[MP][Dalemain] nothing is the word that lasts forever [Farren]

Dermod hadn't been to Dalemain for years. It felt strange to be returning after so long, and at the same time, comfortable and reassuring, as if a piece of his former life had slipped back into place. His last meeting with Farren had been close to four years earlier, and had been neither comfortable nor reassuring. The young woman had been devastated and grieving following the aftermath of the battle. Dermod, at the time barely healed and not yet willing or able to talk about what had gone wrong, had offered little comfort. They had disagreed, fundamentally it seemed; he had felt cornered into defending his actions in his own home, blamed for having been rescued from the scene of the battle rather than murdered by mudbloods or thrown into Azkaban. It would have made no difference, he had argued, but the wounds on both sides were too raw for common ground to be shared that day.

After she had left, there was silence for a while, and then – Dermod could no longer remember who had written first – their correspondence had re-started. At first cautious, overly polite, enquiring as to one's health and the weather and anything that carefully skirted around any weighty topics of discussion, once a month or so. Testing the waters, so to speak, for both parties understood that after all they had lost, losing contact with the few right-thinking purebloods what were left would be nothing short of disastrous. Slowly, their acquaintance and then friendship had been re-established, and Farren became Dermod's primary news source regarding their former circle of friends.

Still, there had been no face to face meeting in all this time. Dermod recalled the years following the first wizarding war only too well; he had become a master of keeping a low profile during those treacherous times, when weaker Death Eaters had started squealing every name they could remember after only a few hours of persuasion. This time around, he didn't even have the safety of his quillname to retreat behind; Kevan Taite having been presumed dead at the Battle of Hogwarts meant that Dermod now faced the world as himself, for the first time in nigh on forty years.

It was momentous news indeed that brought him to Dalemain on a grey, drizzly day in late October. That Gaius Purcell had been released from Azkaban some time earlier was no secret, but the whispers that he had returned to England suggested that the time may be imminent to come out of hiding once more. This was nothing to be put into a letter of course; even the most faithful and trustworthy owl could occasionally be intercepted; so instead Dermod had suggested a week earlier that it would be pleasant to pay a visit to the Abercrombie estate. A master of words all his life, it wasn't so much what he had written in the letter as what was written between the lines, so to speak, and an invitation was extended for this afternoon. 

Immaculately dressed and wrapped in a charmed black cloak to repel the rain, the writer arrived at the entrance to Dalemain a few minutes before the appointed time. Miss Abercrombie had always placed great importance on timekeeping, he recalled with a smile. He pictured her in his mind, tall and slender, slightly taller than him in flat shoes or positively towering above him at social events in heels. Thus he was smiling as he was ushered inside and, divested of the cloak though not his black leather gloves, into the familiar parlour to await his hostess.

An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of Farren's stomach as she sat in the garden. After years on ice, Dermod Morfessa, had requested a face to face meeting. It had surprised her when the letters from Dermod turned from mindless chatter about Farren's attempts to learn Russian and his questions about whom was saying what at society parties to something more. The pair had never had a particularly close relationship. Dermod had been close to her parents and grandparents whom he sat between in age. He had fought with her namesake grandmother and mother in the first war. Their company published all his works and kept all his secrets. It was only in passing that he'd known her as a girl. The way any grown man knows the children of his associates. He was old enough to be her grandfather and likely would have remained a distant, detached, business only figure if not for the war.

During the war she had been reintroduced to him, not as an heiress whom would loosely hold the reins to his career, but as the future bride of one of his dearest friends. Hindsight led Farren to think if Dermod had any sense at all he would have seen she and Declan's relationship as utterly foolish, which it was. Yet whatever judgement he'd made upon the teenager and her nearly 30 year old fiance he'd kept private. For some reason she'd never understood Dermod took her seriously long before other adults had. Though this made her look upon him kindly it made things all the more difficult when their relationship hit the ice after the war.

She remembered in detail trekking to his remote home to seek him out. At the time she was a deeply broken woman, thrust into adulthood at light speed by the disillusionment of her engagement, the loss of most of her friend's lives, the death of her mother, and the deterioration of her father's mental health. She'd felt alone and scared, pureblood society had all but vanished out of fear and mass incarceration. Dermod, having let his alter ego die at Hogwarts, was walking free without consequence. Though she did not want to revisit their quarrel she hoped that in the years between then and now Dermod had realized what her trip was actually about. The old guard had fallen, society as they'd known it was fractured, and here she was trying to pick up at least a few of the pieces alone. She'd needed help, assurance, and support but grieving, stressed, anxious nineteen year olds were hardly capable of articulating that.

