Miss Selfridges, Cookies, a Necklace, a Tattoo, and Rubbish Tea (Gaius)

In the windowless bowels of Azkaban the rage of the sea outside was still audible and suffocating. Though the dementors were gone the rumble of the sea was an eerie and constant companion that haunted the dreary, cold halls.

With winter quickly approaching the interior courtyard was no longer a suitable meeting place for visitations and the shared communal visiting area shared by all prisoners and their guests was not a suitable place for a young lady like Miss Abercrombie. Though some string pulling had been involved a private family visitation room had been arranged for Miss Abercrombie’s second visit to Mr. Purcell.

After passing her security checks Miss Abercrombie was shown into the small visitation room by a nameless aurora who didn’t speak to her their entire walk nor when he left her shut in the room. Alone behind a metal door the heiress found a room with inexplicably damp walls, dimly lit by iron caged oil lamps along the walls. It was pitifully furnished with a worn wooden table set and a lumpy sofa so worn and patched it looked as though three different sofas had been pushed together to form it. Unwilling to take her chances on the slumping sofa Farren had sat herself at the table.

Two days prior she’d sent over the gifts she’d prepared for Gaius for pre-inspection. Shortly after her arrival in the dank room, surrounded by the almost overbearing scent of mildew the gifts had been delivered by the unfriendly auror. A fancy paper box lined with a paper doilies held no less than fifty cookies from the Dalemain kitchen made for Gaius by the family elves. Though it appeared a couple of the cookies had been broken in the inspection process they were overall still presentable. Farren had ordered a very odd, infantile set of cookies, nearly the whole alphabet and a random assortment of other shapes such as dogs, leaves, cauldrons, brooms, and dragons had been made into colorfully decorated treats.  It was intentional of course, the room would almost certainly be bugged but with over half the alphabet sitting in front of them they could just spell out key words if need be without drawing the attention of asking for a paper and quill.

The second box was a small, worn silk jewelry box. Hung from a delicate silver chain was charm of the Slytherin crest, on the back was engraved VB for Victoria Bennett and the year she became head girl. Farren assumed that her mother had worn this necklace everyday she and Gaius served side by side as head boy and head girl. It had appeared in many of photos she’d seen of her mother from that year. No one in the family could remember where it came from so it wouldn’t surprise her if it had even come from Gaius himself as it was a rather modest necklace but she didn’t want to make any assumptions. Regardless of the source she wanted Gaius to have a token of her mother on her third official death day and this seemed rather appropriate.

Like most of the world Gaius was not aware that Victoria died at Hogwarts. He had received the same public story of an illness related death occurring in October 1998. Farren had no intention of telling him otherwise now. As part of the great death day charade Farren had taken to wearing black most of the month of October. Today was no different and she was outfitted in an elegant black ensemble with coordinating hat and black bird cage veil as befitted the more traditional style one might expect from a lady like her in mourning.

In front of her the heavy metal door jerked open again and she looked up expectantly but it was some kind of kitchen worker shuffling in with the tea she’d specially requested. Dented and banged up the metal serving tray, cups, and tea kettle provided had certainly seen better days though Farren could not ever recall drinking tea out of a metal cup like this. “Aye, here’s the tea you ordered for your visit Miss,” the squat greasy man looked at the paper ticket in his hand, “ABERCROMBIE.” He eyed her as the clunked the metal set down onto the table a few large splashes of hot water spilled onto the tray. Fishing into his pocket he pulled at two pre-wrapped tea bags and tossed them in the middle of the table.

“I’m sorry but there’s no milk and sugar,” Farren said looking up at him with a scowl. It was ridiculous enough to be drinking tea from a rough hewn metal tumbler let alone without a saucer, spoon and the proper accompaniments.

The man chortled and leaned closer to her, “Lass there be no sugar and milk here. What der ya think this is? Selfridges tea room?” He laughed heartily at her shaking his head as if she’d made a joke.

Her scowl deepened, what was Selfridges? A place for poor people or worse, muggles? Were things really so bleak here they couldn’t provide the most basic of food ingredients? With an increasingly huffy tone she protested, “Now Sir, I’ve paid for tea service tray that’s available for guests to purchase when visiting prisoners with a clean behavior record,” she explained in her usual unintentional, yet still patronizing tone, “The pamphlet I got via owl specifically stated there would be a variety of teas with honey, sugar, and milk,” she ignored the incredulous expression she got back from him. “Now if you must I can give you more money for the sugar and milk if you give me moment to find my purse,” she was already feeling around the pocket of her cloak for the small change purse she’d brought with her for this occasion. “How much does it cost to get the milk and sugar? Ten galleons? Twenty?”

