[Viticcio] Vide Cor Meum [Genevieve]

Neroli, 20th August 2002

The sun had just passed its highest point, and the gently sloping hills of the vineyard were washed with the golden summer’s light. Row upon row of the parallel wooden posts vanished to the edge of the field, onto which the vines, resplendent with their fat grapes, were expertly fastened. At the top of the vineyard stood the small Mantuan outhouses that belonged to Viticcio. In front, a few old wooden tables stood, deliberately misaligned to add to the rustic charm, and all were unoccupied apart from one at the very back, shaded somewhat from the searing sunlight by the portico of the main building. Gaius Purcell sat by the table, chair slightly askew so he could better view the approach of the hillside, and admire the small town of Neroli that lay below like a child’s model and the harbour beyond, glistening like a sheet of tanzanite.

Upon the table lay a leather-backed notebook of the highest-quality parchment, open, with some sentences scrawled in pencil. An empty plate lay beside it, having formerly born a selection of Prosciutto di Parma and Pecorino cheese. A fine crystal cut wineglass of Austrian manufacture stood by his hand, and contained barely a mouthful of the vineyard’s star 1992 Chianti Classico Reserva. It’s empty dark green bottle stood proudly across the far side of the table.

Gaius himself, bedecked in a new cream linen suit over a crisp white cotton shirt, sat proudly, one leg crossed over the other and smoking his black russian cigarette. The waitress, a woman in her early forties with her chestnut hair affixed accurately behind her noble head, drifted professionally to his side. “Can I get you anything else, signore?” she asked with great politeness.

He declined her offer with a smile, and he paid with a generous gratuity.

It was the third week of his self imposed exile from Britain, and he was already a different person. Groomed and active; he ate almost constantly, attempting to fill in the hollows that Azkaban had made upon his body. But he nourished himself not only physically; he consumed the splendour of Italy and all the riches that it offered, travelling nearly daily; swimming and bathing in its culture; a culture he had feared was purloined from him permanently. This second chance at living as a free man, this unexpected moratorium; he would devour it with as much fervour as he could muster.

And now, the long, slow reacquaintance with all he had once left behind for good. So many loose threads, so many strange, twisted and abandoned causes; routes in an overgrown forest to be once more hacked clear; to be reawakened. He had written to @Genevieve Grosvenor the previous week, a simple request to see her at her own convenience, suggesting the simple, elegant vineyard of Neroli where they could be left in peace; a place where two elegant English expatriates going for a stroll on a balmy summer’s afternoon would raise absolutely no special attention whatsoever.

He watched her approach from a path between the vines; even at a distance her immaculate posture betraying her. She was taller, more womanly than the last time he had set eyes upon her; having discarded her adolescence with relish. He allowed her to run to him, taking her within his arms quickly and allowing this strange, surreal moment to wash over him as he held her; the first of many reunifications.

Carefully, as if she could break if manhandled, as if she was not truly real, he held her at arms length, examining the girl carefully with a crooked smile. “Time has been exceptionally kind to you, Genevieve,” he commented softly and admiringly. She was beautiful, as always. As if he had expected anything else.

“Come,” and he collected his belongings with one hand, the other arm held aside for Genevieve. “Let us first take a walk, like good friends without the threat of captivity are apt to do.” and Gaius gave her a wink before talking her, arm-in-arm, down through the overgrown vines in the refulgent afternoon sun.

Although Genevieve had handwritten a note in appreciation to everyone who had generously bestowed her with gifts for her nineteenth birthday, it was the villa located in a picturesque town along the Sorrentine Peninsula that had stolen her heart. The palatial home was a piece of art, built on the ruins of a Roman Palace and previously inhabited by a long line of artists of a variety of callings, painters, musicians, and composers, that had found inspiration within its ancient walls. Genevieve, too, sought muse in the breathtaking views of the coast and the marvelous garden that was visible from the corner bedroom that she had claimed as her own. The young woman had been keeping busy by finalizing the research she had conducted in the Americas the previous fall and catching up on the literature she had put off for far too long. With only the staff to speak to, however, it was becoming increasingly difficult for the young woman to stay out of her own head, a place that had become dangerous ever since she had discovered her uncle’s terrible secret.

