You Thought I was Nothing, So I Became a Legend (Declan)

Twinkling crystal stemware and antique china clinked softly around the room as the upper echelons of Europe’s magical community settled into their final course. Tucked away in a well appointed hall of a Georgian mansion in posh Mayfair the diners were assembled for their regular meeting of fine dining and shoulder rubbing. Though no formal name was granted to the bi-quarterly meeting of wizarding Europe’s most pureblood, most powerful, and most connected it was well known to occur. People joked that it was the most important family meetings of the year as so many of the families represented were at some point intermingled by marriage. To be invited was a privilege most were born into and only the most elite earned if they were not born into it. Often special guests were included at the discretion of the host to entertain or educate the group, an honor which gave bragging rights to the guests for no less than half a decade. Hosting duties rotated, the host decided the meals and topics of formal group conversation if there were any.

This evening though the guest speaker was one of their own so no formal announcement had been made priot. Rather the hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Flint had arranged for the speaker’s podium to appear in the middle of dinner rather unceremoniously. Seated at several small tables of six or seven the guests were engaged with their neighbors rather than the goings on of room.

Rising from his seat at the head table Mr. Flint moved to the podium. Tapping his thick wand on the podium he waited as the diners came to order and turned their attention to him. Having already given a welcome speech he kept the formalities short, “I hope everyone has enjoyed their meal and their company this evening. Before we adjourn to drinks and more mingled conversation I have a friend who is going to speak to us about something we, the Flints, feel is of increasing importance. Many of you may recognize her from her social agenda and youth that seems to capture the attention of our British papers. That should not belie the fact that she is spearheading a mission that is indeed very important to us all. I think there is almost no one here who is not familiar with her family, their work, and charity. As a regular member of our parties I know many of you know her and are friends with her elder family members whom she so often serves as a proxy for as their commitments are so varied and demanding. If you could please offer your sincerest attention, Miss Farren Victoria Abercrombie has this evening agreed to share with you the mission of her newest project - The Society for Traditional Magic Preservation.”

Polite applause filled the room as people set down their utensils and glasses, eyes to the front. From her seat at the head table beside Mrs. Flint, Farren rose and graciously shook Mr. Flint’s hand as he returned to his seat. The waif like heiress was an imposing figure in her own right. Pale, tall, with bone structure so sharp and severe it was something between ethereal and alien it was easy for the Abercrombie heiress to draw immediate attention. Tonight was no exception as she was her usual glowing self perfectly styled like a template from a fashion magazine with a green silk chiffon gown with elegant black velvet and lace bodice, a slick sophisticated chignon hair style, and elegant diamond earrings that could only belong to a woman for whom wealth was habit.

At the podium she seemed naturally at ease, her hands resting lightly atop it, her height serving her well as she commanded the space instead of it hiding her. She smiled graciously at the room in a way that was inviting yet somehow conveyed she held a secret you should listen to, “Mr. and Mrs. Flint thank you for hosting us this evening in your beautiful home and thank you for allowing me to speak about my new project and being early supporters of the cause.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends,” she began addressing the group with a casual ease that would make one assume she was an experienced public speaker, “…family.” she concluded joking at the group and herself that so many of them were in some way or another related. There was an appreciative chuckle as anyone in attendance was aware what the public thought of them meeting like this. “I am speaking tonight out of concern for the future of our race. No, I do not speak of just purebloods and those within our periphery. I am speaking about wizarding kind.”

“As you are all aware before the War a creeping erasure of our race began. The inclusion of muggle culture intermingled with traditional wizarding culture has become the norm and is diluting our own heritage. Under our current government diversity of culture is encouraged while the traditions that built our very society are pushed aside and even punished. Though there is no excuse for racial or blood exclusion in the wizarding kind there is equally no excuse for cultural erasure. We must find a way to embrace the blood diversity of our community while upholding our history and traditions. Traditional wizarding ways are increasingly viewed as archaic - even backwards because they are most closely associated with those that support extreme blood purity. These things are not necessarily related.  Just because the arbiters of tradition primarily share a blood type does not inherently make traditional wizarding culture bloodist.”