Roaring with laughter the man slapped the back of her chair. “TWENTY GALLEONS FOR MILK AND SUGAR?!” He roared again placing his chubby hands on the table leaning in as Farren slowly recoiled, an expression of stony annoyance on her face. “Wait till I tell the blokes in the galley ye offered me twenty galleons for milk and sugar. Be lucky I’m an honest man or I’d take your twenty galleons and leave you a poor woman for we haven’t got any milk nor sugar!” Again more laughter. Farren’s lips were pursed so tightly they were barely visible as she clenched her teeth just wanting him to leave.

Footsteps in the hallway signaled that at least someone else might be coming to detract from this situation. An aurora appeared in the doorway,petite with salt and pepper hair and stern expression. “McGregor, what are you still doing here?” she barked at the man.

“Oy Geraldine you’re never gonna believe this one. Miss Selfridge’s Tea Room here ain’t impressed that the tea tray she ordered don’t have no milk or sugar. So,” he was wheezing with laughter again though the female aurora didn’t look too impressed, “So she offered to pay twenty galleons for some milk and sugar!” Cracking up at the thought of it again he shook his head moving away from the table and towards the door. “Can you imagine Ger? Can ya just?”

The aurora rolled her eyes, “Yeah well, you know the types McGregor, fancy, sheltered purebloods eating off gold spoons since the day they’re born. Haven’t got a clue what anything costs. Completely out of touch with reality,” she said as her eyes swept the room landing only momentarily on the heiress sitting on her rickety wood chair before her measly tea set who was staring back at her with bored disdain. “All clear, bring the prisoner in,” she shouted back into the hall and with that she disappeared from the door.

A brief shuffling occurred in the hall out of sight of the doorway and then the familiar form of Gaius stepped into the dank room. A smile breaking out on her face Farren stood up as he entered, happy to see the familiar face even if she was here under less than clear circumstances.





@Gaius Purcell

“Milk and sugar would be perfect, Mister McGregor, if you would be so kind.” The voice was precise, slow, and silky, and yet it cut through the clamour like a stiletto. A voice used to speaking in public; used to giving orders, and having those orders carried out to the letter.

McGregor stopped in the doorway, and his expression changed. It wasn’t that he stopped smiling, exactly, but rather his smile transformed into something false and forced, because his eyes had noticeably widened.

“ . . . haha, of course, Mister Purcell,” he began, his voice notably higher and more jovial than it had been. “It’ll be on the way, sir, no problem at all, just having a wee laugh with the young lass,” and the short man stood dramatically to the side of the small corridor, one hand rubbing the back of his neck deferentially, whilst Gaius was escorted past. The prisoner, his face a picture of neutrality, gave a slow nod. “Very much appreciated, Mister McGregor, thank you.”

It mattered not whether they loved or loathed him. Since he had “retired” Auror Byrne the previous year, Gaius now carried with him an extra edge, which meant that any reasonable request, no matter how trivial, was usually fulfilled.

He entered the dark chamber to see the form of Farren Abercrombie standing regally before him; her slim and drawn silhouette draped in black, and as his eyes adjusted to the scene following the harsh lighting in the corridor, he noticed the veil before her face. The Prisoner greeted her warmly with his eyes alone, whilst an auror proceeded to work at his restraints. There was the usual fumbling with an oversized bunch of iron keys, until after some time the correct key for Gaius’ restraints had indeed been found, and the Auror began the tedious process of unshackling the prisoner. Whist the old locks snapped and cracked into life, the Death Eater’s eyes never left Farren. In the space of a year, her likeness to her mother was growing more and more uncanny.

“Okay, Mister Purcell, when you’re ready. As always, if you misbehave, you know the consequences.”

“That I do; very well, Auror Pierce. I will be on my best behaviour.”

“Very good Mister Purcell, I’ll hold you to that.”

The shackles were withdrawn, and Gaius rubbed his bruised wrists for a moment whist the young Auror turned towards the Abercrombie Heiress. “If you need us, Madam, simply call. We are outside.” And with that, he exited the room, and the ancient iron door was swung loudly upon its crumbling hinges before crashing shut.

Silence descended on the couple, and Gaius - his diplomatic training never having left him - quickly extended a hand to the young woman. “As always, it is with immense pleasure to see you, Farren.” He shook her hand warmly, as if greeting an old friend, for, haunted as she was with Victoria’s presence, Farren was possibly the closest thing he had left of his past that wished to have anything to do with him. She was is old friend before he had ever met her.

“Please, take a seat,” and he gestured at the chair by the table, which looked slightly more hygienic than the grotty sofa against the wall.

Quickly Gaius noticed the two items that had been carefully placed upon the tabletop; one apparently an old fashioned ornate paper box that was carefully filled to the brim with what appeared to be children’s biscuits. He scanned the treats with his drawn hazel eyes, before glancing up at the brunette. “If these are all for me, Farren, then you are much too generous. And you should know,” he added with a barely restrained smile, “my greatest weakness is my sweet tooth. May I?”