While she knew that she could not stay hidden away in the palace she was happy to call her temporary home, Genevieve intended to spend the majority of her time there and had only taken to traveling back to London to maintain her appearances. The Grosvenor girl was no stranger to extended vacations, after all, she had quite a talent for disappearing when things did not happen according to plan. And as of late, the amount of drastic change occurring in her daily life was taking an emotional toll on her. In a very roundabout way, Effie had managed to shed light on the situation by reminding the young heiress that difficult times only built character in preparation for an even bigger obstacle. Naturally, Genevieve had simply responded by rolling her eyes and pointedly reminding the woman that her advice was unnecessary and she’d do well not to offer it but she had taken the words to heart. The bildungsroman novel had always been her personal favorite, but it was difficult to appreciate psychological development when it was happening to oneself rather than to a fictional character within the pages of a narrative. 

Before she fell too deeply into an existential crisis, however, a letter from Gaius Purcell had distracted her from her thoughts and filled her with anticipation at the thought of seeing him again. It had been placed on the table alongside her breakfast, and she had opened it with much excitement as soon as her blue-grey eyes had registered the name of the sender. Announcement of his release in the Daily Prophet had certainly been a surprise, but certainly not an unwelcomed one. While she figured it would be a matter of time before they saw each other once again, Genevieve had politely refrained from owling him much too soon. The young witch could only assume that he had several matters to attend to and preferred to call upon him when he could give her the undivided attention she was worthy of. As expected, she did not have to wait long at all and had made plans to visit him as soon as the letter arrived, scheduling him in a few days later to not seem too eager.

Outfitted in a chiffon pink tulle pois plisse chemise that reached just above her ankles and a jacquard cardigan draped across her shoulders to safeguard her from the breeze native to the coastline, she made the short journey to Neroli. It had been years since she had laid eyes on him and though she longed to demonstrate the sort of refined grace a woman of her social position ought to have, she could not help but to run to him the same way she had done so the time she had seen him months before he had been unjustly imprisoned. She hesitated only momentarily, almost as if she expected to be met with the sound of an Auror commanding her to stand back. But rather, she was met with the warmth of his embrace, one that brought a smile to her face. For a brief moment she closed her eyes and could feel the comfort only his presence could provide her with. For a brief moment, she felt like a child again, ignorant to the vile realities of the world. She contemplated him as he spoke to her, her smile widening just slightly.

“You are much too kind, Uncle Gaius,” she replied, the sound of his name proceeding from her lips felt foreign to her ears. She took his arm readily, taking in the beautiful vineyard as they set out on a walk. It had been some time since she had felt so secure in the company of a male, these days even Augustus had become suspicious in her eyes. “I must confess that I was quite surprised that you called on me so soon, I assumed you’d spend some time recovering before you took to social calls but I am appreciative all the same. You have been missed…” she looked down for a moment before turning her eyes to him, “much missed,” she continued, a sense of forlornness decorated the words before she chose to change the subject, it was much too soon for the conversation to take that tone. “Anyway, please do tell me how you’ve been enjoying your freedom thus far.”

They began their serene stroll, seemingly alone in the vineyard, following the long, straight path between vines that lead in a gentle downwards slope towards the town of Neroli below. These simple things, walking arm in arm with a beautiful woman in the sunshine; taken so much for granted by people the world over; now appeared to him as obscenely bountiful treasures that he could still never fully comprehend. He could not help but smile as they moved along together.

He had been somewhat concerned about Genevieve. The brunette by his side was certainly on the far end of the spectrum of indulgence; she wanted for nothing and knew nothing of true suffering; and yet he had been an acquaintance of her and her family for so long. He worried that, without a grounding in real-life, she was certain to spiral off into that void of uselessness that so many wealthy pureblooded specimens had done since time immemorial; drunk upon their own decadence and barely any better than the mudbloods they so vocally opposed. Genevieve had talent; that was never in doubt. But without the correct guidance, anything could happen. She was at a sensitive age.

Gaius considered her innocent question, pausing for a moment to answer it as truthfully as possible. “I have been enjoying my freedom immensely, Genevieve,” he replied calmly, his voice relaxed, more so than it had been in several years. “Naturally, there is quite a bit of administration to be processed when one is . . . discharged from Azkaban. Nevertheless, the Aurors were disturbingly efficient.” He gave her a half smile, before continuing. “I suppose I do owe you something of an explanation; why I am here and have dragged you halfway across Europe. My reasoning was that, perhaps Britain is perhaps not the most . . . friendliest of all places for me presently. You know how things can be. Some people were getting somewhat . . . overexcited in the Daily Prophet and the like, and we couldn’t have that, now could we? Therefore I thought it wise to make a little excursion to the continent. At least temporarily, and what better place for recuperation than Italy? And I do have a few contacts still here, who have been more than a little helpful.”