Farren paused, her eyes scanning the room, her tone was strong and confident and the lack of obvious dissent was encouraging.

“As many of you are aware there was a motion in the Ministry two years ago to increase the property taxes on large magical estates. Estate homes of a certain size and age were deemed undertaxed and to be alienating to the magical public. Pay your disproportionate tax increase or open your private home under government supervision as a public display of culture. Should I be punished for having a historic home and appreciation for magical tradition by our government? Was this law about magical culture for the masses or punishing the few? Every month we see laws put forward that would punish those of us deemed too powerful or too rich or too old by the new government. These laws are wrapped in the cloth of diversity but they cannot disguise that they are using our shared culture against those of us who has been maintaining it the longest. I have been working with allies in the Ministry for two years to change or stop these laws to protect us, to protect my home, my history. Every time we push back they hypocritically say say we are not supporting magical unity. If it is truly magical unity they want and the exposure of magical culture to the magical public why not give it to them?”

The brunette paused, her bright blue eyes lingering for a moment on a face in the back of the room. For a moment she thought it could be a ghost of someone she’d once known. Ever professional she continued, undeterred by a shadowy face she didn’t know.

“We will give them magical culture, we will give them traditional magic history and customs, we will embrace the blood diversity of our society and do everything in our power to include those of diverse bloodlines in our traditional magical culture. We will however, do it our way and not by force from a government who views most of us with distrust and ill will. In cooperation with my cousin, Pyxis Hartridge-Abercrombie, and with support of people like yourselves we have created The Society for Traditional Magic Preservation. It is an organization of like minded wizards and witches of all backgrounds that seek to maintain the sanctity of our rich and important magical traditions and culture in a quickly changing world. Our mission is to make the cultural foundations and traditions of the European magical world accessible to all magical people and propagate a wave of magical culture engagement. Our mission is to promote the great practices and history of our people in a way that embraces those who join our community from outside. Why is the government pushing for us to embrace the influences of outside muggle culture and using our own culture as punishment against those that cherish it? We as a magical community should be embracing those gifted with magic and bringing them into our tradition, our culture, not the other way around.”

A spattering of applause broke out amongst the tables prompting Farren to pause momentarily. “It is our goal to take those with no exposure to magical culture and bring them into the fold instead of embracing outside culture to comfort them. We do not want to exclude any witch or wizard from our rich traditions and culture because of their birth. We want to use every witch and wizard as a foundation stone of a society that honors it’s origins, unique heritage, history and practices. The Flints have been so kind as to place a sign up list in the parlor this evening. If you are interested in supporting our Society or learning more about our causes and projects please do put your name down so that we can send you additional information. I am also more than happy to speak now or later about the Society and our mission. I am sure many in this room can appreciate our mission and that as witches and wizards we will all benefit from uniting under the rich traditions and history of our ancestors. Thank you for letting me interrupt your pudding and wine, I look forward to speaking with many of you shortly.”

Polite but enthusiastic applause rose from the tables as Mr. Flint hurried up from his seat. Murmurs of discussion rose from the tables as the doors of the hall were opened and a light tinkling of piano music from the adjoining parlor filtered in. “Ladies and Gentleman, we will adjourn to the parlor for additional refreshments and entertainment. Again I cannot stress how vital The Flints view this organization, we would also be happy to speak with anyone who is curious about our support for Miss Abercrombie’s cause,” smiling widely at his guests the wizard motioned toward the open parlor before heading back to collect his wife and move into the next room.

As the tide of guests moved from the hall to the parlor Farren was quickly swept up into conversation with others. Ladies laid a hand on her sleeve with an approving nod and congratulated her on speaking so well. Gentlemen offered her a firm handshake and promised to return to speak with her after they’d obtained their libation of choice. Though she was at ease and comfortable speaking and arguing for any of her causes she was not completely immune to the more human aspects of speaking in public. It was the first time she had spoken publicly outside the ministry about the Society which she had nearly created alone. Though she seemed mature beyond her years and in many ways she was she was still a 22 year old who had just given a plea for support to a room of the most powerful witches and wizards in Europe.