With an elegant movement of his left hand, he carefully extracted a dragon shaped cookie that was coated in a powder pink fondant. Popping it into his mouth, he frowned in delight as he crunched it between his teeth. “Forgive me,” he said between chews, “but, not having eaten anything even vaguely sweet in nearly three years, that is simply delightful.”

He gave the heiress a warm smile as he carefully seated himself opposite her. Unfortunately, the dank room reminded the Death Eater of a particularly unpleasant interrogation chamber - in fact, as Gaius carefully considered whilst he took in his surroundings - that was very very probably the exact purpose of this windowless room before the virtual Prague Spring of the Shacklebolt administration had come in with its sweeping reforms. It dawned swiftly upon the prisoner that the room had obviously been quickly repurposed into this pseudo-cosy visiting area, neatly hiding its previous purpose.

He took in Farren as she sat opposite him; precise and angular, with cacographic eyes and a forehead that could only have come from the breeding of highest quality pureblood stock. It was then, that her sombre and funerial black outfit with its matching veil of mourning, registered with him. His face suddenly tensed, and he realised that the time of year aligned with her stygian ensemble.

It was one month before his own imprisonment, in a holding cell in London. Ribs bruised from his latest kicking, he was curled in a ball. They threw a tattered copy of the Prophet at him. Its date stated that it was three weeks old. Victoria Abercrombie was dead.

“Three years,” spoke Gaius, his voice gravelly and dulled. He looked away from the brunette, into the darkened corners of the room. “Three long years. With no further purpose. For any of us.”

“Auror Pierce;” a bellowed command to beyond the room, and in a flash the door was flung open and a man was standing in the light; his shadow shrouding Gaius’ face.

“Anything the matter, Mister Purcell?”

“If you would be so kind, would you possibly bring us the box under my bed? I need a drink.”

Pierce was a good one. He knew what side his bread was buttered on. His father was dying and had a penchant for muggle cigarettes. Gaius could provide him with as many muggle cigarettes as he could choke upon.

Two minutes later, a bottle of Louis XIII cognac was placed on the table between the couple. It was joined, slightly surreally, by a small metal jug of milk and a half-filled container of sugar. The door was locked. Gaius generously filled two metal tumblers with cognac, and picked one up for himself.

“To her. Who haunts us still; and I pray, always will. May it not have been in vain.”

The smile quickly disappeared from her cool, pretty face as the Abercrombie heiress listened to the exchange between Giaus and the attendant who had just mocked her. A furrow settled between her precisely groomed brows as the gruff attendant who had told her there was no such items agreed with no hint of objection to Giaus' demand. Was it her name, wealth, blood status, age, or sex that had garnered her such poor treatment or all of the above? Since the rise of the mudbloods it seemed taking the mick out of the powerful and pure was the sport of choice for the human garbage of the world. It made her blood boil that such things were increasingly so common place. It was very probable that Giaus had something over the guard but it fit her narrative of disdain and anger better to assume he was rude to her because he hated who she was.

As her mother's old friend scuffled into the dingy room her furrow eased. She stood patiently, motionless waiting for him to be freed from the iron restraints. The furrow returned as the mention of behavior and consequences arose. What exactly did this auror think would transpire in this room? Was she alluding to dark colludings or something untoward?

"Yes, I'm sure that won't be necessary" the black clad heiress responded simply to the auror's instructions to call outside the door to them if needed. Nodding at the auror Farren watched as she exited the room the clamor of the iron clad door behind her enough to make one wince.

Alone at last Farren finally felt the full weight of the moment. Giaus' gaze was one that might unsettle many but not her. She was used to being stared at - almost anywhere she went she was greeted with stares. Gawkers peered at her with endless curiosity over her fashion, her money, her emotional state, and varying degrees of hatred based on who they assumed she was based on her family and gossip papers. Giaus though stared at her the way her father did now. He only half saw her and the other half of his gaze was searching for someone else entirely hidden in her features.

Warming quickly she smiled below her veil as his large rough hand engulfed her lace gloved hand. "It's good to see you too. I'm glad this could be arranged," she was polite and reserved as she had been during their first meeting. Taking her seat again in the worn wood chair she pulled the elegant lace veil back over her head exposing her pretty, young face and warm albeit guarded smile.

"Of course they are for you, courtesy of the Dalemain kitchen elves," she carefully pushed the box of cookies towards him. "Though...perhaps we save most of them for after we've run out of stories to share and I've departed and you are feeling particularly homesick?" Her large blue eyes met his for a moment before she pulled a few of the figure cookies out of the way exposing the large stock of alphabet cookies. She offered him a coy smile, "Afterall," she fished a few cookies out of the box before laying four out in front of him, "these cookies were made especially for you." Laid before him were the cookies T, A, L, and K. Surely he would assume, as she did, the room was bugged with some kind of listening spell. She had been disarmed at the door so there was little they could about it.


