Isaac Ortega. 

And despite how much he truly disliked the snotty French girl with whom he’d been outwardly at war since they’d been repeatedly shoved together against their will, Nate did feel, in this moment, a bit bad for her. She’d already had to endure the humiliation of Isaac dropping her the instant his dear mummy-and-daddy raised a brow at his choices, and if Xiomara also had to walk down that staircase into society by herself? 

She would be fucking ruined.

Nate sighed heavily. He’d been adamant that he would attend this year, to support Harriet (and to drink liberally at all the parties, followed by flirting his way into the bedroom of every high society witch or wizard he could, let’s be real…), but would be dead and buried before he played escort again.

Well. He supposed there were worse ways to go.

Nate walked over and set the glasses right-side-up on the vanity table, and poured Giggle Water into both. Xi wrinkled up her nose, but Nate slid the glass toward her and said pointedly, “He fucked you over, right?” It was a rhetorical question, and one that didn’t need a specified name to be perfectly clear. Xiomara didn’t say anything, but she met Nate’s eye in the mirror, which was all the confirmation he needed. He picked up his glass, took a sip, and then smirked. “Don’t let him get away with it.”

***

“Miss Xiomara Winters, presented this evening by her aunt, Rita Skeeter, who was unable to be in attendance. Escorting Miss Winters is a—oh, my!—Miss Winters is escorted by none other than Nathaniel Preston Pinnock…”

Xiomara’s name was the last one on the list, alphabetically, and as Nate took her white-gloved hand and they descended the long staircase, it was to a clamorous hum of interested murmurs all around the ballroom. Xi, for her part, held her head high and didn’t crack for even a moment—which Nate had to begrudgingly admit that he somewhat respected. Just, you know—not to her face. She was self-absorbed enough without Nate’s help.

Everyone and everything in the room seemed to bubble as effervescent as the refreshments, and the general atmosphere just fucking—sparkled, with the ridiculous splendor of it all. A string quartet took their cues, and the escorts and debutantes all spun into their proper formation for the traditional waltz. Nate’s hand slid into place at the dip of Xiomara’s hip, and they started to move. Nate and his long legs could easily spot Isaac over Xi’s shoulder, dancing with a truly, enviably stunning young witch with thick black hair that hung arrow straight down her long back. Isaac had half his flawless face pulled up into an easy smile, dimple on display, the white of his teeth showing as he leaned in close-but-not-too-close to mutter something to his dance partner that was, probably, utterly delightful based on the way the girl giggled and blushed. 

Xiomara made a tiny, humming sort of sound, observant, and when Nate’s gaze moved back to her she was staring up at him with an incisive, triumphant, very near devious gleam in her golden-hazel eyes, like a hawk who’d just begun to circle its prey. It was alarming.

Nate spun her with the music and then said lowly, “What?”

He’d expected her to, I don’t know—say thank you, or something, maybe, for bailing out her sorry ass at the last minute even though they’d been nothing but nasty to each other at every opportunity for the past few years. Instead a calculating smirk traveled up Xiomara’s face, and what she said to Nate was, “So that’s what’s in it for you, n’est-ce pas?”

They rotated a quarter of the way around the perimeter of the dance floor, and Nate said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

“This, Isaac Ortega—you want him.” It wasn’t a question.

Nate fought to keep the lurch of shock and dread off his features; sure, perhaps he’d entertained the idea of getting his hands and his mouth all over his childhood friend—with whom he’d developed a very entertaining public rivalry in recent years.

But those sorts of thoughts were the deeply, profoundly repressed kind that never, ever, ever saw the light of day. Nathaniel Pinnock did not do crushes, and he did not do pining, and he did not chase people. He got the people he wanted—plenty of people, all the fucking time. End of fucking story.

So yeah, it was just a bit fucking alarming that Xiomara Winters, whom he basically despised and barely knew and honestly, hadn’t even until this moment, thought of as all that smart—that same Xiomara Winters had managed to almost effortlessly spear right through Nate, and see what he thought he’d walled up with impenetrable steel. Nate didn’t know if it made him hate her, fear her, or respect her even more. But he was intrigued enough to find out.

Now it was Xi’s turn to take Nate’s silence as evidence. “Well, you’ll have to go through me to get him. And you should know—I rarely lose.”

“Nor do I.” Nate smirked; oh this was starting to get fun.

“I look forward to crushing you.” Her smile was pearly white and challenging, and it sparked through Nate’s consciousness like a firecracker. 

1. 

The fire is slowly dying

And my dear we’re still good-bye-ing…

2017, Ravenclaw Common Room

Whatever Nate had taken before the party must have been strong, because one minute he was taking a shot with Harriet and looking at the snow falling outside the high windows of the Ravenclaw Tower, and then he blinked, and the next thing he knew he was sitting on a couch in front of the glowing embers of a dying fire in the fireplace, and the common room was dark and deserted and cold (re: dying fire), and Nate had no fucking idea how long it had been or how long ago the party ended. 