Breaking away from the group she crossed the room to the main doors that led into the hallway. A uniformed footman opened the door for her and pointed politely to the left mentioning the powder room was down the hall. No doubt an elf would be there to have her powder for her nose and a comb to run over her hair to ensure not a hair was out of place while she took a moment of solitude to regroup and refocus. The parlor door closed behind her and alone in the hall she could hear the gentle click of her heel and the weighted rustle of her beaded silk dress on the marble floor. A few steps from the powder room she heard the door again and a set of heavier shoes on the marble. Ignoring the person behind her she continued to the door of the ladies’ room. Turning the knob to enter she faltered as the door stuck. Footsteps still moving towards her she looked up wondering if the footman had come to assist her with the difficult door. Hand pressed against the door she stopped her eyes widening in surprise though her smooth expressionless face didn’t show her shock. Not the footman, not at all.







ta-da threw it up just as you said @Declan O'Dwyer

“Allow me,” Declan muttered softly. It only took an imperceptible flick of the wrist to open the bathroom door. “There you go.”

To the outside world this simple exchange between Ms Abercrombie and himself probably looked like nothing of significance, but on a more personal level it was perhaps the most awkward situation he had been in for some time. Farren and Declan had stopped speaking years ago and the times they had crossed each other’s paths’ since then had been few. Perhaps, it would have been easier to just walk past her, but his reaction had been instinctive and without a thought given to the consequences. Crazy ex-girlfriend or not, he had been raised be to a gentleman.

He gave Farren a brief smile as an eternity passed before his mind’s eye. How had he not thought about potentially having to talk to her until now? During dinner, Declan had been in conversation with Gwendolen Harper about the beauty of Irish language poetry. Between that and the excellent pistachio and lemon dacquoise that had been served for dessert he had ignored the inevitable truth of this very awkward situation. Stupid, but he didn’t regret it. How would fretting have made the situation at hand any better?

But now what? Here he was in a beautiful and aristocratic Mayfair home, lost for words. He smoothed over the fabric of the flowy, white robe draped around his shoulders. Maybe, she didn’t even recognise him. Could he just make a run for it? After all, Declan was pretty sure Farren had never seen him dressed in a white three-piece suit complete with matching outer robe and a pale blue shirt. No, of course that wouldn’t work. As far as he knew, Farren hadn’t turned blind in the last couple of years and his grey, mismatched eyes would have given him away no matter the circumstances.

Why had he insisted on attending this forsaken function? In hindsight a belly full of a food and some light entertainment did not seem worth the price of coming here. However, his presence was hardly unusual. Over the last two years, Declan had slowly filtered back into pureblood society. He still wasn’t a supremacist, but he enjoyed both opulence and tradition. There was also the fact that attending functions got him out and about. He spent too much time at Oran na Mara as was, either working on his poetry or balancing the company’s ledgers. Interacting with people had become less of a focus in his life. He had his art and his family and most days that was enough, except when it wasn’t.

Mayfair, on the other hand, was unusual. Declan normally preferred to remain in Ireland within easy apparition distance from his home. There was something about magical travel to London that always made him think about where the Dark Mark on his forearm had been. He could swear that the spot sometimes started to itch, though three separate healers had assured him that his arm was fine. The process of getting over his superstitions or psychological trauma was much harder than he had anticipated. Especially in the evenings he often found himself struggling. A lunchtime gathering though, such as today, seemed much more manageable. He’d build his confidence back up again and things would be better. He didn’t even think in terms of them being anything like they had been before.

Had he been staring? Declan suddenly looked down. This would hardly do. He self-consciously adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “My compliments on your speech,” he offered genuinely. “Seems to me that your society will be a tremendous success.” Internally he was less than pleased with his stilted attempt at making conversation in a last-ditch effort to keep the awkwardness of it all at bay. “Let me grab a drink and perhaps we can talk later. If you’d excuse me, please?” Wasn’t that what countless other gentlemen had said? He hoped he would be able to blend into the masses and get lost in conversation with somebody else. Farren was likely to want nothing to do with him and whatever subconscious part of himself had tricked him into talking to her deserved to die in a fire. Well okay, he was a little bit intrigued as to what his former love might have been up to. However, he was not going to admit that to anyone just yet. Least of all himself.