Silence fell between them again and Farren wondered for half a second if he would be insulted she thought he'd not thought ahead about the room being bugged. However she soon realized it had just dawned on him that her visit was not timed at random. Though she didn't agree that it had been three long years with no further purpose for any of them - she  could appreciate that they were three fairly awful years though the one prior to her mother's death had been pretty hellacious for her as well. She said nothing but nodded a little in a show of solidarity.

As Giaus called out to his Auror guard to run an errand for him Farren waited wondering how this Death Eater seemed to be running the prison.  Quickly a bottle of quality cognac was returned to them along with their milk and sugar and just as quickly the pair were left in privacy. It was apparent that Gaius had some power over these guards if they were doing him favors, booze runs, and allowing him to stock contraband worth more than their monthly wages in his cell. Perhaps that story would come out eventually. Perhaps the reason would lead to his early release from this hell.

Taking her metal tumbler of liquor Farren raised it slightly towards the elder Death Eater. Though there was nothing in his toast she agreed with, she was toasting him, not her mother. She felt guilty for keeping the charade of her mother's death alive to someone who clearly grieved her deeply. She was baffled how someone besides her father who was blindly in love with his wife could grieve the loss of Victoria Abercrombie from any kind of idealogical. Either Giaus didn't know what kind of woman Victoria was or she had no idea who her mother was and had missed out on knowing an amazing person. Should she pity Giaus for being a blind fool seemingly in love with the memory of a woman who mentally died in 1975 and been replaced by a megalomaniac psychopath? Or should she pity herself for never knowing someone so amazing she was adored despite her massive flaws by the few who truly knew her? Gaius made her unsure and she knew, that was part of the reason she was here.

The jolting, smooth, woodsy liquid coated her throat and sent some kind of chill down her spine. Or was the chill from her feelings? Setting the worn, poxxed metal cup down she pursed her lips the alcohol tingling her mouth. "Thank you for sharing this with me," she said softly.

Reaching for the worn velvet box she slid it across the table towards him. "My visit isn't random. It is three years. I found this and I saw it in many of her photos of the year you were Head Boy and she Head Girl. Grandmother Bennett doesn't remember buying it. I thought maybe you would know its origin and even if you didn't I thought you should have it."

Farren watched him from across the table. This wasn't the whole reason she came. She could have mailed the necklace. In fact she wasn't sure why she came but it was about her mother and the attachment Gaius retained for her. The more time passed the more adrift Farren felt. She now bore a mark created by her mother and Giaus most likely, given by Pyxis who was no where to be found these days. Her father was more absent than ever - practically unable to live a normal life without his beloved wife. Her friends were dead or had moved during the war and assumed new identities abroad and never returned. Maybe he was right. Maybe there was no further purpose for any of them but there were too many missing pieces in her puzzle to know.

She thanked him, and coming from Farren this was indeed unusual and singular; a woman who had access to everything in the world at a moment’s notice. She was being polite, and whilst Gaius was still exploring the young woman seated opposite him, it was clearly evident from her demeanour that politeness was not her default disposition. He spoke in response to her with a gentle smile, “Everything I have, or could have, is naturally, yours. However, as you can expect, I own very, very little, and all my meagre belongings have been bartered and smuggled through this forsaken place. Now and again our good warden decides that he has been lax enough with his corrupt guards, and he will empty my quarters of everything I have gathered, and a few weeks after that, I begin again. It is a little futile dance that we have; a little playful waltz that keeps us both on our toes. One of the few distractions I have to keep myself occupied.” He emptied his tumbler with one swig and returned another half smile to the brunette, but it did little to hide the mournfulness of his demeanour.

Farren, presumably satisfied that her mother had been toasted enough, proceeded to slide an old jewellery box across the table in his direction. It took him several moments to recognise it - that little container a spectre suddenly wrenched from the depths of his past. He could not help but smile. The corners were tattered and torn; the outer silk sheath split with age, however it looked much older than it really was. The zaffre covering appeared black in the gloom of the room, but he could remember how richly it would shine in the daylight; the day he had purchased it in that little Hogsmeade jewellers from the little heart-faced witch behind the counter who had been so pleased to see the very Head Boy of Hogwarts himself march into her store and give her one of his rakish smiles, as he leaned across those little glass cabinets in his uniform and Slytherin necktie and ask to see this special little necklace, and how she had gladly draped it across his open palm and told him how long it had taken her to make this very piece, and how lucky its recipient would surely be to be gifted it, particularly if the giver was Gaius Purcell himself. Of course, it had not been special at all; the silversmith had made several, each of the house crests represented in some prudent amalgam of argent, but they had always been priced a little bit beyond the average student. But Gaius, being that industrious sort, had conserved his money over the preceding months, and with that little cache he had resolved to give Victoria something to commemorate their year. For, it most certainly was their year. Both Head Girl and Boy from Slytherin; he could vividly recall the pride on Professor Slughorn’s face when they had stood before him on that beautiful ripened September afternoon with the amber sun pouring through his office windows, their badges haughtily pinned their black robes; both rake-straight and filled with that youthful disdainfulness that Slytherin seemed to engender all too well.