He allowed the conversation to drop momentarily between them. “Naturally, there are many, many things to be organised. But we are in no hurry, or rather, none that I am aware of. And as I am sure you are well aware, there are many people that I have to . . . call upon . . . And, unfortunately, not all visitations will be as pleasant as with you, I am afraid. Unfortunately, politics is politics. And old wounds can take a long time to heal.”

“But what has occurred in your life, Genevieve? I am pleased that you seem to have taken my advice . . . from the last time we met. I have not been made aware that you had got yourself into any trouble, particularly upon my behalf, and for our sort in this climate, that is admirable. There are many rash witches and wizards, quick to rush into battle at a moment's notice and not think of the shockwave of consequences that are sure to result. We have to be careful, nowadays. They will look for any excuse to use against us.”

“Anyway, naturally, I am interested in how you are doing. I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been for you, finishing Hogwarts alone, moving into the next phase of your life. You have many privileges, of course. But stability is the most important foundation of all in life. That I fear you have not had.”

He brought her to a halt, turning her gently towards him as they stood between the regular, straight vines encumbered with their heavy, bluish yield. “It is wonderful to see you again, Genevieve, considering everything you have been though. I wish I could bring you good news of your parents, but alas, I know nothing more. I haven’t seen either in years; I was kept away from most other inmates. But, we will see what we can now be done. The future could be very generous to us, of that I am certain.”

“I’ve no issue with traveling to Neroli to meet with you,” she said rather plainly. After all, she had even gone as far as to entrap a very gullible young Ministry worker into giving her permission to see him during house arrest. If anything, she hoped that he knew she would be willing to go through great lengths for the people that she truly cared about; it was a very powerful position to be in. Genevieve Grosvenor was nothing if not loyal to those worthy of her allegiance. “In fact, I have taken refuge in Capri for the summer, away from the crowd for a few weeks while I mull over some important matters…if the Prophet is so concerned with the comings and goings of such a lowly girl such as myself, I can only imagine how much more difficult it would be for someone of your…infamy,” she said, the word proceeding from her lips dramatically in an effort to emphasize how ridiculous wrong they all were. Gaius was one of the few concerned with leading the country to excellence, an authentic Golden Age and they ruined it. Only the British would have the audacity to propagate the idea that anything he had done was remotely criminal.

Even though she longed to tell him of the other matters that plagued her heart, Genevieve refrained from doing so. Her worries were not foreign to him; in fact, it had been his words of encouragement so many years ago that had given her the strength to trudge forward when disappointment seemed inescapable. Nevertheless, in comparison to what he had so recently experienced, her personal problems seemed rather insignificant. Her father had not yet been returned to her but Gaius had and in a way, this very fortunate event felt as if the stars were finally suggesting that fate was in her favor. Furthermore, his talk of organization and politics convinced her that he was delivering a rather cryptic message that hinted to fundamental change. Was this the sign she had been waiting for all of her life? The thought that she had been entrusted with this sort of information, no matter how minimal, made her feel indispensable in a way only a father-figure could. It was then that she realized how long she had yearned for that sort of intimacy.   

“There was not a day that went by that I did not think about revenge and how much pleasure it would give me to simply destroy anyone in association to your imprisonment. However, I did not act upon my impulses out of respect,” she responded a little more pointedly than intended. The idea that he might have believed that she had lived her life as though nothing had happened after he had been taken to Azkaban did not sit well with her. The young woman had experienced extreme guilt, unsure of what to do apart from providing comfort and encouragement in the form of letters to the former prisoner. But most importantly, she had kept the cause close to her heart and had allowed no one to sway her from the traditional values which she believed to be the only truth. However at nineteen, a woman in her own right, Genevieve was determined to prove her worth and loyalty in whatever way she could. “There is a time and a place for everything, after all,” she said, pausing for several moments in order to allow him to consider her words before she continued.

“My personal life is rather dull, uncle, apart from making social calls and traveling to the Americas for research, I have done nothing of great importance, not yet anyway,” she stopped to think of something that would make him proud of her. Even though she had many luxuries at her disposal and had done several things in the last few years, none of it felt worth mentioning. “Ah yes I have reconnected with my fiancée, Mr. Reinhardt, you may have heard of his family, they've been around for some time. Uncle Septimus has decided that we are to marry a bit earlier than initially expected, I think that by summer of next year I shall officially become madame of my own household. Then I suppose children will be expected soon after,” she said, a slight, but unexcited smile on her face. She could only hope that her expression made her feelings on the matter obvious. 