Farren stood, frozen to the spot, her hand fell away from the door as it slid open a couple inches. So it had been him in the back of the room. Dressed in white it was no wonder she thought he was a ghost. Staring at him with a blank expression her mind blurred with dozens of flickers of the past. Try as she did she couldn’t think of a time she’d been in the same room with him since he’d come to see her perform at the symphony after they broke up. Surely it was only logical that at some point in the last four years they’d been in the same place given their social and business circles overlapped but she couldn’t remember seeing him until now.

“Thank you,” she said softly her brow furrowing slightly as she looked from him to the door and then back at him. He looked healthier but older. Had he always looked this much older than her?  After their embarrassing disaster of a relationship she’d spent a great deal of time compartmentalizing memories and emotions. With time she’d learned the delicate psychological and magical balance needed to effectively reduce the impact or potency of memories. She never erased or altered memories which was known to be dangerous and haphazard magic, scratching here and there in a memory to stitch it back together like crossing out a paragraph in a book and sloppily hand writing in a new one. To heal herself after their split and then cope with the war falling in around her head she’d tackled the much more nuanced and complex work of memory impact manipulation. The memories of her feelings for him had been the first to be manipulated including all the memories of how she built attraction to him this older, awkward, now scholarly looking man. What once would have been a powerful memory, the memory of growing attraction and emotions attached to someone as significant as Declan had been downgraded. Stuck somewhere in importance and power between far more mundane memories. Though the longer she looked at him the more memories of events between them skittered up from the recesses of her mind. None of which extended beyond the end of their relationship.

The fact that this man, who was now an enigma of her memory, had appeared in a Mayfair ballroom at the poshest possible meal one could attend was beyond surprising. This certainly didn’t seem like his crowd. Though undoubtedly part of her, that she was working to ignore, was almost proud that of all the days to bump into him it was today. At one point she would have been extremely invested in appearing to be a powerful, purposeful, mature adult to this man. Back then it would have all been an act. Declan’s Farren - the teenager who had fallen for a Death Eater in a book shop, well she was a silly child whom no one would have ever predicted would be where she was now. It was only natural she thought that she was pleased of all days to re-meet the man she’d nearly wed was today. Today she was everything the girl he’d left in a pool of tears on the floor of her Paris flat was not.

Pregnant silence was interrupted by Declan thankfully. She smiled a little at his praise, “Yes I believe it shall. Several people here are already supporters in addition to the Flints. I have been so heavily involved in this for the last two years it seemed only logical to make it something more formal.”

He seemed a bit uncomfortable so she was not surprised when he excused himself. However she couldn’t help but smirk at the situation now. The two of them, in an empty hallway, stopped in front of a toilet of all places. “So you came out here to assist me with the door and now you’re just scuttling away again?” Her eyebrow arched ever so slightly, challenging him almost, though her tone was more friendly than questioning.

“If you must I won’t stop you but you know….if you try to talk to me in there it will launch a dozen gossip articles,” she didn’t know why she was pressing the man who had first smashed her heart and her life into a hundred pieces to converse with her in a hallway. His eagerness to withdraw from her so immediately piqued her interest. She had been walking ahead of him, he could have turned around and ignored her entirely but he hadn’t. He’d walked up to her and opened a door he knew she was perfectly capable of opening herself - she was a witch afterall, a damn good one at that.

It didn’t occur to her to be scared or embarrassed now. Time had passed, slowly, the time they’d been apart felt like another lifetime. She knew if he disappeared into the parlor she’d not see him again for five years and she wasn’t really sure why he’d appeared here beside her if he didn’t want to stand with her for another moment. It was all so very curious.  “Surely, after all this time we’re capable of having a cordial conversation in a hall?”

Farren wasn’t the only one on a trip down memory lane. In hindsight, it still seemed unbelievable that they had ever become involved. She’d been half a child and he’d been high, depressed, on the run and all over the place. He’d been marked by the Dark Lord just when he was starting to figure himself out as a person and then he had been twisted and manipulated until he didn’t know the man in the mirror anymore. It had taken years to come to terms with who he had been before it all started, who he had then become who he was now. Three facets of the same coin, each different and yet clearly tarnished.