He always would remember her posture; burned as it was into his mind’s eye. He would watch her sometimes in the common room; how she would sweep in a tempest; that equine gait, that soft sinusoidal roll of her hips; chin first, eyes like the sea cutting their way through everyone and everything that would dare attempt obstruct her God-seared path. How her robes would hang from her shoulders; clavicles retracted like a crane about to take its perch upon a branch. That eternal curve of her chest, camoflagued by her heavy uniform robes; her emerald and silver necktie against her narrow throat; the soft curl of her dark hair falling upon her shoulder blade. The emotions her very being evoked within him; those first embers of a desire that teenage chemistry would only encourage and that the years could never extinguish. He watched her that day in Slughorn’s office, taking her long, accurate breaths; he studied her profile and caught the sunlight upon her eyelashes, and he nearly loved her. She would continue to come to him through the years; a Bronzino depiction of the Virgin in the National Gallery, a Florentine brunette standing on the Ponte Vecchio with pride to burn, a waitress in a Budapest cafe with that look of eternal intransigence in her clear eyes. For Victoria Bennett would never really die. Not for Gaius.

Delicately he opened the old case, and within the cheap felt lining lay a silver necklace; fine like sand within his hands. From the end hung a reasonably well worked Slytherin crest, and he turned it between his fingertips and saw the V.B., September 1969 carefully engraved upon the rear. It was not the most exquisite piece of jewellery that he had ever had the pleasure of admiring, but there was something almost charming in its naivety. It added to its lustre; an echo from a past that could never return.

“Yes,” he said slowly, smiling at the necklace upon his palm. “I bought this for your mother, when she became Head Girl. A little memento. She wore it, I’m not sure if she really liked it or if it was to assuage me, but I remember it around her neck.” Victoria in a Potions class, seated by her desk, the necklace upon her white blouse, looking up through her hair at him from across the room. The very dust particles frozen in place and the world coming to an abrupt halt. It really happened, and he saw it with his own eyes.

“Thank you for bringing it to me. If you have no need for it; I will gladly keep it. For us both.” His gaze locked with that of the brunette witch opposite him, and his stomach lurched as Victoria, the spectre that lay within Farren’s careful visage stared straight back at him. He closed his hand around the necklace; its cool alloy an admonition within his palm.

“But you are here for something else, aren’t you Farren?” he continued lowly, shadows across his face. He raised his chin to her. “What do you need from me?”

Dejected as he was now Farren could see each time she met Gaius why her mother and he had been the closest of friends. Subjected to degrading treatment from muggle loving blood traitors and mud bloods may he be now, stripped of the dignity of decent clothes and hygiene, there was something prideful that shone through. Something about him reminded her of a lion. His mane had be shorn, he was shackled in a filthy cage, and his golden coat had become mangy but he was still a lion and if he ever mustered the strength he could remember how to roar. Perhaps, judging by how deflated he seemed over the cyclical abuse, he forgot that he was a lion under the weight of Azkaban. His demeanor in many ways echoed her father’s who was a free and very wealthy man yet shackled and a prisoner none the less.

Intrigued by his reaction the heiress watched as the grizzly wizard pried open the faded clamshell box and pulled the delicate silver necklace from within. Silently he held the small Slytherin crest in his hand and in his eyes she could almost see the years passing. How she longed to know what was in his mind’s eye.

Confirmation that he had bought the necklace for Victoria was at least reassuring. She had rightly assumed that at least and some small sense of pride in knowing at least that much about her mother was mildly fulfilling. “I’m sure she appreciated it if it came from you,” Farren said because it seemed like the right thing to say. In reality she didn’t know if her mother appreciated sentimental things like this. She knew her mother would meet her father over Christmas of her seventh year at which point he began pursuing her and no doubt her owl post was filled with over priced and luxurious tokens of affection that would have put this little fleck of tin to shame.

“I especially wanted you to have it,” she pointed out inclining her head towards the necklace. “I have an entire house of clothes, books, diaries, jewels, and trinkets that belong to her. It seems almost cruel that I have all of that and you have nothing when you clearly meant so much to each other,” vitriol singed the edges of her words, “I insist that you keep it and do whatever you please with it.” Though she appeared to be smiling graciously at him she seemed more enigmatic than before.