Since then she'd recovered as gracefully as she could manage. He'd been watching as evident by his correspondence. The Prophet reported on her political lobbying in favor of pureblood and influential families. Witch Weekly profiled her as an heiress with a mission. She'd started a political-social organization for their cultural cause. Whether or not he knew about the mark on her arm and the secret mutiny her mother had committed and lead against the Dark Lord with Gaius Purcell and her own cousin as her accomplices she did not know. It was something she was most eager to find out. She could only assume that he did, why else would Gaius' return to their shores have prompted this visit? Maybe she would have more answers than he did but she certainly hoped not.

"Miss Farren, he's arriving," the soft voice of her lady's maid interrupted her thoughts. Standing from her bench beneath a golden tree she ran her hands over her hair to smooth the fly aways back against her loosely tied up chignon style. Her hair was the only thing slightly undone about her look, per usual she was dressed like a lady in her signature highly tailored style. He'd not seen her in years at this point and things changed so quickly in your late teens and early twenties. The somewhat frantic young woman that had showed up at his home was long gone. Despite pressing internal doubts on the outside she was icy and collected, polished to perfection both in appearance and mannerisms. She was composed, articulate, and calculating - a far cry from the teenager he'd known.

Making her way into the estate house her maid clipped along at her heels. Dermod had been shown into the primary receiving parlor, a place he knew well and that in all his years of visiting Dalemain had never once changed. Green walls lined with books, rich textiles, and traditional furnishings welcomed guests to the family's ancient country home. At the entrance to the room her maid stepped ahead of her, opening the door and passing through to hold it open for her mistress. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered wildly as she crossed the threshold from the hall to the parlor. A reserved smile graced her handsome face and though she was genuine and warm there was no mistaking that her presence and person had changed.

"Dermod," she said warmly crossing the room to where he was waiting. She embraced him quickly, politely, gesturing him towards a seat around a table as they greeted one another. He was unchanged, even if he'd aged locked away in his house she didn't notice. "I do appreciate you making the journey. I hope it wasn't too uncomfortable," she continued pleasantly as she took a seat across from him at the small table where cocktails would shortly be served. "It is so surprising to see you here, it's like a vision from the past, you can't know how happy I am to greet you in my home," she said without missing a beat. It wasn't Victoria's home anymore, it wasn't even her father's, it was hers. She was the Abercrombie family now. "I know my Grandfather would have greeted you himself but I'm afraid he's in Scotland dealing with some family matters over some property," she smiled graciously, genuinely happy.

A footman in a neat livery entered the parlor carrying a sliver tray. "Lady Farren," he said setting the tray on the table between them. Two elegant looking cocktails were situated on the tray along with a small charcuterie board filled with cheese, meats, and fruits. "A cocktail course followed by wine m'lady," he said as a maid appeared producing a bottle of wine and two glasses. "The 1980 vintage as requested m'lady," the foot man said before uncorking the wine and resting it a silver chiller. Farren thanked the servants and dismissed them, the heavy thud of the door closing behind them signaling the pair were alone.

"I thought we'd skip the tea and go straight to the good stuff," she said smirking clearly in good spirits, "If I recall you were never really an afternoon tea sort of gentleman, were you?"   

When the door opened Dermod was standing at the bookcase, running a finger along one shelf as he idly read the titles. Many he recognised; the same books if not the exact same editions graced his own library back home. A few bore his own name, or at least the name he had gone by for nearly four decades, with the Abercrombie publishing seal embossed on the spine. He felt no discomfort at being caught studying someone else's bookshelves as he turned towards the young woman who now entered. There was in fact no reaction at all apart from the smile of greeting as she crossed the room towards him.


She'd changed. That was immediately obvious, though the changes were subtle. Farren Abercrombie didn't look a minute older, but there was something in the way she carried herself that made him think she had aged in more than years. As always, her dress was immaculate, her hair no doubt in the latest fashion He spoke her name in answer to her greeting, his own smile, too, was genuine. Here was somewhere he could relax, almost like being at home. It was safe, easy to speak one's mind without fear of being overheard or judged. And if there was no fear of judgement...he hesitated, and then removed the leather gloves before sitting down, laying them on the edge of the table. Dermod couldn't remember if he had worn them four years earlier when Farren had visited his own estate, but he didn't want to hide his disfigurement here.