He had better ways of controlling the whirlwind of his emotions these days. Rather than trying to dull his pain with magic and potions, he had started talking to his friends. It had been a long process, but it was infinitely preferable to the near life-threatening cocktail of potions that had kept him going throughout the war and his years as Death Eater. Dreamless Sleep, Blood Replenishing, Draught of Peace and Felix Felicis: four things never designed to be taken in combination and much less on a daily basis. Declan had believed that the potions made him stronger, better and faster, but they had been nothing but a crutch. He was a better businessman, a more creative poet and a far superior duellist without the potions. Once he was no longer dependent, he’d even beaten his famous duellist father in a match. Who needed luck, when you had confidence on your side.

He wondered if he had ever been entirely himself around Farren. Their disastrous romance had been doomed from the start. They’d been two people who had hated themselves and who had been looking for validation in the other, neither getting what they wanted or even what they needed at the time. He’d been strung out on Felix, making a fool of himself and yet at the very core of it all there had been something more. The memory of that still made Declan uncomfortable. It would have been easier to think of Farren as the result of drug-fuelled insanity, but that would have been lying. He’d genuinely liked her, but he’d hated himself for it. Who in their right mind got tangled up with a spoilt pureblood heiress while trying to double cross Voldemort? Of course it couldn’t have worked out for them.

“You know,” he said casually as if this encounter didn’t really matter to him, “it might be fun to be in the papers again. It’s been years since the press last camped outside of Oran na Mara.” There was a little bit of a twinkle in his eye, letting her know that of course he wasn’t serious. He had never known how to deal with the onslaught of media attention that had come with being Mr Farren Abercrombie. His family was ancient and scandalously rich, but they had never had a similar public profile compared to the Abercrombies. Where they spoke to and for everyone with money and influence, Declan’s family was more of a force in the background. Well, except for Declan’s father Fintan. His sporting successes sometimes made the news, when yet again he’d won another tournament. “But I suppose I can’t steal dad’s thunder with the recent winning streak he’s been on,” he joked with her, knowing full well that forty years of unabashed bragging was probably more of a narcissist habit than a streak of any kind. To the public, of course, Fintan O’Dwyer still maintained that he had never been defeated. His son just didn’t count.

Looking at the young woman in front of him, Declan thought it was rather odd that they both seemed to be moved by a bit of subconscious curiosity about the other. Was Farren really inviting him to stay? Was he brave enough to take the offer? Declan hesitated for a moment but then seemed to relax and the severity of his expression eased. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to,” he said softly. “It’s been a lifetime and a half.”

How long had it actually been? Declan tried to do the math in his head, but his memories of wartime were all smudged together into an incoherent mess. In the space of the last seven years he had loved, lost, fallen, gotten back up again and repeated the cycle time and time again. The only thing that had been constant had been the steady flow of ink on parchment as he tried to make sense of it all in the form of poetry. As he considered Farren he tried to find the perfect words for how this encounter felt. Nothing seemed entirely right.

“So how have you been?” He asked with genuine interest. Of course he read the news, had kept up with what the press had to say on the subject. That, however, was not what Declan was asking for. He wanted to know if she felt better and if she had managed to escape the darkness that had surrounded their lives. Having been born a witch, she had always been at a disadvantage there. As a wizard you were allowed, to an extend even expected to act out, but as a witch what was there other than conforming to expectations. It had to be tough.

Declan leaned against the wall, suspecting the answer may take some time and as he was listening his perfect words came to him. This felt like the precipice of Apocatastasis .

Farren chuckled shaking her head slightly at his comment about the press. “I’d like to not cause my Grandfather to have a heart attack if you please, the last thing he needs is to read some salacious nonsense about us being paired off and cozy in conversation at the most important event of my month.”

Her brow creased into a thoughtful scowl, an expression he would know well. “Though…perhaps loitering in a hall in front of the toilet and being cozy in conversation is no better…” she mused the corners of her lips turning down slightly. Shrugging she offered him a hint of a smirk. “I suppose we will always be fodder for speculation and rumor. What a cross to bear,” she snipped sardonically though she was smirking knowing that it was all true.