The fake smile quickly dropped. His voice was low, almost gravely and he inclined his chin as if they were going to share a secret. He knew she didn’t come to give him cookies and a necklace. Why would she? She didn’t know him. Farren Abercrombie wasn’t exactly the type to take up prison charity either.  Expressionless and stony she stared back at him the noisy silence of Azkaban pressing in on them as he waited for her response. Condensation was dripping onto stone somewhere, there was constant low rustling and movement in the distant halls full of visitors and inmates, and always in the background the dull roar of the sea was bearing down on them.

Lifting her hands to her face she carefully lifted the french netting veil that covered her face and pulled it back over her hat. Her movements were fluid and elegant as if everything she did from lifting a glass to her lips to removing her hat had been rehearsed as a ballet. Truly face to face with Gaius she stared back at him, her mother’s accusatory brow, her square jaw, soft lips, and cheek bones so sharp they could almost cut a diamond. She knew the way he looked at her. It was not uncommon for her father to look at her the same way if she caught him off guard or if he had time to let his mind wander. She decided, then and there she wasn’t here to ask him about the stupid mark on her arm or the secret rebellions that were never going to happen. She had her own agendas and if she was going to achieve them there was something he could do for her.

“Mr. Purcell, I am going to be 23 years old this year. I am trying to make a life for myself but even from her grave she haunts every life choice I make. If I am going to pick up her mantle and have to predicate major life choices on that I think I deserve to know her,” for the first time she faltered, her voice wavering slightly. Daintily she reached for her tumbler and took a sip of her whiskey, gently clearing her throat before continuing her voice lower. “If you could see my father you would understand why I am asking this of you. During her lifetime she was hardly a mother and now that she is gone my father is hardly a father so if I am going to be Victoria Abercrombie’s daughter and keep my family afloat and do her any justice……I need to know the woman everyone is constantly comparing me to. So I can break the mold and be Farren because the one thing I know about Victoria is that she wouldn't want her only child spending their life being a cheap imitation.”

As she spoke he became, perhaps for the first time, slowly aware of a reaction on her part; an acknowledgement of something covert within her that she could not quite completely hide away from him. It was a change in her voice when she politely referred to her mother; a vocal contortion that gave him the sudden insight that, perhaps because he had usually been so wrapped up in the storm of his own emotions when Farren had visited him, he had never had the acuity to pay her so much attention. But this little tic, this almost immeasurable narrowing of the eyes was suddenly a little revelation to the Death Eater; for it seemed to suggest that young Farren Abercrombie was not all that overly fond of her own mother.

A plain as it was to contemplate; he simply never had before. Victoria was in general exemplary in his eyes, and yet he had never had the relationship with her that her husband or her daughter had. And there was something in Farren’s cold, pre-meditated responses that gave him the impression that perhaps not had been well between the two generations of Abercrombies. Was it perhaps Victoria’s intensity; her zealotry; her brutish dedication to the cause above all else, above even her daughter? Was it too much for Farren the pragmatist? He observed the socialite anew, whilst she unveiled herself with a flourish in the candlelight for him; his inky pupils dilating in response to her fluid elegance.

He nodded when she had finished speaking. He had understood well enough. Like all ambitious children, she wanted to outshine her begetter; to spread her wings and go further. That was natural, he thought to himself. The need for approval could go too far; “Look what I have wrought, mother.” In Farren’s case; an empire; an enterprise. A perpetual public face that was static, permanent and unchanging. The word Abercrombie, forever something that could be relied upon.

“Yes,” he began, his voice gravelly and he narrowed his eyes in her direction. He leaned back somewhat in his awful prison chair, which groaned in response to the shift in his posture, “I see.” He allowed silence to fall between them; their little comfort blanket; the lack of words insulating them from the dark rumble of the prison occurring through the walls beyond them.

“It is, unfortunately, natural that you would be compared to her; you were her only child; an event, by all accounts, in our little circle and beyond; and unless you make a habit of taking polyjuice each morning you will continue to bear her resemblance until your dying day.” He paused, watching her face. “Your mother is your curse. You will carry her with you always.”

He took a sip of water from his battered cup. “However, in practice, you are already completely distant from her, I can assure you of that. You see, I follow you inadvertently. I witness you all the time, in fact it can be almost hard to escape your spectre. At least - via the medium of newsprint,” and with a wry smile he gestured to a tattered copy of the previous day’s Daily Prophet that lay upon the neighbouring table, presumably discarded by an earlier visitor. The Death Eater proceeded to size the heiress up somewhat, carefully measuring her bearing with his amber eyes in the half light. “I am impressed by your actions. I believe that through your public behaviour heretofore as heiress of Abercrombie Publishing, you have established a foundation of, dare I say it, respectability; you are building something from the ashes that your mother had dragged across the breakfast tables of polite, decent, delicate Wizarding society. I believe, Farren, and I could be wrong, but I believe that you are almost liked. Certainly, you are respected. Therefore, whilst you may feel forever in the shadow of your mother, you are already on a very different path, as far as I can tell. And a much more palatable one it is, too, for the public. And, for that, you should be very pleased with yourself.”