He glanced around and noted a few other stragglers passed out on various pieces of furniture, but none that Nate knew well enough to be worth waking up. It was definitely too late for patrols to still be going on, though, so he could likely get away with just slipping down to the dungeons…but god, all his limbs felt so fucking heavy. 

There was a glass of water on the table beside him—Harriet, maybe? That seemed likely—and Nate drank the whole thing in one gulp. He was still contemplating the inevitability of getting up when he heard a voice from the hallway that led to the dormitories:

“Wow—could you be any more of a stalker right now?”

Nate would have known this voice without looking, but he moved a heavy-lidded gaze to Xiomara anyway. He rolled his eyes and then rubbed them, leaned his head back. “Fuck off, Xi. I fell asleep.”

“That’s not what I heard…” she sing-songed, mockingly, and didn’t elaborate. She walked over and stood in front of him, a smug expression of lofty superiority on her face as she looked down at him. This close, Nate could smell the sex-stink coming off her. He could smell Isaac all over her. Nate tried not to breathe.

“What do you want?” he growled, irritable. 

“Just taking in the sheer desperation. It’s adorable…” Nate moved to stand up and brush past her and this bullshit but Xiomara pushed him easily back down with one hand. She followed this movement by leaning over Nate, her hands one either side of him on the back of the couch, pinning him there like a bug in a case. She said in a low tone, sinister-sweet, “…it’s never going to happen. You’re trying too hard, hanging around all the time…it’s pathetic.”

Nate tilted his head up and their faces were close; when he breathed a derisive laugh into hers, it ruffled the strands of blonde hair that fell around her cheeks. “More pathetic than you hanging off him all night and then sneaking out while he’s asleep so that he doesn’t have to see you in the morning? Because of his rules?”

Xi narrowed her eyes at him and Nate thought she might hit him. Instead, he saw heated anger flash behind her eyes, and then she kissed him harshly, like she wanted to cut his slanderous tongue out with her teeth. His hands found her waist automatically and Nate pulled her into his lap; Xi slotted easily up against him, muscle memory. What the fuck was he doing? This was an obvious power play, clearly intended to further humiliate him. And yet Nate couldn’t stop. God, he couldn’t stand her.

Xi’s hands moved from the couch to dive through his hair, and Nate grabbed her by both wrists and physically held her back. She squirmed, but the smirk on her face was still maddeningly self-satisfied. 

“Can we just skip this part and you tell me the fucking punchline already? Or did he not satisfy you?” Nate was aiming for insulting but it came out kind of bitter, and Xiomara’s smirk just widened like she could see straight through Nate’s attempts to be cruel and indifferent. She rolled her hips in precisely the right way. You fucking bitch.

“Maybe I’m just insatiable,” was the line she flung back, and Nate released her wrists, giving in. He couldn’t stop himself smirking. Yeah. Me too.

2.

There’s bound to be talk tomorrow

At least there will be plenty implied

(If you caught pneumonia and died)

2018, Quidditch Commentator’s Booth

Nate took the stairs a few at a time and slipped into the booth unannounced. 

Xiomara’s head shot to him sharply and she said, “How the fuck did you get in here?”

“It was unlocked?” Nate replied, like she’d asked a very stupid question, shaking snowflakes from his hair.

“Well, leave. I have a job to do here and I can’t have you distracting me with your incessant chatter and your irritating accent…”

Nate, who had no intention of leaving, moseyed blithely further into the booth, smirking. “Ah, come on, Xi—if you hadn’t noticed, it’s fucking sleeting out there—”

“Oh, poor Nathaniel Pinnock is cold—never mind the people flying around in the storm on broomsticks, I’m sure they’re just toasty—”

“Hey, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw choosing not to postpone the game is not my problem—”

“You’re not my problem. Get out—”

“But what if I catch ill, Xi—”

“For fuck’s sake, Nate—”

“—and then die and it’s all your fault—”

“That sounds like a win to me.” For all intents and purposes, they were bickering. But Nate could see the mirth in her expression. Xiomara was a person who bored easily, and sparring with Nate amused her. It was familiar. It was fun.

And Nate was a gambler, who favored reckless choices. Taking his chances, he slid down to the ground in front of her. “How ‘bout if I ‘occupied my mouth in a better way,’ as you like to say?” 

His gaze met hers challengingly, and Nate could see her searching it for weak spots, testing to see if he was bluffing. But Nate never backed down on a dare, so he didn’t falter, and he could see the wheels in Xi’s head spinning with deliberation. It was a dangerous offer—enticingly dangerous—and one that Nate would retract if she waited too long.