“It was perfectly comfortable, thank you” he said, happy to exchange pleasantries for the moment. His words were spoken honestly though; it had taken several years to feel entirely confident again with apparation following the damage to his wand hand and while he had suffered no physical difficulty for some time, it was only in recent months that he had been able to simply apparate without a good deal of forethought. “I trust your grandfather is in good health?” he asked, a little unnecessarily, Spencer Abercrombie would likely outlive them all, he thought with a wry inward smile. Although an old man, Dermod didn't doubt the Abercrombie patriarch had several decades to look forward to yet.

Smalltalk paused briefly as a footman entered carrying a tray. Expecting tea and some sort of cake, Dermod was pleasantly surprised by a savoury repast and cocktails, with the promise of wine to follow. “You recall correctly, though my...Gabriella has managed to convert me to the delights of tea at all hours of the day” he responded with a smile, not bothering to mention he almost always added liberal quantities of firewhisky to his own cup. It still felt strange to refer to Gabriella as his wife; simply because she was even more reclusive than he had become and few people had even met with her. Lifting the cocktail glass and offered a wish for her good health before sampling the contents. The taste wasn't instantly familiar, though it was acceptably alcoholic and not overly sweet.

The writer relaxed a little more. Evidently they were both keen to leave the memory of previous uncomfortable exchanges in the past, at least for the present. Now that they were alone though, Dermod was unsure how to begin. The pleasantries had been covered, and he was eager to learn whether the Abercrombie estate had entertained any visits from his former colleagues recently. While the Death Eater of old would rarely have revealed anything about his own life as the opening gambit in a meeting of any sort, sometimes Dermod felt he had changed so much he barely recognised himself. Besides, it seemed so long since he'd talked with a friend, even one who he'd known of since she was a child.

“I met an old friend recently” he began “In Knockturn Alley, of all places. It was a surprise for us both,  though for my part, at least I was confident I wasn't in fact seeing a ghost...”  he paused for a moment, not having intended to bring up the sequence of events that had led to his alter ego being presumed dead for and a half years earlier. “That day, I heard the pleasant news that a certain Mr Purcell is indeed back in the country, and I wondered...” another pause. He didn't want to directly ask whether Gaius had been in contact. Not immediately, anyway. Instead he took another sip of his cocktail, commenting “This is particularly delicious. Please do pass my compliments to your staff.”

Farren smiled at the mention of her Grandfather. The family patriarch, Spencer Carthin Abercrombie, was an old friend of Dermod's. Spencer was not only his publisher but the spouse and father-in law to two of the Irishman's fellow Death Eaters. Though Farren wasn't aware it was highly probable the older man remembered when she was born. Afterall her birth was announced on the day to close friends and that day just happened to be Dermod's 36th birthday. "Oh you know him," she said with a bit of a smirk, "it's going to take several rounds of Dragon Pox at least to slow him down."  The mention of a Gabriella reminded Farren that when she'd gone to his home in Schull after the war there'd been a woman present. To be honest she didn't remember if she'd realized at the time they were married or nearly married. All she remembered about the woman was her funny bit with tomatoes. Whatever the situation Farren was happy enough to see the old family friend seeming happy with the company he'd found himself.

Tilting her glass towards him she nodded in a sign of mutual good will, an informal cheers, as he lifted his glass too his lips she took a delicate sip of her own drink. He started his piece somewhat hesitantly and at first, for a fleeting moment, she thought that he was here to tell her something about Declan. Though she'd never admit it or acknowledge something in her stomach fluttered at the thought of it. Had he seen Declan and Declan inquired after her? She'd last seen him almost a year ago at the announcement of her cultural society at a fancy dinner charity. Since then he'd disappeared again, like the enigma he was, only sending an odd owl asking if she needed donations for her project. Unfortunately it became clear, almost immediately, that this wasn't about Declan. It was about someone she had much less investment in.

"Oh..." she said pushing Dermod's dear friend and her ex from her thoughts. Glancing at her own glass she smiled agreeably, "Yes, they do quite well," she agreed over the drink. Pausing she debated what she should discuss with Dermod. It was her understanding that he was one of the few Death Eaters who knew about the mark on her arm and Giaus' partnership with her mother to mark the next generation of warriors. Besides, it was Dermod, if anyone could be trusted with her deepest secrets it was the man who had entrusted her very powerful Grandfather with his. All these years her family had guarded his identity, putting gold in his pocket while keeping him from the authorities for what he truly did, he would not betray her.