But she did not have to focus on such misfortunes for long as he came to a halt and she took his lead as he turned her towards him; seeing him this close again felt surreal. “As is wonderful to see you as well,” she retorted, taking in the moment as if it were her last, and committing the picturesque scene to memory. “My troubles are those of youth and accepting the fate that I have been so unceremoniously handed however in comparison to your personal struggles, they are quite trivial. You have always been a very important fixture in my life and I can only hope that this is one of many meetings to come where I may have the pleasure of gaining even a fraction of the respect I hold for you,” she continued. “I know that you were adverse to this in the past however I do wish to know about how I may prove useful to you and I do hope that you will not take offense when I say that I will not sit idly by as opportunity passes me again. "Promise me that you will allow me to become involved, it is the only thing that I ask of you," she said rather boldly. Genevieve knew that she was in no position to demand anything of him but hoped that he would take pity on her and somehow be moved by the proclamation of her passion. 

He gave a soft laugh at her comment regarding the Daily Prophet, for Genevieve did have an alarming tendency to be mentioned within its illustrious pages far more frequently than most other young women, and as he saw no particular glory in such base publicity, he found it rather pleasant and mature of her to similarly treat it with the distain it truly deserved.

Although his face remained impassive, something close to alarm raised within his breast when Genevieve mentioned feelings of revenge on his behalf during his imprisonment. This was his greatest fear when dealing with the youth; their propensity for rash actions with unplanned consequences. He had seen it in her eyes, that fateful afternoon during his initial interrogation; that girlish font of endless passion that threatened to, if unleashed, wrack all before it with no regard for self-preservation. It was why children made the best soldiers. However she had had the sense not to act further in that direction, and for that he would be eternally grateful.

And she asked, perhaps unsurprisingly for by now he knew her viewpoints well enough, to take part, or as she so innocently put it, to become involved. It was a simple request, and he could read between her words clearly. He examined her face in the late afternoon sun, cursed as she was with beauty and disfiguring youth, an unguarded innocence to her grey Grosvenor eyes. Let me help, was her cry. And of course, unlike Gaius, she did not know the horrific truth; how she had been branded by her father like cattle and selected for something when she was barely old enough to fully grasp the gravity of the situation. From that moment on existing as nothing more than a list within the heads of a few extremists, to be called upon to carry the fire of a movement that would break them upon the wheel of conflict at the drop of a hat.

Gaius had hated the project when it was first proposed to him back in the bowels of the Ministry. He had hated it when he agreed to it shortly after, understanding it as simply the pathetic spasm of a directionless organism afraid of its own mortality, rotavating its own young in a woeful attempt to stay relevant. He hated it when he considered it carefully through each eternal night and day in the darkness of his own cell, and he still hated it when he ordered Pyxis to ignite those dormant flames. And when Beatryx Abercrombie had come; had presented herself to him, drunk on the responsibility of having been selected against her will for this crusade, beyond all hope for redemption, and unaware of the sisyphean nature of her selection, he had hated himself even more. For it was different now; the scales were no longer in their favour and to be a part of such an organisation; to be magically bonded forever to such an organisation, was nothing short of a death sentence.

He took Genevieve’s hands carefully within his own, a tender gesture disguising his genuine intention, examining the inside of her frail limbs for any sign; any hidden and obscene tattoo that would indicate her condemnation into their order of the damned. Yet there was nothing, just unspoilt flesh. They had not reached her, and he felt nothing short of relief. She would never need to know.

“I cannot tell you what will happen in the future, Genevieve,” he began, his voice low and serious. “We were dealt quite a blow in the past; we miscalculated very badly and, based upon the hand we held at that time, we were nearly destroyed. You were at Hogwarts that fateful day. You saw the loss of life, on all sides. There is little appetite in the populace for more of that. My fear is that we may never get such a chance again to establish a country that is protective and sympathetic to our kind. However, that is our most noble goal, and it lives on. And whilst England may not have our interests at heart, it appears several other nations nearby are not so . . . squeamish when it comes to such matters. Whilst I have much to investigate in this direction, I feel that we can make good connections as we move forward.”
She was as yet unspoilt, and he would ensure that such pollution could never happen to her. She would never be made aware of the hidden scourge beneath her skin. For the others, if there were others, it was too late and their fates had been sealed. But Genevieve had been caught just in time.

He allowed her hands to fall and placed his own upon her proud shoulder. “And, perhaps there, you can help me. Fortunately, or unfortunately as the case may be, you are something of a public figure, and your position and privilege means that you can open doors for us that others cannot. Across borders, as the case may be.” He wondered if she felt patronised, but had only her safety at heart. He smiled at her, hoping she was open to such a suggestion. “And what do you say to this?”