Farren Abercrombie and Declan O’Dwyer would likely never be able to be seen in public without speculation. They both knew that and luckily, as they were not friends, it was easy to avoid the scandal that would engulf them were they to appear to be on any kind of friendly terms. Distracted by the war, the pain of losing most of her friends to unspeakable causes, turmoil in her family, and the will to be a reckless rebel had obscured from her at the time how scandalous their romance had been. A seventeen year virgin, heiress, and should be society darling, more or less running away with a 28 year old renegade in leather trousers with a drug and dark arts problem. Perhaps if it were a time where only stacks of gold and political power were the measures of a good match it would have been less unseemly. These were modern times though and the public cared less about matching bank accounts and more about optics and compatibility. It was easy to see why the pair of them would spark gossip and rumors, their romance had been outrageous. Looking at him now she was almost shocked herself that it had occurred. The woman she was now would never do something like that - at least she thought she wouldn’t. No, not even for insane, nonsensical, consuming emotion. She knew now she couldn’t afford flights of the heart.

Nodding in acknowledgment to him that indeed it had been a lifetime since their scandalous romance she pursed her lips in thought as the life she’d lived in the last 4 years skipped through her mind. He leaned against the wall as if he was getting comfortable and she glanced at a small upholstered bench on the other side of the door. Maybe it was time to sit down and talk, like adults. The way he spoke lead her to think he may actually care how she’d been. To her surprise she felt no bitterness even though she knew she had been so bitterly furious with him over how her life immediately after them had gone. Nothing was searing inside her, there wasn’t a twinge of despondent frustration she knew she’d felt for him before.

Lowering herself to the bench she looked at him thoughtfully considering her answer. The door between them remained ajar but the hall was empty providing privacy. “Well….” she started not knowing how honest or detailed to be. “To be honest, things have been difficult,” she found herself admitting the truth and not a glamorous falsehood. “After us…..” her voice trailed off slightly hoping her referring to them as an us would not send into a pit of awkward self collapse, “The family decided I could not be trusted to keep myself out of trouble. I spent most of late 1997 and early 1998 locked inside Dalemain hiding from the public to save what little dignity I had left, hiding from The Dark Lord as my parents prayed one of us would be left unscathed by the crimes and legally clean if He were to in fact lose, and hiding from the reality that outside the walls of Dalemain all my friends were disappearing or dying.”

The picture was bleak and honest. Farren had not expected this to come out. She was after all, the most gifted at crafting a false reality around herself. “In 1997 Derina Gimble went missing and later in the year we lost Bellona. She had planned to elope with a muggle born then suddenly she was gone and so was he…missing assumed dead. Even though we launched a massive recovery we never found her.” She referred to her former Slytherin classmate and best mate and her maternal cousin casually as Declan had met both at least once.

“Then the Darrions disappeared overnight….I’m sure you saw in the news all those beautiful animals of theirs…slaughtered,” frowning she remembered the Darrion siblings she’d known so well and their magical creature breeding farm in Ireland.

“Mother became so….” her emotive blue eyes clouded with unspoken emotion as she mentioned her mother, “Sick and lost. I’m sure you knew to some extent. The closer it got to the end the more unspeakable and unfathomable her assignments became.” Frowning she locked eyes with him for a moment. There was no need to explain to Declan the misery of Victoria Abercrombie, he would know first hand. A true zealot to blood politics Victoria Abercrombie had been deeply devoted to her role as an assassin yet torn apart by the trauma of it. “When she finally died….it was almost a relief, she looked so peaceful finally.”

A painful silence fell and Farren diverted her gaze looking at her feet for a moment. Why was she telling him all this? She wasn’t sure but maybe it was therapeutic. So few people were left that had known the people she’d lost.