Farren Abercrombie was not a facsimile of Victoria Abercrombie. She was the newer model.

With a heavy sigh, Gaius slowly got to his feet, and, whilst popping another cookie into his mouth in the process he began a slow, arching walk to the window of the room, scanning across the interior courtyard and watching the grey shades of the prisoners as they wandered in listless circles presumably as part of their daily exercise routine. Seemingly content with what he witnessed, he returned to the seated heiress, but instead took up a position standing directly behind her and to the right, somewhere in her blind spot and over her shoulder like a schoolteacher about to mark the exercise book of his most diligent student.

He spoke once more, with his voice low and each word held back and dragged out. “In fact, Farren, if you play your cards right, you can end up with rather a-lot of, how shall I say it, sway? Power? And I think you would rather enjoy it, wouldn’t you? A little bit of authority never hurt anyone, did it? Not when piloted by someone of your astute charms. At least, this is what the editorials in the Prophet seem to be telling me.”

Carefully, he leaned over her, and, with his left hand resting carefully upon her shoulder and taking a moment to carefully make his selection, he began to place some of the letter-shaped cookies in order upon the table before Farren.

M

A

R

K

E

D

He ran a finger underneath the line-up, as if to emphasise, before removing the letter M and popping it into his mouth.
It did not take a genius to assume that she had been selected. The Death Eater lowered his head to hers, and, lips a mere hair's breath from her ear, asked quietly, “Where exactly are you taking us, Farren?”

She sat quietly, nearly unflinching save the occasional blink, as he began an initial assessment. Though his first thought made bitterness sting her insides like a cold blast of winter air creeping across glass freezing the dew in it’s path. Of course, he was right. Apart from changing her name and her face there was no denying who she was. As long as they were alive, here, she would always be Victoria Bennett Abercrombie’s child.

Cool blue eyes drifted to the battered news pages he gestured to. It was more of a relief than she wanted to admit to hear him says that already she was miles away from Victoria. Perhaps he was judging her to be a bit more popular than she really was but if this was really his impression from afar, hardly knowing her, perhaps she could take it at face value. Gaius had never been in her life, he’d been in her mother’s.

How many times had she met him before? Could she count it on one hand? Blurry memories of the cadaverous man drifting in and out of her mother’s sphere. As a girl in loose cotton dresses, plaited hair, and Mary Jane’s she peered through keyholes that were at eye level as her beautiful mother and the man sat close, hunched over texts or documents, sometimes maps. Her mother’s maid was never far off shooing her from any threshold she lingered in for too long.

Then a summer, what had she been? 15? Terrence had been there, sitting next to her, across from Gaius. Farren had sat staring at her father, his face ashen, wrecked, her mother had had an incident earlier that day, the mediwizards had come from the psychology ward at Mungo’s. This was the new normal, she hadn’t thought about it, it was that normal. She didn’t think into the fact that the whole meal passed in silence. It was normal now. That evening she’d left her hair down, long loose waves falling around her shoulders, a simple cotton dress with the top buttons left undone - for Terrence’s benefit. Teenage lust had blurred her curiosity about Gaius.

Finally, before the end, it was winter 1998, she knew that because it was the coldest she’d ever been, inside and out. The winter had been bitter, dark, and stormy. The Dark Lord was at his height of power and the blackness that engulfed them all struck deep in the Abercrombie house. She had loved and lost Declan. The most powerful bachelor in the UK and Ireland, a decade her senior, a Death Eater like Victoria. It had been all over the papers. A beautiful 17 year old heiress and the bizarre nearly 30 year old O’Dwyer heir. All winter the stone house was more frozen shut to the world, her personal prison, isolated from the press, public, and the Dark Lord. As her father had explained it, it was for her protection. Protection from Him and the dark mark. Protection from Azkaban. Protection from ruin, further personal ruin and family ruin. She was the designated survivor for the whole family. Someone had to be politically unsoiled.  Victoria, had explained it was also punishment, detox from her romance, she’d shamed them by becoming a woman too fast and with the wrong man. Even if he was the richest most powerful one available with the right politics. She was still being punished because she’d failed. Victoria was living in London. They told her it was for everyone’s safety, especially hers.  A fallen child took it as her own personal doing. Driving her mother from their home. Robbed of a mother because she had failed but also for her protection. The designated survivor had to be as isolated from the contaminant as possible. The eighteen year old girl, perched in doorways and windows looking out over the frozen, barren estate, waiting for a glimpse of her mother.