The young witch sought for a sign in his words, the cautiousness with which he spoke giving the illusion that he would finally give in to her request. How long she had waited for the man before her to reveal to her a piece of the puzzle, offer a role in avenging the unjust misery that her family had suffered for centuries. What she would give to feel valuable in the eyes of the person she had admired for so many years. Nevertheless, there were no offers but rather, a series of sugarcoated words spoken in an effort to cushion the blow of his rejection. Though inexperienced, Genevieve knew that she had the potential and the willingness to be molded into something glorious; a true revolutionary of her generation, a reminder to the general public that their creed was alive and well. And he had the audacity to deny her the pleasure of serving as a sacrificial lamb for the cause even though she did so of her own free will.

Genevieve fought hard to compose herself, her fingernails biting into the tender skin of her palm as she clenched her hand in frustration at the blatant dismissal of her valiant statement. While the disillusionment was similar to the one she had experienced years prior when she had practically begged him for a task to prove her worth, all of the waiting had only nursed the buried resentment ingrained deeply into her heart. He obviously did not understand. The young woman had long shrugged off the shroud of childlike innocence that had cover her eyes from the truth; the one that she had held onto for much of her adolescence.

In Gaius’ eyes, she was still the spoiled little princess that insisted on her way through tears and unsophisticated manipulations, the workings of a little girl that could not see past her own nose. How could he begin to understand that it had all been a façade in anticipation for the next step in the journey she was destined to embark? She did not wish to be sheltered any longer. And it was with this determination that she narrowed her eyes just slightly and looked up at him with sternness she had never demonstrated him in the past, his hands on her shoulder fueling her resentment.

“Why must you continue to deny me so?” she started, her tone rising just slightly in accusation, as she moved over to shrug off his hand, she hated the manner in which he patronized her so casually. “I may have grown privileged and sheltered but do believe when I say that I have come to understand my purpose and it is not to simply open doors for others. I have no desire to continue to sit silently as my personal beliefs are continuously attacked by an audience that does not possess the mental capacity to understand the truth. Do not be blinded by your affection for me, as the Genevieve you once loved is no longer here,” she insisted, pointing to her chest as if to clarify that her heart had changed. She had grown colder, more detached from reality.

“There is no greater glory than to the die for my beliefs. You think I am anything like the lot of damaged deviants that sacrificed their livelihood for notoriety or the mice that turned on the cause as soon as the bloody Ministry applied a little too much pressure? If you find me incapable of living up to the expectations of such an important cause, then maybe you do not know me at all, Gaius,” she continued. It had felt odd to call him by his first name without the affectionate title of uncle but she felt it a necessary step in asserting her adulthood.  “What must I do for you to take me seriously?” she continued, her voice rising more confidently, “Should I take a life in order for you to come to understand the depth of my dedication?” she added, blinded by her personal agony to truly understand the weight of her words. Nevertheless, it was not something that had not crossed her mind in the past.

Hesperia Lovecraft had taken the meaningless life of a mudblood in broad daylight and boldly declared her allegiance to the Dark Lord to the chagrin of her very own family. Genevieve intended to pay homage to her mother’s great sacrifice by pursuing the same path however how could she begin to even aspire to the greatness of her very own mother when she was being denied the opportunity to take the first step? “I will not stand for being treated like a child any longer. If you are unwilling to open the door for me, then I will make my own way,” she threatened lightly, turning away from him as she crossed her arms, sniffling as she felt the beginning of tears at her very sudden outburst. Genevieve was unsure if their relationship would survive this quarrel but she could only hope that he would open his heart to take pity upon her and understand her suffering.

Gaius remained impassive, allowing Genevieve to expel her emotions. However, he was not best pleased by what he was hearing. And so it seemed that the young witch had expected more; had expected a role; had expected action, whatever this meant. He wondered for a moment how they, as a movement, had been received. Hated with great virulence, naturally, by their opponents. Feared, of course, by those they shepherded. And respected by those who looked up to them? But from Evie, he sensed something more; adoration and idealisation; an obscene passion; almost a longing.

Of course, that was always part of the ideal. Their campaign had to be desirable; it had to spark a devotion amongst purebloods. But the truth, that in his earlier days Gaius had never fully understood, was that the youth would cling to that flame with a dangerous recklessness. Standing before him now, a young woman, not even in her twenties, demanding to be used as nothing short of a weapon. To kill for him and their ideals. It chilled his very blood.