“Since then I handled it all. Grandfather has been busy managing the business and the finances of everything. My father is….well he’s hardly himself since mother passed. We don’t burden him with much these days. So I have been handling the external optics and politics within society. It started with leading the family contribution to Hogwarts - you know…the library. Then I was investigated by the Ministry, harassed really, and that started all this. The taxation law against magical estates came to debate as the Ministry’s pointless investigation of my doings during the war was winding down. I was mad, I felt displaced in my own world. It was easy to put that energy into politics. I was as surprised as anyone that I was any good at it. I guess I’d grown up without realizing it and people will always at least half listen to a pretty girl who can command a room and is rich as Croesus. Being the heiress to the family that holds the lion’s share of magical publishing probably helps too.”

A strained, almost sly smile crossed her lips her long neck tilted up to look towards him. She was surprisingly at ease. There was no bitter, emotional, teenager perched on the bench. Just a cool, composed woman sharing with an old connection the honest truth of what it was to be a pureblood heiress, daughter of a string of Death Eaters and criminals, in the strange new world they now occupied. “And what about yourself?”

Spoiler: show

Sorry, this is not a great post but the best I can manage. Running a fever and just got some crappy flu symptoms but I wanted to do something to take my mind off of it.

Declan’s expression grew thoughtful as he listened to Farren. The story she was telling was not an unfamiliar one and he had heard variations of it over the past few years. Those that had managed to get through the war in one piece, had all paid a price for it. He mused that it must have been harder for her than some of the others, being exposed to all of this when still a teenager. She’d given up a part of her youth to survive and he could relate to that. He’d given up his innocence and dreams in order to protect his family and there were days when his decision was haunting him still. The things he had done during the war were hard to forget and even harder to live with.

Derina and Bellona were names he’d not heard in a long time. He had a fair idea what might have happened to the two young women, but tried to push the thought away from his mind almost immediately. Their fate had probably been no kinder that that of Professor Charity Burbage. Blood traitors had received the harshest punishments to serve as a deterrent to others. Declan had seen terrible things happen time and time again. The Dark Lord had ruled through fear and terror, ensuring the loyalty of his Death Eaters by making it clear there no turning back. The Darrions too? It should not have surprised him, but he couldn’t help but wonder what they had done to be met by such a fate.

Declan sighed, and his expression darkened again. The list of Voldemort’s victims seemed to be ever growing even though the man himself had been defeated years ago. He couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take the wizarding world to heal and overcome what it had been through. Hearing Farren speak of her mother only further darkened the mood. He remembered Victoria well. She had been a zealot and deeply committed to the Dark Lord’s vision. In return he had robbed her of any humanity she had left and turned her into a lethal weapon. It had been tragic to watch, though Declan had less sympathy for her than many of the others. At least Victoria Abercrombie had fought for something she believed in. She same could not be said about everyone in the Dark Lord’s ranks.

Farren was handling it well though, or at least as well as could be expected. It sounded like she had turned things around and found a bit of a purpose in pursuing politics. He thought it suited her as she had always been well-spoken and good at socialising. Before he knew it, she’d probably end up running for minister of magic.

“Sounds rough,” he noted, “but like you are getting through it with your head held high. I’m afraid I can make no such claim.”

Declan’s history had been quite colourful. He wondered briefly if he should really tell her, but in the end, it seemed only fair to answer her question in the same candid manner she had his.

“I lost friends too. Jocelyn didn’t make it and neither did Jolene. Apparently, being friends with me made them a target – I still don’t know how to forgive myself for that. I think I’d always had doubts, and you know I wasn’t in it out of conviction, so I turned in the end. Tried to make up for some of the things, protect those I could. I fought my friends in the last battle, it was the hardest thing I ever did. Still not sure how I survived. I certainly had no intention of coming back from it as I had no idea how to lead a normal life anymore. And yet there I was.”

This was uncomfortable to talk about. He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. “I was ill for many months. Withdrawal, trauma and of course the physical injuries. I’d confine myself of Oran na Mara for most of the time. I finally finished writing that book. And then I started another and finished that one too. As I started to feel a bit stronger I picked up most of the business duties again. It’s enjoyable and it sometimes gets me out and about and invitations to events like this one. So, not very glamourous, but I am quite content.”