Finally, after a prolonged silence: “Ugh, fine.” Xi was just barely able to pull off a slightly-put-out edge to her tone before she eagerly pulled down her tights. 

Nate smirked victoriously, and reached up under her skirt to hook a finger in her panties and slide them down Xi’s thighs. He pushed her knees apart. “Don’t forget the game starts in three minutes, and so does your voice amplification charm.”

“Well you’d better hurry up, then,” Xi replied, expectant, coy.

“Gladly…” Nate said as he buried his face between her legs. He always did like a challenge.

3.

Away in a manger

No crib for a bed…

Putney, 2021

It felt like it’d been literally years since they’d had the house to themselves.

First the fallout with the hedges, which should have come as some relief to Xiomara, who’d been against sharing their flat in the first place. But as soon as she’d started to lean into the role, she had loved her stint as Queen Hedge, almost as much as Nate had loved the constant thrum of safehouse activity, of magic. Stuck in the suburbs without FTB now felt empty for them both.

But they’d bounced back, as they always did. Xi was gaining traction with her freelance sports coverage and she’d just finished covering the longest-running Quidditch World Cup in known history. And going into business with Harriet did provide Nate with the fast-paced motivational pressure that he needed to avoid falling into old habits. 

So it was kind of nice, to be alone for a quiet Christmas. Well—after Christmas, technically. They’d both gone to the Annual Outterridge Dinner last night, so were celebrating belatedly just the two of them. And the weather wasn’t quiet, either—the wind outside their flat was howling, and all the weather reports warned of a severe winter storm blowing in. 

“No, it’s too cold…” Nate protested lightly as Xiomara, straddled over him on their bed, began unbuttoning his shirt. Though his tone and easy smirk revealed how little he actually wanted her to stop.

“Is that a complaint I’m hearing?” Xiomara teased, pushing Nate’s arms up over his head and pressing them down gently into the mattress, without real intent. 

“Why, Mrs. Smith—when have you ever known me to complain about anything? I’m a picture of complacence.” 

“Merlin, shut up.” Xiomara rolled her eyes at him, and then squeezed around his middle hard with her legs, chastising. 

Nate laughed and muttered with amusement, “Ow, okay…” and when he tried to move Xi pressed him down playfully and held him down, and when she kissed him it was definitely with intent, now. Nate gave a hum of desire, straining a little against her grip, kissing her back needily; Jesus, she could play him like a fucking fiddle, couldn’t she? But Nate didn’t care. He loved this, unreservedly. He loved—

Nate’s phone on the bedside table chimed abruptly, and Nate and Xi both paused what they were doing. They held still, and waited; please, for the love of god, fuck off, just for a little while—

The phone chimed again, and Nate groaned while Xiomara released her hold on him and sat back, miffed. Nate turned his head and stared at the phone without reaching for it, willing it to stay silent. Maybe he could shift some probability, if he really thought about it. He looked up at Xi and tried, “It’s—probably just Harriet, scouting locations. She can wait until—”

Another infuriating little chime, followed quickly by another. Xi raised a brow at Nate: you were saying? Sighing frustratedly, Nate slid out from underneath his girlfriend and reached for his phone, and glasses. Brow furrowed, he swiped through the series of texts and then said, “Oh, shit. Piper went into labor…”

Xi held Nate’s hesitant look for a moment with scrutiny, and then she sighed, and flopped back onto the bed, resigned. 

“I don’t have to go…” Nate reasoned.

“Yes, you do. You said you would, and Blair’s probably smothering that poor simple girl right now…you should go distract him.”

“What about the storm?”

“You have a coat, you dumbass. And you’re a fucking wizard, figure it out.”

“But they’re on a farm,” Nate whined, even as he was already standing up, and rebuttoning his shirt, and putting on shoes. 

“He’s your friend,” Xi reminded him as she tucked her legs underneath the duvet and grabbed a stack of typewritten papers from her nightstand and a pen to edit. 

Nate shrugged on a coat, and buttoned it, and wrapped a scarf around his neck. “Oh, but he’s not just that anymore, is he…?” Nate said enigmatically, with an impish smirk. Xiomara looked over at him, not understanding what he was getting at. Nate held for dramatic effect, then took a breath and continued, “True, it may be a day off…”

Suddenly piecing it together, Xi said, “Nathaniel Pinnock, don’t you dare—”

Nate continued cheekily right on through her protestations. “…but it’s close enough that I’d say it’s undeniable…”

“I swear to Merlin Nate I will—” Xi grabbed a book from the nightstand and held it up threateningly.

“…that Loxley Blair is the one true…”

“Nate!”

“…Christmas Daddy.”