What made Genevieve or Beatryx any different from Eris, Victoria or Melissa? They were all the same; cut roughly from the same cloth; hadn’t the first generation been set upon their path at that same, delicate age? And yet, the difference now was not the tinder, it was Gaius. He had been one of them, of course; youthful and full of rage; with a devotion to an ideal as a replacement for life itself. Back then all was black and white; death was a natural state for those who embraced their objective. A field littered with corpses was desirable; it was action and it was a result. And therefore when Melissa had stood opposite the table from him planning these very engagements, or Eris had come to him afterwards, broken and bloody; he could accept it. They were in it together. His heart bled for them, for that was the required sacrifice.

But now the children, too young to have lived through the perpetual fear of those days; too immature and too brash; telling him they wanted it too. To Gaius, that was the ultimate obscenity. And if he had had the temerity to begin again; if he would be cursed with restarting that old, eternal march towards death; he would do his upmost to prevent those nearest to him from suffering the same fate as those whom he had lost before. It was selfish, true. But it was his decision to make.

Genevieve finished, turning herself from him; a girl not getting what she wanted, as if she had been rejected by a silly boyfriend. It was blindingly obvious that she was so far away from knowing the true gravity of the situation that awaited her.

“You could do that,” he began, his voice low, as if about to give her a logical catechism. “You could kill someone. A mudblood, that would be preferable. And how would you do it? Would you go to, say, London; to Diagon Alley? How would you identify them? Their muggle shoes, perhaps? How they talk? And when you have identified your target, what would you do then? Would you use the killing curse? Good old Avada Kedavra? I think so, but it is a little anti-climactic. Just a flash, you hardly can feel it. And then you will truly be great, won’t you? Truly acting in line with your beliefs. Just like your mother did. A woman who acted in complete and utter alignment with her beliefs.”

He took a step towards her, standing just behind the brunette between the vines. “She was also a fool; a woman so blinded by hate that she acted irrationally and removed herself from contention almost immediately for being of any use at all. What did she give us, as a movement? She made us look as though we were insane, unstable monsters and probably caused irreversible damage to purebloods across the country at the time.”

He grabbed her by the arm, spinning her on the spot so that she she was facing him and he pulled the girl towards him quickly. “And therefore, see how seriously I will take you when you do that. Kill one in the street, and I will become very serious with you, Genevieve. I will gladly walk you up to the very door of Azkaban and leave you there, and perhaps they can give you a nice, cosy cell with your mother. Because, as a movement, we require no further Hesperia Lovecraft’s. You shall walk that road, make your own way, as you so succinctly put it, at your own peril.”

He gazed deeply into her grey eyes, wanting to see her childish fear well up in them. Everyone he had known had that hidden primal fear deep within them, and the only difference had been how far one needed to pry to get there.

“But even that is a step too far for you, Genevieve. I do not believe that you have it in you to take a life. To see it fade in their eyes, to feel their pulse abate under your touch, to see the colour drain from their skin, to see them churned up into inanimate meat and cartilage at your will. This is not for you. And that is no shame; for it is nothing to be particularly proud of. But this is beyond your capabilities.”

He gripped her tighter. “You have no personal beliefs, if they interfere with how we wish to move forward. Your personal beliefs are what I tell you to believe, do you understand? And you will be treated as a child for as long as you continue to behave with such impertinence. It is unbecoming, and in relation to your background, it is very dangerous. Now, have I made myself clear?” He released his grip upon her, and expected no further dissent.

The young witch took a deep, measured breath; the brag of her heart resonating against her ears as she felt a familiar flush of embarrassment and utter frustration settle on the tip of her ears. His questions came in subsequent attacks to her poorly stated words; it was easy to claim the ease with which she could take a life when she did not have to consider the repercussions of actions she never truly planned to take. In her passion, Genevieve had failed to realize that the man before her was a soldier; his physical scars paling in comparison to the psychological ones he must have endured in his service to a movement bigger than himself.

As a young girl, she had heard stories that praised the temerity of his actions. And here, cocksure and temperamental, the heiress had made an empty threat, one that he had obviously seen right through. Nevertheless, her embarrassment was not a result of the openness with which she had displayed such raw emotions or the fact that he had called her bluff. Rather, it was the way in which the man before her spoke words of heresy with such ease, reducing the sacrifices of the woman she worshiped like a deity to the mindless acts of a madwoman.

Tears filled her eyes of their own accord, thickening in the corners of her crestfallen blue-grey eyes and threatening to spill forth at a moment’s notice. “Do not speak of my mother as if you’ve any understanding of the circumstances,” she muttered softly, lacking the strength to muster the courage to speak as boldly as she had only moments prior. It was a perplexing thing how mere words could cause such a blow to the otherwise supercilious persona Genevieve had created for herself.