He was glossing over a lot of things here, but didn’t really feel like giving further details. What good would it do to talk about failed engagements and heart break on top of all of this? He’d probably said enough to satisfy her curiosity anyway. Declan fidgeted uncomfortably not quite sure where to go with the conversation from here or what to do next. Being relatively honest filled him with a lot of awkward emotions. Was she still invested in the idea of blood purity? Had he just opened the door to a very awkward conversation about political differences?

“I’d offer a dance or a drink, but I think you’re right about the press. They’d be all over it and I don’t want to cause you any trouble” he said, “but maybe we can get away with a walk through the garden?”

The discomfort in the hallway was palpable. How could it not be? This wasn’t supposed to be happening after all. Declan O’Dwyer and Farren Abercrombie were myths. The tempestuous teenage girl rebelling against her war weary conservative family and the shattered artist trapped in a life he didn’t choose were characters in a novel. When they stopped existing together on those pages they weren’t to meet again. Their plot line had not allowed for them to go on in their own books becoming new people with new lives. What were they supposed to do now and how was it supposed to be when years later the pages of their new books fluttered open onto the other’s?

Many of the people he mentioned Farren didn’t even remember. It wasn’t surprising as he had done a fair enough job of hiding her from the few friends he had. She’d not forgotten the shame and heart break associated with knowing her lover was embarrassed by her. Nor was she particularly surprised that he turned at the end. Her mother had always opposed him not because of his age or appearance or personality but because she thought he was weak. In some ways Farren agreed, to turn in the end against your friends was treason whether you had a valid reason or not. It seemed like a waste at the end to turn when you could have fought to keep your friends alive from the inside. However she didn’t care to discuss it assuming any reasoning he would have beyond what he stated would just annoy her, they had often disagreed on such things and she may have mellowed and matured but now wasn’t the time to test how much.

Uncharacteristically the heiress remained silent, her bright eyes down cast as the wizard before her summarized his post war emotional recovery. Tinges of sorrow tug at her heart for a dozen reasons. Painful as it was to recall she remembered nights laying next to him as he lay sleepless and tortured next to her. At the time she’d had no idea why he was so mercurial, she was naive to the ways of the world and particularly to drug use. The memories made her feel stupid and childish, something she knew wasn’t her fault but singed her none the less. She’d lived with a man for nearly a year and failed to grasp how broken he was.  At the time she’d have no knowledge or life skills to be particularly helpful to him but that period shamed her for many reasons she was not likely for forget.

Her full lips pressed into a tense forced smile as was habit, her pretty face turning up to him as he finished his lament. “I’m glad….” she fumbled for words her smooth expression creasing, “I’m glad we each survived,” she concluded quickly unsure what exactly to say. Both of their stories were tragic, both of their stories were deeply personal, and both had no doubt left glaring gaps over the most painful parts of it all. Ever a lady though she thought it was best to be diplomatic at least. Perhaps one day there’d be a time and place and more serious conversation and questions, perhaps not. Farren had not expected to see Declan O’Dwyer again and she certainly never thought in doing so that they’d even get this far.

Luckily for them both he dissipated the tension with his jest about the press. “Indeed, perhaps we should save the tabloid scandal for when we’ve given both our PR teams advanced notice,” a hint of a smirk pulled at the corners of her lips. Leaning back against the wall she considered his offer of a garden stroll for a moment. “Yes, perhaps that we could manage. It is January, I can’t imagine many people would be interested in a dead garden in the cold. Well…just us weirdos,” a genuine smile crossed her face and perhaps for a moment he recognized the impressionable teenager he’d found on a stool in a book shop.

Rising she smoothed her dress, drawing from the hidden pocket in the seam her wand. It would be familiar to him, maybe a jolt down memory lane even, the thin delicate ashen wood with the wildflower and vine filigree handle. “First things first though O’Dwyer,” she mused adjusting her grip on her wand. A little flourish of the wand with her right hand, her brow narrowed in concentration and a few seconds later she raised her left hand as a bottle of champagne came whizzing from a pantry down the hall into her waiting hand. Tucking the bottle of bubbly under her left arm she turned to Declan and considered him her head cocking to the side as she did she raised her wand again raining down on both of them the warm sparks of orange light of a warming spell. “Alright then….” she concluded pocketing the wand again and holding the bottle out for him to carry. “Off we go.”