Had he seen her there? When he came with Victoria? She had become invisible to her was she invisible to him too? Broken and worn by a war she wasn’t even fighting in, emaciated physically and emotionally, hidden away from the world in her frozen country estate in the middle of nowhere? Cloaked in a black lace and velvet dressing gown, her long wavy hair pulled back loosely falling around her face in pieces, sunken purple rings under her eyes contrasted her sallow complexion. Barefoot, bare faced, beautifully unkempt, and perfectly raw, standing in the doorway of the library watching them. Gaius and Victoria, at their papers again. They seemed to not notice the young woman just meters from them. Not even enough to shoo her away. Back against the door frame she’d sunk down to sit against the door jam, her legs stretched through the doorway. The pair of them were frantic, working, arguing, writing. When the sun had risen and the birds outside began singing Farren awoke on the floor. Her cheek stuck to cold, smooth, wood plank floor, a halo of dew on the floor beside her face where her hot breath hit the cold house. They’d left.

She was no longer that girl in the doorway. Now she was the woman in the papers. He seemed to judge her as capable, versatile, and maybe if she construed his words, better. At least to her she seemed better. He had called her respectable. Victoria was castigated. She was a maker. Victoria an arsonist. While part of her wanted to dismiss what he said, the part of her that loathed herself, she had come here to hear his opinion. A prisoner had no reason to lie to her. Flattering her would get him nothing. She couldn’t even get them sugar she’d paid for in here.

Pricks of discomfort moved down her spine as he assumed a position behind her. He stood out of her sight. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of turning her head to keep him in her sight. Fear was not something she entertained often and she was too practiced in controlling herself to let this little power move get to her. Eyes forward, head held high, again she listened.

It was like…he could read her mind. Was he? Could he? Or did he know her so easily because she was in fact, so like her mother? Without realizing it, a lump had swollen in her throat. Of course she wanted power, no one else could be trusted with their society values. The other purebloods, they were all scared or traitors, no one wanted to stand up for their society. But how? What did she have for tools to do this? The work of she and Pyxis. Pyxis, had run away to solve his personal problems, she was alone to helm a ship with no compass. What was she supposed to do to get more power? People were interested but hesitant to commit. The message was....still in need for being refined. Tuned for mass consumption.

Reaching around her he took the cookies before her and spelled out a message. She blinked, turning her face to look up at him, eyes narrowed. Without responding she turned back to the table, her eyes forward. His breath was on her ear, if she wasn’t as practiced and strong as she was she may have recoiled. Not because he was revolting. He wasn’t. Men did not dare get this close to her. It was improper, to invade a woman’s space. It was almost suggestive. The only men who got this close to her were lovers. He was right. She was respected. Women who were respected were shielded from this sort of personal invasion, intimidation.

Lingering whispered words punctuated the air but for a moment. Quickly Farren reached forward and pushed the cookies away, back into the pile, erasing the word he’d made. Possible responses flickered through her mind. As usually she held her tongue, letting all the possible responses play quickly through her mind as she debated her response. Pyxis was gone. Gaius was her only immediate link to her mother. To the mark on her arm, on Nathalie’s, on Beatryx’s. Maybe he could help. He clearly thought she could do this. Perhaps she should trust him. She’d come to him for help with her identity but maybe her identity and this were inextricably linked.

Lifting her chin slightly, as she tended to do when steeling herself, she turned and looked at him from the corner of her eye. “If you were reading the papers, you would know. Or don’t you know a dog whistle when you see one?” she hissed cooly. It was unnatural for her to be disrespectful or defiant to a senior. By all accounts Gaius was her senior but he seemed to be ceding to her.

She jerked her head indicating towards his chair, it was time for him to sit down. He knew she wasn’t her mother, why was he standing so close to her?

“The war was wrong,” a pause. “Killing muggles and mud bloods helps no one. We are too few to afford murder. All we have left is cultural preservation. That is something worth fighting for. History, lineage, arts, literary tradition, fashion, social hierarchy, rules, decency….these are the things worth fighting for. Politically. You can’t market murder. You can’t justify murder when your population is going extinct on it’s own. Cultural superiority, selectivity, secrecy - that you can market. We can preserve what’s left, reform, restore, and rebuild. You take the mud bloods with you. Separate them from their filthy muggle origins, give them something perfect and shiny on a hill to chase in their new life. You don’t kill anyone. You convert them.”

Swallowing the lump in her throat she folded her arms over her chest watching him. As always she was cool, stony, and distant. Like the girl behind a keyhole, silent across a table in the midst of turmoil, a whisp in a doorway on the eve of the end - there was a veil present still. This one though was of her own making and control. Even if her idea made her tingle with excitement you’d have never known it. Abercrombie women kept secrets.