Regardless of what anyone said, however, Genevieve knew deep down in her heart that her mother lived and breathed the cause, and would have never done anything so crass without proper provocation. Genevieve felt guilty for the shortening of her mother’s service; after all, it had been at the young woman’s own insistence that the two of them leave the estate and travel into London. How could she ever know that refusing to take no for an answer would lead to the imprisonment of her dearly beloved mother? Even though the cross of such guilt was not hers to bear, the young woman had never ceased to believe that in one way or another, her actions on that day might have meant a completely different life for her.

The thought was selfish; rather than consider the torment Hesperia continued to endure day after day in her lifelong conviction, Genevieve could only reminisce on the warmth of her mother’s adoration, In her eyes, her mother had suffered a metaphorical death but Hesperia Lovecraft lived on in her heart as heroine worthy of apotheosis. “My mother had proper reason,” she stated as if it were the blatant truth, her rhetorical question not offering an invitation for rebuttal. At this point in the conversation, her certitude was the only protection she had against the grief she maintained at the hands of his weighty words.

Though his rejection was painful enough, the fact that she could not understand his motive devastated her. Genevieve had a tendency to take on the image of an untroubled young witch capable of anything. It doesn’t matter if it’s the truth if it’s presented with confidence her father had always reminded her; the Grosvenor family kept much hidden from members outside of their close-knit inner circle and it was because of this that Genevieve had been pushed towards becoming a woman she no longer recognized in the mirror. It was a deep contrast to the sheltered girl she had always been; a gap that someone who was important to her family such a Gaius Purcell would certainly notice. But even he knew that possessed ambition, the type of grit that was not common in a generation of lofty aristocrats who wanted to live safely and in possession of all of their riches. Surely he understood that it was not talent but determination to succeed that made the hero.

When he turned her towards him, she let out a gasp in surprise, her blue-grey eyes widening at the sight of him. She leaned back in fear, his eyes had lost the tender affection he had held for her only minutes prior and instead, inspired fear in her. Part of her wondered if his years in prison had hardened his heart so much so that he would consider taking drastic measures to ensure that she would never speak in the same manner again. Genevieve knew the sort of thing that happened at places like Azkaban and mere thought of being turned into such a place by the man she held in her heart with true admiration shook her to the very core. She held her breath as if frozen in time, afraid that any slight movement would further his anger.

It was not until he spoke again that she let out a shaky breath, the strain of the situation causing tears to run down her cheeks in frustration. “It—” she started, her mouth felt dry and her mind went blank, struggling for the words she wanted to express proved to be an almost impossible task. “I-“ there was another pause, “Why is this wrong if I am doing it for those that I love? You are not the only one seeking to protect those you care about, I’ve lost two of the most meaningful people in my life, must more be taken away from me as I sit around waiting to be considered worthy in your eyes?” she asked almost desperately, forcing herself to look up at him and allowing her eyes to reflect the sincerity with which she had said them. “I cannot protect my father or my mother but I can protect the thing they fought for, I can cause change,” she attempted to rationalize her argument, willing her shoulders to drop slightly as she fought to compose herself once he loosened his grip. Genevieve could feel a slight tremor in her hands, one that she was sure would haunt her for days.

“I’ve heard you,” she reassured him, “I am understanding your concerns…I haven’t any desire to make you upset, I simply ask that you believe me when I say that I wish to play a role in this change. That this isn’t a hobby…that I am starting to recognize the dangers however I still…wish to be part of it,” she said, her eyes drifting down to the floor in a symbol of docility. It was a rare sight for such a proud girl to demonstrate. “…but as I’ve recognized you as my superior, I do ask that you’ll reconsider and until then, I shall wait,” she added, nodding her head as if coming to terms with her decision.

Genevieve looked up at him again, visibly shaken, “Will you at least consider this?”

Genevieve took his comments as well as he could have expected, for, despite her girlish tears, she was able to hold herself together reasonably well, and he was impressed at her near-stoicism. Perhaps the brunette had matured over the four years since they had last been together. He took a step away from the young woman, allowing her air and space as she recovered herself, for no one enjoyed a public admonishment. Gaius nodded slowly at her questions, acknowledging his reception and understanding. They were judicious coming from someone so young. “Yes,” he agreed with her, eventually. “You have lost the two most meaningful people in your young life. However, they’re not dead, Genevieve. They are still very much with us. Unfortunately, they are detained at the Ministry’s pleasure. But you could be much worse off. You know this. There is still hope for your parents. Many of our kind would sacrifice much, to have a flicker of such hope. But alas, for many, that is no longer possible.” He watched her carefully, cheeks wet with inky tears, eyes reddened. He reached into the interior pocket of his blazer and gave her his handkerchief; “here,” his voice considerably softer now.