"I have only spoken to Giaus via owl since his release. Once I found out he was in the country I summoned him to Dalemain. He'd agreed and we set a date but at the last moment he wrote to tell me he was traveling abroad urgently. I suppose it has something to do with..." she gestured loosely with her hand, signaling she had no words for what exactly she meant, "His whole...situation." Her expression was blank though her lips were slightly pursed, the slightest hint of annoyance with the situation evident. "As you know breaking an appointment at Dalemain is not well received," she said before lifting her glass to her lips to take another sip.

"Other than that I'd met Giaus only three times since the end of the war. I went to him to inquire about my mother. A woman you're likely aware I did not get to know well prior to her passing. I'm sure you know better than I the relationship he had with my mother. Now that she's dead I've inherited all her things, including her personal records. It's only natural to be curious about the life of the woman who brought me into this world and yoked me with her legacy, good and bad. You can imagine I'm sure how frequently his name appears in her personal affairs. School mates, co-Head Boy and Head Girl, Death Eaters, mutual protectors. It sounds like he spent his childhood lapping after her heels and his adulthood wishing she'd not married for status. From what I've gathered from her diaries and meeting with him in Azkaban it seems Mr. Purcell was quite as close to my mother as anyone in the world could be. He loved her deeply didn't he?" she paused expecting an answer but then continued. "I don't assume that woman capable of love but it seems if there ever was anyone she did love it was him. At least, to a greater degree than my father."

"Giaus was part of the scheme about us Sleepers. I've gathered from my cousin Pyxis you are aware of this plot she cooked up. You'll know all about it I assume, us young people, marked with a personal mark by a Death Eater close to us. My mother bestowed upon me this lovely mark." Her left arm extended, laid across the table as she pulled her sleeve a few inches above the crook of her elbow. Against her white skin lay a delicate etching in black ink, a wreath of wild flower blooms, roughly the size of a galleon. "Apparently there are quite a few others, I know of a couple, can assume about some others, children of the war. They committed treason against the Dark Lord, not that I care about politics of it." Tugging her sleeve back down over the delicate tattoo she looked up at Dermod for a moment. "I'm not a Death Eater. Giaus told me I should be the one leading us, the young ones, that I had the power and intelligence to do it. I don't want to be a Death Eater. I don't know what Gaius is doing....off in Europe or whereever he's gone but I'm not a DE and I hope you're not here to tell me I'm being called up like a soldier to the front. I think we can all agree that the Death Eaters failed."

The former Death Eater smiled in return. While he was glad that his old friend was still hale and hearty he was never comfortable with smalltalk of this type and he was glad that Farren didn't feel the need to move beyond pleasantries and enquire after his own family. Oh, they were all well, Rhiannon was doing well at school and a credit to her heritage, but after so many years of keeping his private life exactly that, Dermod didn't relax easily. Even here, he preferred to discuss others affairs rather than his own. He was pleased when the conversation moved easily onto just such a topic and he relaxed, taking another drink from his glass as the young woman spoke.

His only reaction was a raised eyebrow, but nonetheless Dermod was surprised to hear of Miss Abercrombie's dealings with Gaius. He had assumed that his former comrade would have been a regular visitor here following his release from Azkaban, or at least an eager correspondent. But it seemed not. Upon hearing the news that Gaius had actually cancelled a visit to Dalemain he put his glass down on the table and sat forward in astonishment. “Indeed. I cannot fathom why he commit such an error, unless...” Dermod raised his diminished hand and rested it just below his jaw as his eyes focussed on the middle distance, the picture of thoughtfulness. Even closeted away on Schull, rarely leaving and mostly reliant for news on those few with whom he still corresponded, he had heard rumours. But there was more.

“I may be able to shed a little light on the situation” he offered when Farren paused to lift her glass “I mentioned I had met an old friend - I don't know how familiar you are with the name Melissa Morgenstern, but it was she who confirmed that Gaius had returned. Not only that, but she alluded to strengthening connections with Sweden and even the Ministry there, though she failed to elaborate beyond brief details. I thought little of it at the time beyond a possible increase is our allies, but I wonder...” he smiled, as if to say I am as bemused at his lack of decorum as you, but he was wondering now whether Purcell was entirely his own master. Whether he had broken his appointment by choice or whether he had been called to Sweden by someone who offered - what?