“Who do you fear for, Genevieve? Who else can possibly be taken away from you? I do hope you are you worried about me? They already took as much as they could possibly get; you do not have to fear for me any more.” With a half-smile, he took a step back towards her. “In some ways, your parents are protected, as strange as it may seem to you. Azkaban is not a pleasant place, but it is secure. Until we have a solution for them, you can be sure that they are taken care of in that infernal fortress. And a solution for Leonidas and Hesperia will be found, this I swear to you.”

He placed his hand upon the side of her downturned face, and moved his fingers to bring her patrician chin up to him. “I believe you, and I am heartened to hear you have an enthusiasm. Many do not share your passion; many of our kind have abandoned the cause, or, for reasons best known to them alone, even opposed it. And they will have their day of reckoning, I can assure you of that. I am not refusing your willingness to help, that you must understand. However, our next steps, as a movement, if we wish to even call it that, must be carefully considered. The fact that you and I can still have this conversation is nothing short of miraculous. A false move now, and we will be worse off than ever. There will be a role for you Genevieve, that I can promise you. We will use your talents where they are most required; where they fit.”

The Death Eater offered the young woman his arm. “Come, walk with me along the river. No one knows us here, we can have a relaxed, charming evening and you can regale me with all the society news I have missed over the years. I may be old, but I am as interested in scandalous gossip as much as the next man.”

And, with his point firmly made, he rather hoped that the matter of Genevieve’s extremism was closed for good.

Against her better judgment, Gaius’ words filled her with a sort of bitter indignation that awakened the rebellious spirit that lie dormant in her heart. While it might have been motivation that he was hoping to inspire, she could not help but to feel a sense of apprehension for what awaited her. The young witch was certain that her insistence was not a mere adolescent’s desire for recognition but rather that everything had finally been illuminated. Hence, she could not be moved by his comforting words in the same way she had been able to several years prior.

However, there was much truth in what he did say. Genevieve found solace in the fact that her parents were indeed not dead, but captive. Though her consolation did not come without a price; the knowledge that her parents were living in wretchedness while the heiress enjoyed both her freedom and the luxuries their surnames afforded often brought an agonizing pain to her chest. They were alive in the basest sense of the word however under no circumstances were they living. Nights were the thoughts of what life might be like for the two people she loved most in Azkaban brought tears to her eyes and sleeplessness. After all, it was her own selfishness that hoped every morning that they had awakened in the same manner that she had. It was her own egocentrism that wished for them to continue holding on just a while longer even though they might have been better off dead.

“I know that if you’ve promised it, it must be so,” she murmured, though she lacked the emotion necessary to make her response sound convincing. Gaius had never given Genevieve a reason to distrust him, however even she knew the difference between making promises for the sake of offering consolation and making promises because they could in fact come true. “Though I must admit that I am afraid of losing you,” she clarified shortly after, uncaring of how childish her words might have sounded to the man before her. It was a realization that she did not want to believe in, no matter how obvious it was becoming; a part of her, even if very small, still needed his validation. “Even if you’ve been returned for now, my heart cannot help but to grow weary with worry of when we may not be able to meet again,” she relayed to him.

Both of her parents had been pulled away from her in an instant and just like that, the young witch had been stripped of a proper farewell. At times, Genevieve wished that she had been given one small kindness, the permission to feel her father’s lips against her forehead one last time before he had been unceremoniously dragged off into hell.

Genevieve did not struggle against his hand when he sought to turn her in his direction, though her anger had certainly not diminished, it was difficult to fight against her juvenile infatuation with parental admonition. “Then I await your assignment,” she said in conclusion, desperate to end that part of the conversation and to overcome the embarrassment she was now experiencing as an after effect of her passionate words. There was a time and a place for everything, after all, and for now, it was time for her to be quiet and pretend to be unaffected. That at least was something that Genevieve had developed a talent for.

Taking a deep breath and nodding silently, she took his arm, though the enthusiasm with which she had done so only earlier when they had first met had significantly diminished. “Scandalous gossip?” she looked over at him and grinned as brightly as she could manage, “Well I suppose I ought to start with @Hefin Howell the poor boy that is so completely infatuated with me that has taken a girlfriend for the sake of sheer spite,” she said with a giggle. “Oh and all the drama at tea earlier this week, do you remember Mr. Chadwick? Apparently he brought both his mistress and his missus to brunch last Sunday, it was absolutely riotous, the nerve of some people,” she expressed with a smile; the topic of gossip always did bring out a more pleasant side of her.

This might not have been the time for what she truly wanted but she was certain that the time would come.

[/end]