Perhaps it didn't matter. The Abercrombies were not a family to be offended lightly, no matter the reason. Dermod could not recall ever breaking an appointment at the Abercrombie estate. Whether one cared for the rigours of high society or not, there were some things that simply weren't done. Particularly if one ever wanted to be published again, he thought, amusing himself that the idea even slipped into his mind after so long. It was hardly surprising given where he was, but..Kevan Taite was dead; Dermod Morfessa a complete unknown in literary circles. Those days were gone. With an inward sigh he turned his attention fully to the matter in hand as Farren spoke of her mother's relationship with Gaius.

“He...never confided in me” Dermod said when it was obvious a response was needed, rather uncomfortable with the turn their conversation had taken. Talking of Gaius in Azkaban was one thing. The writer had paid his own visit, just the once, intending to see if there was any way of breaking the man out of prison and plan to resurrect the Death Eater cause. But Purcell had been too closely guarded and at the time had seemed resigned to his fate. Dermod had considered it cruel to raise hope where there seemed to be none, and after offering what few empty words of encouragement he could muster he had left, all the while half expecting to feel the kiss of a guard's curse in his back and to wake up in a cell himself. Once out of that dark place, the former Death Eater had lacked the impetus to return. The memory flashed through his mind in an instant, even as he knew that Farren was hoping for something more than a few brief words.

There was certain symmetry to what he was hearing. Gaius had always seemed so distant, so capable, so controlled... If this was a story Dermod would have written it in precisely this fashion, so he felt no qualms in saying “But there was undoubtedly an attraction between them. Oh, it was controlled, polite...nothing that could be taken for impropriety. And yet I would be entirely unsurprised to learn that Gaius harboured deep regrets and wished the situation could have been different” he paused, his gaze drifting across the table. The writer still found it less than enjoyable discussing emotions with his wife, so it was little surprise that this speculation left him discomforted. His eyes fixed upon the food and he made a random selection with one of the provided silver forks, the act of eating grounding him more comfortably into the situation as he chose his next words carefully. But they were to remain unspoken.

Dermod drew in a breath he tried to disguise as he saw the tattoo on Farren's arm. When one had been bestowed on the writer for similar reasons, close to three decades earlier, he had considered it a thing of beauty. He had admired it, spent hours in his study gazing at the curves and angles against his skin as one would admire a new and perfect lover. Even now he hated that it had faded, the once strong lines dulled as his life had faded and dulled. But this...this was a travesty. To bestow the mark - any mark - upon an unwilling recipient was inherently wrong. What could one hope to achieve by forcing others to a cause they didn't believe in wholeheartedly, that they weren't prepared to die for?

He drew his eyes away before she covered her arm, conscious that now if ever he had but one chance to select the perfect words. He allowed her to speak, his stomach clenching in annoyance at her proclamation that the Death Eaters were finished. There, they would have to agree to disagree - but not today. The last thing the young woman needed was to be distracted by petty differences. Moreover, as much as he hated to admit the fact, he had known little of the Sleeper scheme beyond its existence. Certainly he hadn't been a party to selecting those who were marked, but it seemed churlish to mention that now.

“Gaius is correct. You would make a fine leader. No - please don't misunderstand me” Dermod said, raising a hand in a conciliatory gesture before the young woman could protest “You are a fine speaker, your knowledge of wizarding society and the political situation at any given time is unrivalled; but I would never suggest you take a position for which you have no desire. Make no mistake, whether we are finished or not, one does not simply become a Death Eater out of a casual interest in the cause and I do not believe you should have been marked” The writer surprised himself with the conviction with which he spoke for a moment, but it was utterly true. He would never have chosen Farren to be a part of this business, even as a public figurehead. Undoubtedly she could talk half the country into supporting them if she chose, but he would always know her words were hollow. They had tried that path, forcing those who didn't believe in the cause to support via methods ranging from blackmail to the Imperius charm. No longer.

“I would never ask you to do anything you didn't wish to. I hope we have been acquainted for long enough that you are able to believe me on that score. And furthermore I will promise you this: if anyone else attempts to conscript you to the cause, I will do everything in my power to ensure you do nothing more than you are comfortable with. And if that means you choose never speak the words 'Death Eater' again, I will fully support you.” Had anyone told Dermod a year ago he would utter such words he would scarcely have believed them, but times had changed. Farren deserved to know that she had his support at the very least.

“As for Gaius...I have no doubt we will learn his plans before too long” he concluded “but please rest assured, the choice of whether you even discuss this matter - with me or anyone else, ever - any further is entirely yours.”